Page 11 of Idol Star System Generation: Season 1

  Chapter X – Where Idols Fear to Tread

  “Same deal as ever: five subcategories in Devotion, each worth twenty points unless stated otherwise.” Aratani started to explain, “Crowd Devotion, unofficially called Crowd Control, measures how well an idol interacts with the audience. Currently it’s quite straightforward: in an audition, the judges must be your only focus. In a gig, the spectators. Even on a radio station you only have one microphone. It won’t get harder than this until we get to TV broadcasted shows or those that include multiple cameras, where you’ll have to give them some love too. So far so good, Naoko-Chan?”

  Only when the girl nodded energetically did her producer proceed:

  “So, Devotion, for shorts, has five subcategories: Attention Quality, Idol Appeal, Communication Effectiveness, Reciprocity and Crowd Reaction. The first two are more related to the idol, the third is a mixed bag and the last two lean heavily on the audience’s disposition. Attention Quality is how the idol acts in relation to the audience. The secret here is for you to sing as if you knew everyone on the crowd. Eye contact is a must here, but you can also wave, wink, gesture in the direction of someone, whatever. As long as it’s not too over the top or in poor taste, it’s okay, and there’s no surefire way to do it: it depends on the idol. Some blow kisses while others feign to have found someone she knows in the distance and sing looking in that direction for a few seconds. Whatever. In large audiences it’s obviously not expected that you look to each person. Just imagine the auditorium divided in four or six quadrants, choose a random person on each one there and do something, no matter how distant they are of you. Rinse and repeat until the song is over. About ten interactions in a three minute song is average, but don’t forget to keep your eye contact during the whole presentation! Even timid-looking idols have ways to make this work, through oblique glancing and such.”

  “Looks more complicated than I imagined,” Naoko opined, though not really concerned, “but then again, I noticed how powerful can eye contact and interactions with the spectators really be on my last rehearse. I won’t go into details because it seems we’re short on time, but there is an odd student who is always smiling. He’s creepy. I discovered, however, that whenever I sing staring at him or making poses and such, he’s extremely embarrassed or afraid. I thought I’d kill him during the two hour practice, but ultimately he told the Drama club president, Chiasa-Senpai, he enjoyed my presentation a lot! Weird people are weird, I suppose.”

  “Or rather, he acted like every other person,” her producer said, “The stage imbues the people on it with perceived power. Think it this way: the person on the stage is the one speaking, the others are merely listening or singing along. What the idol says, every spectator hears, but the opposite isn’t true. It’s not rare to fear the person on stage when he or she is looking at you – it’s a thing just as much as a person on the stage can fear the crowd, and only positivity in the interaction can make this nerve-wrecking connection pleasing. It’s scientifically proved that if a person thinks a hard to reach authority is looking at them or speaking with them, hormones like adrenaline are produced in larger quantities. And the stages simulate this. That’s why it’s important to balance your interactions: too little and the people will feel like you don’t care for them. Too much and you can intimidate them.”

  “Yeah, now I know it!” Naoko agreed radiantly, “I’ve never thought it this way, but it makes sense, Produ-San! I’ll be careful with it!”

  “Good. Also, Naoko-Chan mentioned poses,” Aratani kept going, “Poses are not qualified as attention giving, but rather as appealing for the audience. Hence it’s a major component in the Idol Appeal subcategory. Most poses, steppings and so on don’t request anything from the crowd, unlike what one of the meanings of the word “appeal” might suggest, but some poses actually do. Out of the top of my mind I can recall one involving clapping your hands to induce the crowd to follow suit. Also, if you petition the crowd to sing along, rally it to sing louder during the chorus, jump, dance, swing their cellphones or light batons, create organized waves of raising and lowering arms and so on, those are also huge Idol Appeal factors. On a funny note, this value doesn’t take into consideration if the crowd actually does what you ask them to, merely if you tried. The willingness of the audience to do what you ask falls into the Reciprocity subcategory.”

  After giving Naoko another pause so the information sank in, Aratani continued:

  “Now, Communic… Oh, wait, before we go one, just one last advice on Idol Appeal. Once again, it’s harder to appeal for three or five judges than during a real show and they know it. They won’t sing along, dance or anything, so don’t feel bad for not being able to move your “audience” during auditions. Just pretend they reacted as you intended them to, okay? On closed-doors auditions, the ones where only judges, idols and their producers attend to like our first one, the judges merely score your Idol Appeal and assume the audience would act accordingly, hence giving the same score for Reciprocity. On a Ranked show like the one we saw with Vyper, Umeko and the others, where a real crowd was present, judges evaluate both scores separately. Some idols are quite bad at appealing, but their fans are many and react to her every whims, hence granting her bad Idol Appeal value but an excellent Reciprocity score. The opposite is also possible too, but in general the audience reacts positively as long as the idol makes sure they have fun. Got it?”

  Laughing, Naoko replied, having fun at what her imagination created:

  “So I’m required to pose and rally the judges and imagine they’re having fun even though they’re looking at me with blank faces, right? It’s my application test all over again, where I was singing and tossing imaginary skirt-clad turtles on top of Sato-Sensei! Only I was the one having fun there, not her… But I can imagine the other way around too!”

  Not expecting that, Aratani burst into laughs and agreed:

  “Instructor Sato Mayumi can look intimidating at first, I know. She does that on purpose, I think. She once told me that when she’s judging idols on auditions, she knew a girl would be fine on the stages if she kept appealing to her five times even with her unwelcoming façade.”

  Thinking about that for a moment, Naoko had to admit it made sense:

  “That’s very wise of… what?!” Suddenly the entirety of her producer’s words sank in, “Produ-San said Sato-Sensei is also a judge for I.S.S.G.?!”

  Unimpressed by the girl’s lack of ability to reach logical conclusions, he attested:

  “Huh, yes? Every person allowed to evaluate an idol candidate alongside the potential producer either is or have been a judge for I.S.S.G., it’s a rule. Each person needs to be approved on a rather strenuous course promoted annually by the conglomerate to become a judge, and judges, like idols, also come in different classes. There are five kinds of judges, though a person can actually do different courses and accumulate more than one function. Three of those are related to the three Leagues we have in the Idol Star System. The first three classes – Sea, Sky and Earth – are called the Minor League. The two following classes, Wood and Fire, are called the Intermediate League, and the topmost two, Metal and Water, compose the Major League.”

  “What about the Star class?” Naoko inquired, making her producer grin.

  “I knew Naoko-Chan would ask about the out of charts stuff. Very well. The Sun, or Star class, is actually just a glorified Water class. Informally people talk about a “Star League”, but it doesn’t really exist. You see: a league is just a way of the organizers to let idols of different classes compete. A Sea class idol will never sing against a Water one, both because it’s unfair and because in the remote possibility the Sea one wins, all the Idol Star System will be discredited. But some competitions let idols of classes composing the same League to be pitted against one another, so a Sea class idol can face a Sky or an Earth one. Since there are only five or so Star Idols, it’d make no sense to create a League just for them. All competitions would look exactly the same an
d become boring to the audience. As such, they’re part of the Major League. The I.S.S.G. takes special care with them, though: a Star idol almost never competes against anyone that is not a Water-class idol. Metal-class idols, which are part of the Major League, never face Star ones. Also, more often than not, Star-class idols don’t even compete, they’re just invited for shows and always have a place of honor there. They become kind of nobility, their image is protected not only by their agencies but by I.S.S.G. itself. There’s even a special type of judge just for them, trained not only to evaluate but also to shield their public image. Few people outside the I.S.S.G. know of it, though. It’s not a secret, but it’s also not usually mentioned.”

  Naoko’s eyes sparkled in awe. Smiling slightly at the girl’s enthusiastic expression, Aratani turned his attention back to the previous subject:

  “So, as I was saying, there are five types of judges. One for each League makes three. Then, there’s one kind specifically qualified for evaluating Star idols and judging the cup that awards a Water-class idol the Star status. And finally, there are judges that teach other people how to become judges. Among those, there are many finer specializations too: each judge is certified a position based on his or her previous experiences of at least ten years in one or more of four categories: singing, dancing, aesthetics and some sort of communication. A journalist, a PR or any other similar professional. So even a Minor League judge is a professional that has worked at least ten years with one of those things. They are awarded an Expert status in the area they excel, so for example, if a person was a dancing instructor for ten years before becoming a Minor League judge, she becomes a Dancing Expert Minor League Judge. She evaluates all five categories like all judges, but if his or her dancing score ties or conflicts with the one from a person which is not a dancing expert when determining a winner in an audition or show, the expert one will take precedence. It’s just a way to untie gigs.”

  Absorbed and displaying an incredibly interested face, Naoko quickly questioned:

  “What if two dancing experts’ scores tie when determining a winner?”

  Scratching his head confusedly, Aratani replied:

  “It’s uncommon to have two experts of the same category on an examination board, the organization invites judges with different expertise. But supposing there is one with two or more Expert status, or in the case of Major League competitions with five judges instead of the usual three or four, the untie rule takes into account who has the most years, months and days of experience. If somehow it’s still not enough, the age of the judges is measured up to the seconds of difference and the older one takes precedence. If it’s miraculously not enough, they flip a coin.” Noticing Naoko’s unbelieving face, Aratani insisted, “I’m not joking, that’s how it works. Go read the I.S.S.G.’s internal regulations if you don’t believe me. Still, why does Naoko-Chan want to know this, anyway? Does she want to become a judge or something?”

  Smiling animatedly, Naoko denied it:

  “Nah, I’m just impressed by how intricate the system is. It’s so cool to have all these specialties and stuff! Looks a kind of military title! Like idols and judges get medals or awards! Or as if it’s a ranking system for the best players in a game! Like: you’re not a newbie anymore, you’re a full-fledged member of our guild, or a veteran, or an ace! Come on, I know you’ll say “I imagined you’d say that”, but you can’t deny that it’s cool!”

  Grumbling, her producer uttered:

  “I should’ve imagined you’d say that. Anyway. Unlike your assumption, where a veteran becomes an ace and is not a veteran anymore, in I.S.S.G. those positions are not mutually exclusive but rather they’re cumulative: to judge the Intermediate League you also need to have been qualified as a judge for the Minor League, for example. So even a Major League judge can evaluate idols on a Minor League if he or she so desire. After each exam, a judge needs to work as such for some time before being allowed to study on a promotion course. Your dancing teacher, Instructor Sato, is a Major League judge and also has qualification to teach other people how to become a judge. She didn’t bothered with the Star-class qualification course, which is more of a political than a technical evaluator, but she’s a very well-known I.S.S.G. judge. Also, your singing and your body language instructors are both judges, too. Your singing teacher was a song composer since she’s thirteen, I think, and is, unsurprisingly, a Singing Expert. Your Body Language teacher is a Crowd Devotion Expert. And talking about it, I just remembered your curiosity and my lack of focus during conversations made me digress horribly. I’ve yet to finish explaining the Devotion category…”

  The vexed face of Aratani made Naoko giggle.

  “Right, where was I?” He inquired himself, “Attention Quality, Idol Appeal, Communication Effectiveness… yes, that’s it. Communication Effectiveness is a value given to whether or not if your appeals and the way you give attention to the spectators is good, if you get your message across or not. So even if you do many poses and call your fans to sing along, if you do so unintelligibly, like using an unknown foreign language or with your body language conflicting with your vocal requests, this score will get hurt. Also, it also evaluates how well you interact with your audience in terms of respect. If you’re perceived as being abusive or insulting, not only this score will plummet but you’ll most likely get a warning and a penalty. In a few instances, it’s also expected that you be mindful of special audiences. So for example, even if that idol dubbed Vyper is known for acting all sexy and hot on stages, if she’s doing a special show for children she’d be required not to act that way and instead fall back to a more fun-loving and easygoing attitude. Failure to comply can result not only in zeroing her scores but also in severe penalties and warnings, in this case. It’s an extreme example I’m giving here, no one would let a gig like that happen in the first place, but it just shows how the Communication Effectiveness can be finicky. Most of the time, though, it’s just a matter of common sense.”

  Shutting her eyes, Naoko shook her head and angrily ordered:

  “Produ-San, that example was totally unnecessary! What’s your deal with Vyper anyway, you pervert?! Stop using her as examples altogether, dammit! Never, ever, give me mental images like that again!”

  Grinning maliciously, Aratani pestered Naoko:

  “Why? Vyper is an excellent example of many things. Good things… That wasn’t even that bad, too. You’ve not even heard yet of my examples concerning Vyper and a special show in a rest house for old peop…”

  Next thing Aratani knew, Naoko was screaming with eyes tightly closed:

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Get away from me! Naoko Punch!”

  With a burning fist she sent the pestering young man flying backwards, through the window and piercing buildings like a cannonball for a few miles. Returning with a cab, he sat down again at his desk with his untidy suit and messed up black eye and proceeded on his explanation while behaving well so as not to give the girl reasons for a second attack with a ridiculous name spoken out loud:

  “So now it’s Reciprocity, though I already said it means just how well the audience follows your appeals. Nothing you can do. Any questions here?”

  Thinking for a moment, Naoko replied negatively and asked her producer to proceed. The man, who wasn’t messed up anymore because that fiery punch was merely what the girl desired to do to him, but who’d received a painful kick from under the desk to his leg nonetheless, continued:

  “Crowd Reaction then. The last subcategory is very specific, but very important. It means how does your audience reacts when the song is over. If they applaud excitedly or not, if someone is crying after sad songs or energized after cheerful and upbeat ones, this kind of thing. An apathetic crowd is a bad sign, otherwise it’s okay. In closed-doors auditions it’s the average between your Attention Quality and Idol Appeal scores. In real shows it’s harder to evaluate, but generally it’s never low or high. Unless the crowd is really unimpressed or is particularly euphoric o
r touched by your performance, this subcategory is usually scored around ten out of twenty. In essence, Naoko-Chan performed mediocrely in the Devotion category on her first audition because she didn’t know she had to keep eye contact with the judges; almost didn’t performed poses, focusing just on her choreographic movements; didn’t wave, wink, try to call the judges to sing along, didn’t ask them to support you or anything. Just remember the rule of thumb from your dancing teacher, Sato-Sensei: interact five times with each judge in alternate orders and don’t be discouraged by their stoic postures. Keep your happiness, imagine they’re a real audience that would surely reciprocate your efforts and you’re golden.”

  Gazing at his watch, the man announced:

  “We need to go now. I’ll take you to the audition and explain the last category on the way there. Then we grab a bite somewhere. I don’t know about Naoko-Chan, but it’s already almost midday and I’m starving.”

  On the way to the garage, Naoko commented she’s nervous for her classes on Sunday now that she knew Sato Mayumi was a judge, but suddenly she got a question in her mind.

  “If Sato-Sensei is my teacher, it probably means at least a few of the other judges teaches other girls as well, right? I know Sato-Sensei, despite being kind, is very strict and would never favor me even though I’m her pupil, but can’t other judges with less of a moral fiber help their own students?”

  “Well thought,” Aratani congratulated her while turning the car on, opening the remote-controlled door of the garage and driving off, “Naoko-Chan has the same keen mind as those who create rules. But don’t worry, the lawyers and the organizers of I.S.S.G. thought about this possibility beforehand. There is a rule prohibiting an idol to get subscribed to an audition or a show being evaluated by a judge to whom she, her producer or anyone working on her side knows, have or had any kind of relationship with, commercial or otherwise. If it’s proved the occurrence of favoritism from a judge towards an idol, both can be severely punished or permanently banned from the system. On higher classes, notably the Major League ones where there’s only a handful of idols compared to other leagues, the organizers are even more careful. They go as far as plan the examination board for each individual contestant so as not to deny entry of an idol to any event. Because, you know, no one would be stupid enough to deny the presence of a profitable celebrity with seventy thousand, one hundred thousand official fans or more anywhere. In fact, no one would be stupid to so much as risk an idol like that not attending an event. The I.S.S.G. even provides them with whatever whims they throw at the organization, as long as it’s not dangerous or very immoral. If they want a cup of cappuccino at their private dressing room, a masseur, a butler or a flute-playing penguin, the corporation will do it.”

  “Wow… Those Major League idols sure have it easy!” Naoko spoke with starry eyes, “I want to be a Major League Idol! I want a handsome butler and a flute-playing penguin at my private dressing room too!”

  “Then I invite Naoko-Chan to first get to Wood class to be allowed to use a private dressing room and we’ll walk from there,” her producer told her. Suddenly the cool guy looked startled for a moment, “I just remembered I need to tell you one thing: we have three contracts for this weekend. One for today before our show and the rest for tomorrow. I’m sorry for scheduling one for today, but there was no other possible day for the company. I even managed to push a fourth contract back to the Tuesday next week due to the Golden Week holidays, but the one today was unavoidable. But if you want, we can bring your friend together, if she has no problem with it.”

  Puzzled, Naoko repeated it in an interrogative way:

  “Friend? What friend?”

  Aratani, glancing over to her for a moment before turning his eyes back to the road, said:

  “Didn’t we agree that Naoko-Chan would bring a friend for the show today, in case she ranked among the winners of today’s audition?”

  “Ah!” Naoko exclaimed, “I’m sorry not to have mentioned it before, but Rin-Chan, my friend, won’t be coming with us. Her father didn’t allow her. Said he wouldn’t let her daughter go to a show with people he doesn’t know.”

  Though looking a little sour, Aratani shook his head in a somewhat accepting gesture.

  “Fair enough. A little antiquated of him if you ask me, but I can’t blame the man either.”

  Unwillingly nodding in accordance, Naoko replied acidly however:

  “Well, I can blame him! Restricting his daughter like this is no way of protecting her, it just ruins her freedom. But Rin-Chan told me her father would at least try to talk with the managers in his workplace to see if they can invite me to perform a gig at one of the parties the company has. Birthday parties every month, introduction to new employees and so on.”

  The man whistled in surprise and got suddenly thrilled:

  “He must work at a pretty big place, then, to have so many parties.”

  “Well…” Naoko reticently revealed, “It didn’t seem so, the way my friend said. She told me there are “a few” workers there, so I’m figuring sixty or seventy to justify those parties?”

  Cooling down a bit, Aratani took a moment to pass a car and, unsure, commented:

  “I’ve never seen a company with seventy people have complex birthday parties where they could call an idol in, to tell you the truth. Especially since you have only trained a few songs, even if they invite you I.S.S.G. will probably require them to either pick other idols or will audition themselves a few more to compose a group capable of performing for at least an hour or so. Even if they only invite you and open, say, four other slots for audition, I take it’ll still be an Invitational Ranked gig, an incredibly rare thing for a Dark class idol to get on. It will cost the company at the very least two million Yen to do, and that’s not even mentioning the cost they’ll have with a saloon or whatever space they have, or they’ll have to rent, for it.”

  “So much?! Why?!” Naoko inquired breathlessly.

  “For starters, each one of the five idols presenting, or rather, their agencies, needs to be paid, even if it’s just two hundred thousand Yen or so like the last gig we did. Also, that restaurant you performed at had clients that paid the bills, a thing the company of your friend’s father won’t do with its employees. After that, there’s the cost of opening an audition, hiring judges and so on. I.S.S.G. also sends an inspector to venues they’re not already aware of to evaluate if the location has any condition to receive five idols, even if greenhorn ones. Just so people don’t try to cram a show in an underground garage or some other ridiculous location. And this inspector also needs to get paid. Then there are taxes, I.S.S.G’s profit and so on. And that’s not even considering the other costs of the party like foods and beverages, the renting of space and so on. For a company with seventy employees to do this… I don’t know. I mean, it always occurs, don’t get me wrong. But they generally do this once a year. To do such a big event on a routine birthday party in a regular month where five or six employees were born… it’s kind of far-fetched.”

  Naoko looked a little downcast, and half-heartedly questioned:

  “Does Produ-San think Rin-Chan’s father told her a lie about going to try and talk to managers about a party to just to make her feel better?”

  Sensing the girl was in need of some support, he asked her to wait a little bit until the car stopped at a street light so he could think about it clearly. In reality, think about how he could cheer her up. Eventually he answered:

  “It’s not necessarily a lie. Then again, I don’t know if that’s really the kind of party you’d be invited for. Many companies conclude their fiscal year at the end of April, so it’s possible her father was not talking about any birthday party, but about one of those big, once in a year events a lot of companies do. Also, we don’t know how many employees the company really has. “A few” is very unspecific and your friend could’ve said that just to be humble. Or her father’s company really has sixty, fifty or so employees, but its business
is particularly lucrative and his boss can afford luxuriant parties. Who knows.”

  Recovering faith and, with it, her joyful mood, Naoko asked, almost in a begging way:

  “Produ-San? Suppose it’s a company with fifty employees. Would you still allow me to perform there? Because Rin-Chan said she would introduce us to her father so the next time, he’d already know us and would allow Rin-Chan to come with us!”

  The young man, not really understanding the reason of the question, assented:

  “Yes, of course I would allow it. Why do you ask? You mean, because it’s a small number?” Naoko nodded, stating, “Yes. Produ-San once mentioned that gig at the restaurant was much better than some silly company parties, I think.”

  “Well, it is true the bigger the audience, the better,” Aratani confirmed, “but at the beginning of a career we can’t be too selective. Also, remember we need you to perform ten times to be allowed to attempt a class promoting cup, and it’ll count as one performance. What’s more: a ranked one, since even an Invitational gig, due to being organized by I.S.S.G., is considered a Ranked gig despite you, an invited idol, not having to rank among the first few places to qualify. What’s more: it is an Invitational show! I told you how rare this things are for Dark class idols. As long as we can prove the owner of the company is not a relative of yours and that you’ve no relationship with him or anyone close to him – and you don’t, because you don’t even know your friend’s father – we can say the company owner was so impressed by you that decided to call Naoko-Chan to animate his party. Maybe he’d already watched a previous show of yours, or he saw an advertisement of you drinking refreshing blueberry isotonic juice through your nose and ears, or was very impressed by you saving a boy, I don’t know. Being invited so early would be a great thing to attach to your portfolio.”

  Frustrated, Naoko insisted before turning back to a sunny mood:

  “The photographer told me I looked amazing in the ad, the part where I almost drowned in fake blueberry juice was after the photo! Stop making fun of me! As for the show, that’s great! Thanks, Produ-San! Though… if it’s so easy to be invited, a girl whose father owns a company wouldn’t be able to circumvent the requirement of the ten gigs by repeatedly being invited to perform at her father’s workplace?”

  Getting slightly surprise, Aratani joked:

  “Naoko-Chan, what are you? A con artist or something?”

  It made the girl slightly remember her initial fears about her producer’s own company and also that she’s yet to be paid, though she’s still just on her fourth weekend there. The girl put those thoughts aside for the time being to hear what Aratani had to say:

  “I swear, you have some strange thoughts, girl. But to answer your question, people at I.S.S.G. are not stupid. They evaluate every gig proposal beforehand. If they get suspicious of a girl being invited over and over to the same place, they’ll check it out. And trust me, that idol will never show her face on a stage ever again. Also, invitation gigs are a rarity right now, but become quite common later on, so the suit-clad boys and girls on I.S.S.G. have their strategies to prevent system abuse. And finally, even in the remote circumstance the idol is not unmasked, such cheap tactics will only bring her so far. Eventually she’ll have to amass enormous quantities of money and, what’s more, thousands, tens of thousands of fans, something that’s very hard to do if she repeatedly presents herself on the same place.”

  Just to joke, Naoko questioned:

  “What if she forges fan subscriptions to meet the quota?”

  Breaking into laughter, Aratani answered:

  “In case you’re wondering: no, it’s not possible to forge subscriptions in an I.S.S.G. idol fan club. Each person subscribes with their own national I.D., passport or whatever legal document they have. People less than thirteen years-old are also a no go, for they’re not legally responsible for themselves and it could prompt system abuses. And every document is verified by the conglomerate. Any other questions regarding law-bending ideas?”

  “What if that idol is secretly a forger and the company of her father is just a façade for illicit activities because he actually is the chairman of a powerful, fifty thousand men-strong mafia clan?” Naoko insisted, going into overdrive with her ideas just to test her producer out. The man, humorously stopping the car at the side of the road just to facepalm himself in dismay, resumed driving immediately after and sarcastically told the laughing girl:

  “Then that girl would be much better off accepting her destiny as a mafia princess than losing her time trying to climb a capriciously longwinded system for idols. She’s sure to get just as much, if not more money and influence this way. So let her be and let me finally tell you about the Memorability categ…”

  Aratani’s stomach suddenly growled, derailing his train of thoughts.

  “You know what? Screw that, I’ll talk about it on another occasion. It’s not like knowing about it can make much difference at the beginning since it’s the hardest category to consciously manipulate and will require a plan to really be influenced during an audition. Just do your best out there for now. Naoko-Chan is in such a good mood for the audition, I’d hate to break it, and I’m far too famished to think clearly.”

  Like so, instead of learning about an important category that makes up for twenty percent of her final score, Naoko and Aratani opted to create outlandish fictions revolving around the yakuza princess idol. Once again her producer did whatever he could to keep Naoko calm and in high spirits in the line for the registry confirmation. After the attire changing and photo taking, he resumed his recreational activities during the arguably nerve-wrecking atmosphere of the auditorium where idols and producers gathered for the audition. Like Aratani had previously stated, about half of all idols in the I.S.S.G. were actually Dark class ones, meaning girls that were not even considered full-fledged idols so far. There were so many girls in such situation that Naoko couldn’t see any known face from the previous gig, though there were, again, many funny people around.

  Still, the yakuza princess idol story was preferred this time. Sitting on the back like before, Naoko and Aratani laughed together while jointly improving the already absurd idea of a girl who was the daughter of a mafia lord wanting to become a renowned idol. Things like every show of her being attended by ten thousand bad-looking men wearing suits and intimidating other idols to flee and the judges to give her perfect scores every time, threatening an adversary producer in a zebra-patterned suit by surrounding him while a man ready to fight threw away his own jacket and shirt to reveal the tattoo of a huge carp covering his entire back and so on. Then she’d get on stage during a show by skydiving from a helicopter. And she would wear an eye patch. And no matter how bad she sang, everyone would applaud because they were either goons or people being threatened by them.

  Luckily Naoko’s turn didn’t take long that time. Since girls were called according to their inscription order, and since Aratani had inscribed Naoko the day after her previous, and first, gig, she was the sixth to be called. The girl, only then, remembered her producer haven’t even told her if there were special rules for that presentation – which she assumed not – or where would she be presenting herself if she won. In fact, she didn’t even know how many idols would qualify.

  Even so, the girl had already performed the same four songs so many times she could almost hear herself singing it while sleeping. This time she also opted not to wear her black and red attire, instead preferring her new white gloves, the frilled white vest-blouse and white platform boots in combination with her blue mini shorts and the tiara her producer gave her, tied with blue ribbons. It was a combination that made more sense for a cheerful and upbeat girl like her. Also, while her producer was, as always, completely oblivious to smells, the proximity of Naoko to the judges made it worthwhile for her to sprinkle some hazelnut perfume before she went to the agency.

  Speaking to Aratani after the presentation about how the judges seemed to notice in a positive
way the aroma, the man, even though only barely being able to discern it, told her it’s also a factor that could help her in the Aesthetics category. Especially the Idol Presentation subcategory, but also Composition and Image Impact to a little degree.

  This time Naoko got only slightly nervous, but managed to dance and sing even better than on her first audition. Also, she took care to look at the judges during the whole time. She still had to train how to do poses and only knew a handful, but she did the ones she knew. Thankfully she’d tortured Katsuro with those for two straight hours – or, how she preferred to think, “trained with his help” – and it paid off somehow. She also performed a wink, a wave, a few inviting and friendly gestures she came up with on the spot as her producer told her, though they felt somewhat artificial to her. It’s her first time doing that, though, so she thought it was okay.

  Like her producer had warned her, the judges really didn’t budge. They looked kind of dead and made the girl wonder since what hour were they sitting on that auditorium evaluating wave after wave of girls. Their unexpressive semblances after a few appeals made Naoko start to worry, but she firmly held to what she’d learned and insisted. In the end, she lost the count of how many appealing moves she’d done, but she’s under the impression it’s less than five for two of the three judges.

  Aratani was very impressed nonetheless, he told her after the presentation. So much, in fact, that her solid performance could’ve put a little more pressure on the girls that came after her and committed the mistake of watching each exhibition instead of chilling out. During the almost one hour Naoko was left waiting there were only two noteworthy girls: one wore a long, blood-colored wig and dressed in red with black details, somewhat resembling Naoko’s dark attire. Still, she sported thin and tall high heels that surely increased her modifiers for her seemingly hard dance, and carried numerous accessories, including a small crown inlaid with a single big and sparkling red gemstones.

  She was a very technical idol. “Ruby” was her artistic name. She was short and very beautiful, though she usually didn’t smile too much. It’s as if she forgot to do so, so concentrated she was on performing perfectly a choreography worth thirteen points, as opposed to Naoko’s eight. Her voice was maybe not as loud, clear or harmonious as Naoko’s and Ruby sang without passion, being instead precise and minimalistic as a machine, but her song was also less cheerful and more serious. Overall, that girl could pass for an artificial intelligence, having a personality that felt a little abrasive, not really cold but not welcoming either. She also did poses mechanically and evaded eye contact sometimes. Not an overly sociable girl. Even then, in technical terms Naoko admitted Ruby was superior to her. What she didn’t have in voice magnetism or natural, extroverted charms, Ruby more than made up for with her robotic precision of steps and timing.

  The second girl that got Naoko’s attention among the thirty competitors was a tall one with a blue wig. She was gorgeous and looked incredible in a lilac sailor suit, so Naoko imagined she’d be a blast, but the girl sang a merry and carefree song in a low and shy way for some time and then, bursting in tears, stopped. Begging for forgiveness, she left the auditorium in a rush, followed by a crestfallen woman in suit. Naoko was left heartbroken for that contestant, her expression of fear and embarrassment and her humble apologies were the only things in that audition that touched her feelings. Even a few other idols, previously unresponsive to anything, showed some sort of sympathy. The judges, however, looked unfazed as if they’d already seen that happen many times before. Their lack of apparent compassion upset Naoko a little. For a conglomerate of the entertainment industry, those people were not fun and, what’s worse, unkind, or so it appeared.

  The rest of the idols were not that remarkable. Some were good, others not so much. Most of them wore very intricate outfits, full of ostentatious accessories. Because of that, too, a few lost parts of their garments while dancing, from mini hats to bells attached to their skirts.

  When the audition was over and the results were in, Naoko was once again awarded the fifth overall position among thirty three contestants. Her Dancing was ranked fifth for its choreographic simplicity but good execution and her Singing, fourth for similar reasons. Her Aesthetics was ranked seventh, being a little simpler than her previous one but matching her character better. Still, the lack of extra components on her wear gave her less modifiers that hurt all her other categories in comparison to other, more flamboyant girls there. Her Devotion score, though, got second place, and the Memorability category was awarded fifth. Still, only three points away from the first place and with many other girls tied with two or one more point than her, it didn’t hurt her final score by much. On a side note, Ruby was awarded the fourth position, with first place in Dancing and second in Aesthetics due to her pretty attire and to the amount of things she wore that could fall off. However, she got sixth in Singing, the ninth position in Memorability, though not too far from Naoko in actual score, and only twelfth in Devotion, much like Naoko on her last show.

  Once again Naoko turned a blasé face to her producer, and also again Aratani was absurdly thrilled. “We did it! We did it!” he exclaimed, while the unimpressed girl replied “Yay, fifth position again…”

  “Let me see if you’re getting the hang of the system by now,” her producer exultantly tested her, “What made those other four girls get a better score than you?”

  Naoko, after thinking for a second, replied that Ruby was excellent but only not got the first position because of her pathetic Devotion and Memorability scores, to which Aratani agreed. However, when she told him the other girls sang and danced better than her, he denied it:

  “Nope. That’s not it. You actually performed better than the other three.”

  “That’s not what the scores are telling me” Naoko rebuffed, but the man insisted:

  “But it’s true, I’m not telling this just to make you happy. See, a score is just a number. You ranked seventh on Aesthetics and had no modifiers to help except for the one from your platform boots. Ruby, on the other hand, had huge modifiers. Remember what those are? Those aesthetical multipliers you earn for particularly complex and double-edged things you wear, that make you even more stunning and also prone to failing? In reality, not all modifiers come from wearable objects, there are bonuses for some things you can do while singing, dancing and so on, but the ones from the Aesthetics category are the easiest ones to pull off. You got only a meek modifier, but still ranked incredibly. Those other idols’ performances were not as good as yours, with the exception of that Ruby girl, but they’re sporting garments with more flair than a peacock and with more things hanging from them than a clothesline.”

  Looking at the score table on a big screen at the back of the stage, he continued:

  “Many other girls attempted this too but lost parts of their outfits. The ones on top were simply competent or lucky enough not to let anything fall, thus retaining their modifiers. And remember it impacts all categories but Memorability. I calculate some girls here must have at least a one point twenty five score multiplier to every category! Can you imagine what it means to receive twenty five percent or more of your score as a bonus? In comparison, you have a one point zero six modifier, I think. Those girls have an advantage of twenty percent or more over you, as long as they don’t let things fall or commit mistakes! For every five points they got, they were given an extra one! That’s why it’s incorrect to assume they performed better. They just had better numbers at the end. The I.S.S.G. uses math to decide the winners because they need some kind of parameter so as not to leave such important decisions entirely to the personal tastes of judges. Still, math is cold. No matter how sophisticated and complex it is, algorithms and formulas are unable to get the nuances of an art. That’s why there is a Memorability score that is unaffected by modifiers, too: to give a semblance of a human touch to the hard numbers. You’ll understand why when I explain you about it.”

  Looking radiant, Aratani smiled c
oolly to the encouraged girl.

  “I told you all of this just to say: don’t fret, Naoko-Chan. I can guarantee you were the second best idol here, at the very least. The other girls were either too scared, committed too many mistakes, were too plain or simply didn’t have the passion and energy you put on your presentation. Even that Ruby girl only got marginally better than you because of her many modifiers. If she didn’t have those, she’d probably still have been the best dancer, but her Devotion score would’ve been even lower. Her singing isn’t on par with yours too. And to be frank, she’s only good because she looked like a perfectionist. She didn’t have any emotion on her dancing and singing, however.” Facing Naoko deeply in the eyes, he stated, unflinching, “Of course you can say I’m your producer, so I’d be telling you this anyway. It is fine, you don’t need to believe me if you don’t want to. I believe in you all the same, Naoko-Chan.”

  Feeling the conviction with which her producer said those encouraging words warm her chest, Naoko gradually smiled genuinely. Aratani, returning to his cool self, stood up and stretched his arms and back while proclaiming like a king:

  “I hereby say we go eat something on the shopping mall’s food court before my stomach’s acid burn a whole on my shirt. After that, I announce we will depart post-haste to buy you another pile of things before we actually lose an audition just because Naoko-Chan doesn’t have enough bracelets, necklaces, decorative angel wings covered in glitter, magnetic balls to affix on a jeweled tiara and other shiny, useless stuff dangerously hanging from her.”

  “Lets!” Naoko enthusiastically agreed, jumping from her seat on her feet.

  Since her attire, while flashy, was not completely unique and could be used on the streets, Naoko didn’t even bother to change. Simply taking off her tiara, not even her gloves, she and her producer departed to the huge and incredible shopping mall on the first few floors of the I.S.S.G.’s headquarters.

  As the two walked around the food court Naoko found a sad-looking girl a little taller than her on a line. Very attractive, looking around seventeen, she seemed familiar somehow. Despite her casual clothes Naoko had no doubts she was an idol and that she’d seen her on that same day, though it took a while to recognize her: it was that contestant who cried, humbly apologized and ran away. On the stage she wore a sky-blue wig and a lilac sailor suit, but her real hair was of medium-length and black with a half fringe, lustrous and with a few spikes. Alone, the idol looked inconsolable.

  The instant Naoko recognized her she felt a huge desire to talk to that girl. She not only looked blue, she was the only idol on that audition with whom Naoko sympathized. She didn’t really look shy, but at that time she was stricken by terror and couldn’t even move. Also, she acted very humbly, something most of the other idols there could learn from her.

  “Hey, Naoko-Chan, what’s the matter? I thought you didn’t like vegetarian food,” Aratani’s voice snapped her out of her contemplation. The girl found herself close to the line that idol was in, from a place that only offered nutritious food rich in green ingredients accompanied by many other colors that made for a fresh and healthy meal. Everything Naoko hated. Getting away from that line to vegetable hell, Naoko discreetly motioned her head towards that idol.

  Aratani also took a few seconds to recognize the gorgeous downcast girl, and when he did, the man turned half-closed, unsurprised eyes to Naoko. Seeing her smile in an inviting way, almost pleading him to accompany and support her, her producer said in a low voice, so others couldn’t hear:

  “First Harumi-San and Sakura-San, now this? Naoko-Chan, if you’re going to help every single girl that gets frustrated in the idol industry you’d better open a therapy clinic. Make each session a group therapy too, otherwise you won’t have enough time in a week to help every client even working sixteen hours per day. Seriously, what’s the matter?”

  “That girl was the only one I actually liked there! She looked very humble and sincere! And now she is very sad, can’t you see it?” Naoko asked, and her producer replied ironically, “So? My stomach is growling, can’t you hear it?”

  Getting a little annoyed, Naoko thought about arguments to give to her producer, but there was no good one to justify it. Even so, the man, sighing, nodded, though showing her his wristwatch and advising:

  “Can you see the minute hand close to the number two? When it gets to the number four I’m out of there, understood? I’m not joking about being hungry.”

  “Thanks, Produ-San!” Naoko eagerly said, and dragged the man closer. As the sad girl asked the attendant what she wanted with a very modest and cordial attitude and paid, leaving to wait nearby, Naoko intercepted her in a caring way:

  “Hm, excuse me?” The downcast idol was startled when hearing someone talking to her, “Hi, I’m Yano Naoko. I think I saw you at the audition earlier. Are… you okay?”

  The surprised girl, getting back to her sad expression, faced Naoko for a while, apparently trying to evaluate the intentions of the girl. After a moment, looking even more miserable, she humbly replied with a polite, “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for the concern.”

  At the same time, her eyes got full of water. Seeing the face of Aratani silently telling her “congrats, you just reopened the wound”, Naoko tenderly tried again, though not really knowing what to say to cheer her up:

  “Hm… I… liked your outfit and you wig! You looked gorgeous! Really! Don’t be sad!”

  “Thanks,” she unenthusiastically replied concisely while bowing slightly. Her body posture was very uncomfortable, though. That girl acted very modestly for being so beautiful, having treated the attendant with almost as much respect as the salesclerk treated every customer, but she didn’t appear too keen on talking, or just too sad to care. Seeing the always sunny Naoko was in fact completely clueless on how to brighten a sad person up, Aratani broke in the talk with a witty statement and a cool, straight face looking up to the pictures of the menu displayed on the store that idol decided to stop by:

  “I know it’s hard, but you must let go of the past. Veggies? Are you serious? Come on, girl, forget the money you gave to those people, it’s not worth the trouble of eating those green things over there. Look at that picture of dish number four, that salad with two slices of tomato: it looks like it’ll come to life and munch you instead of the other way around. I’ll show you the place where you really wanted to be: that chocolate store over there. I dare you to look into my eyes and tell me that’s not the truth.”

  Astounded, Naoko saw the miserable-looking girl suddenly giggle out of surprise from Aratani’s unpredictable remarks. Not that she wasn’t sad anymore, but at least her face brightened up. She stared at his eyes for a second as she was dared, but was unable to keep up and, with a faint smile, explained in an amenable way:

  “I won’t lie that I wanted to eat there a little, but I need something more substantial than chocolates to keep me up right now.”

  “Substantial?” Aratani repeated, “Are you sure you got in the right place, miss? I only see leaves, plants and seeds there. That one looks like birdseed. Are you a bird?”

  Giggling, the girl denied it, but Aratani teasingly insisted in a cool tone:

  “I think you’re a bird. Prove me you’re not a bird.”

  “Ha ha, I… I’m not a bird! How do I prove I’m not a bird?”

  “I don’t know,” the man, extremely calm, said with a small smile, “Do something a bird can’t do, maybe.”

  It got the short and slightly spike-haired, tall idol thinking. Eventually she said, still a bit said but also amused by the conversation to the point where she actually smiled faintly:

  “I don’t know, hm… I can’t fly!”

  “That doesn’t prove you’re not a bird,” Aratani kept teasing her and making her giggle with his impromptu jokes, “An ostrich also can’t fly but is a bird. Maybe you’re a bird too.”

  “Why do you think I’m a bird, mister?” she asked, and he promptly replied, “You eat in a place that sells
birdseed. That’s food for birds. Hence you, miss, are a bird. Logic.”

  “Ha ha, that’s not birdseed! That’s oats! It’s food people eat too!”

  “People eat “too”? Why “too”? As in, “birds eat it and people eat that too”? You’re not people, miss? Then you just revealed you’re a bird.” Aratani once again deflected her arguments with a twisted and insane logic that made the girl chuckle louder. Naoko was left admired by how easily her chill producer talked with an arguably very pretty lady who just a few moments before was so sad and retracted. He made it look very simple to entwine her on his crazy and comical talk.

  The girl insisted she wasn’t a bird by stating she could talk, but Aratani said, unfaltering:

  “But parrots can talk too. And you sing. You know what animal sings too?” Making a gesture with both hands, shaking them once to emphasize his speech, he answered his own question while opening his eyes wide for a moment, “Birds.”

  The girl, laughing, tried to counterargument his logic by stating she looked human, but Aratani merely replied she could be part of a not yet cataloged species of birds. She replied she wore clothes, but the man told her it could just be in order to hide her birdiness. She returned the question by asking how could Aratani prove he wasn’t a bird, but the man evaded it comically:

  “That’s a first! A bird who is capable of logical arguments! You’re not a bird!” after a brief pause, he stated feigning awe, “You’re an alien bird!”

  The two idols burst into laughs while Aratani mocked:

  “We’re being invaded! That’s dangerous! Unless… you’re a good alien bird. In this case I can protect your secret, Birdie. Are you a good alien bird? Prove me you’re not a bad alien bird.”

  Even Naoko started to laugh. Though she knew her producer could be funny, she’d never seen him act like a madman before. The best part was that he never lost his cool composure, meaning he didn’t look mad, but a perfectly common person saying things in a very matter-of-fact way. If not for his slight smile and a few eventual laughs out of disbelief of his very words, denouncing he was joking, he could’ve passed for a crazy person, albeit a very calm and presentable one. Also, no matter what the amused idol said in her defense, Aratani easily dismissed or evaded them in such a way that he maintained his outlandish claim in the most exceptional ways merely by the use of reasoning. Naoko didn’t understand how he did that, but he did. In a few moments the tall, humble and pretty girl was not only unable to prove she wasn’t a bird, but was trying to prove she wasn’t a bad alien bird:

  “I’m not a bad alien bird because… I… like… people! I help people! I do charities in my free time!”

  Aratani finally admitted his defeat for a second, before turning it upside down:

  “Okay, I got it, Birdie-Chan. You’ve proved me you’re not a bad alien bird… You’re a good alien bird.”

  “Than… Hey! Hahaha!” the girl, taken off-balance for the thousandth time during that conversation, started to laugh heartily. She started to try and counter that once again, but Aratani, snapping away from the droll chat, pointed out, “You said you do charities in your free time?”

  The idol, noticing the man had changed gears, resumed the modest nature Naoko, who was just a spectator to the conversation, came to expect from her. She revealed:

  “Ah… yes. In a communitarian house that helps homeless people.”

  Aratani suddenly looked fascinated and asked for details, prompting the girl to humbly explain it:

  “It’s really a small space supported by a Shinto temple, though I’m not part of the temple itself. I’m merely a volunteer from the community, and my help is minimal there. We look for donations of food, clothes, medicine and so on from markets, pharmacies and businesses in general. Also, many homeless people don’t seek us, we’re the ones that look for them, so…”

  “Why? Wouldn’t they be the most interested party?” Aratani interrupted, looking curious. The girl elucidated in a seemingly already well-known speech, as if she’d said that many times before, “Yes, but homeless people also suffer a lot on the streets. Many don’t want to bother others or even lose the ability to trust other people. If they show any fragility, they can fear others would take advantage of it or abandon them even more, so they don’t look for help. We’re the ones who try to convince them we only want to help, and it takes time to build trust. They think we’ll try to convert them or make they repay us somehow. Also, a few are usually drunk. It’s rare for homeless people to do so, but sometimes they drink to forget the sadness and also to endure the cold of the nights. Every year we’re always on a rush to find and make the largest amount of homeless people accept our help before winter comes, when many of them die. And no one cares to publicize this kind of news. To die an indigent, forgotten in the cold like this…”

  The girl’s concerned eyes turned fraught with sorrow for a while before going back to normal.

  “We also have contacts with other groups who help homeless people, stray animals, alcohol addicts and those with addictions to other drugs and other humanitarian causes, so even if they don’t trust us, they still get help.”

  The conversation had gone from a lighthearted, comical fest to a serious tone in less than a minute, but Aratani and the tall idol didn’t seem to care. When the attendant called her, the visibly distressed girl was too absorbed in the chat to notice. Hence, Aratani told her, “Hey, Birdie-Chan, your birdseed is ready”, though in a cool way and not falling back again to the previous, nonsensical talk. Instead, as the girl returned with her vegetarian food, the man said:

  “Well, I would’ve never imagined a girl like you would donate your time and effort to such a noble cause. People your age are usually not as kindhearted. Or at least, don’t regularly manifest their kindness the way you do. But Naoko-Chan here was right.” Bringing the tall girl’s attention to Naoko, Aratani revealed, “When she saw you here, she asked me if we could try to cheer you up. In her words, you’re the girl she liked the most during the audition, because you looked humble and sincere like no other.”

  The girl Aratani previously dubbed “Birdie” sent a grateful look to Naoko and, bowing, thanked her and the man for the concern. The producer coolly continued, slightly joking:

  “She’s not that tactful at cheering people up, but Naoko-Chan also has a good heart. There is not a single audition we get to where Naoko-Chan doesn’t want to console or help other idols.” Preferring not to mention that was just her second audition ever, Aratani quickly changed subjects, “I’m Aratani Kouta, Naoko-Chan’s producer.”

  The girl, bowing again while holding the tray with her plate, introduced herself:

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both! I’m Kobayashi Megumi, but please call me Megumi.”

  Taking note of the tray on Megumi’s hand, Aratani suggested:

  “Why don’t we find somewhere to sit down? In fact, I didn’t eat anything the whole day, so I’m deeply sorry, but I’ll briefly excuse myself. Naoko-Chan, I’ll grab something for you too, just tell me what you want.”

  After she decided and the man was gone, Megumi complimented the two:

  “Wow, Naoko-San is really blessed to have such a kind producer! Kindness attracts kindness, they say.”

  Megumi looked only slightly sad, a huge improvement over how miserable she appeared to be just a few minutes before. Naoko smiled gladly, but out of humbleness decided not to comment on it, preferring to ask:

  “What about your producer, Megumi-San? How is he or she?”

  The girl looked down to her plate, sadness returning to it. Perceiving she’d said something wrong, Naoko immediately apologized, but Megumi modestly replied:

  “No, it’s okay. Well… my producer was a nice person. Strict, but she took good care of me. I… I didn’t deserve to have a producer like Yoshida-San. She invested on me for almost six months, taking me to classes and all. She even gave me seven chances to qualify on gigs. But… whenever I stepped on a stage I…”

&nbs
p; The girl looked hopeless. Naoko was also left baffled and started to think of anything to say to change the subject, but Megumi bravely held her tears and pressed on:

  “Thing is, Yoshida-San gave me far too many chances, and I failed her on every one. I was even the Queen of her agency, despite that she could’ve afforded another idol.”

  “Queen? Sorry if it sounds stupid, but what is a Queen?” Naoko questioned.

  “Oh… does you agency has other idols?” Megumi replied, but as she received a negative answer, she said, “Well, then Naoko-San is already the Queen of her agency! Maybe Aratani-San just never used this expression, but it’s a common way in the idol industry to refer to a single idol on who an agency deposits all the faith on. Generally it only applies if your company can afford to promote more than one idol, but decides to focus on just one, though nowadays you can say any agency that has only one idol has a Queen. Sorry for using this term, it’s just a silly expression used in the industry.”

  Despite already having food to eat, Megumi let it rest, waiting Aratani to come back with the dishes for him and Naoko. In the meantime, Megumi, looking lost and a little afraid, said:

  “The thing is, I wasn’t able to keep up with the expectations Yoshida-San put on me. They told me I actually performed well on my application test, though I don’t know how, but all I did was to betray the expectations my producer had for me. I wish I’d never tried to take that test… It would’ve been the best for Yoshida-San. Though… I needed it at that time… Well, I… still kind of do. I don’t… know what I’m going to do now that I’m unemployed.”

  Getting extremely concerned, Naoko hesitated:

  “Can’t Megumi-San… I don’t know… try to… overcome her fears and ask for one last chance? Or… something? I-I know it’s easy to say “overcome your fears” but hard to do it, I have a friend that is very afraid of boys and competitions and I’m trying to help her, but it’s very hard! And I also have some fears, so I know it is. But… if Megumi-San needs it, can’t she…”

  The look on Megumi’s face indicated it wouldn’t be as simple as that, as she told Naoko:

  “I can’t. Yoshida-San gave me too many chances. And each audition has an entry fee of at least ten thousand Yen. I can’t… ask my producer to pay yet another time for me to… fail her again. Also, I… don’t know how to overcome this fear of mine, otherwise I would’ve already done so. I’m… scared to death every time I treaded on a stage. I’m scared to death of failing… and I failed.” Looking down, the girl humbly asked after a period of silence, “Naoko-San? Are you not afraid of failing?”

  “Please drop the formalities, Megumi-San,” Naoko asked, referring to the “San” suffix, “And… well, I am a little afraid, yes. Of stages and of failing but…” Suddenly she remembered how she’s able to qualify on both auditions she’d tried so far, “Oh, but I have a secret weapon! The first time I came to an audition I was very tense, and Aratani-San started to joke around to calm me down. Since I also have the same sense of humor he does, a little nonsensical at times, I got into it. And it worked! So now we do it every time!”

  Naoko started to relate the jokes the two have made involving other producers, girls and the fictional story of the mafia princes turned idol, making the troubled girl smile once again and giggle a few times. Naoko was at her best when relating comical things, but once she stopped Megumi relapsed back to her worries, despite some improvement in her humor. The worst of all was that Naoko couldn’t even blame the girl for being depressed, she’d just lost her job in a sad way. Still, when Aratani arrived with the food, he was startled.

  “Naoko-Chan, when I left just a few minutes ago, Megumi-San was smiling and laughing. What did you do to the little bird?” he joked, though with a cool and slightly serious face, and the girl, with an upset countenance, retorted in an acid, mocking way, “That’s because Megumi-San was laughing of you, not of your jokes, Produ-San!”

  “Ouch,” the man feigned to be hurt by her words, though his face showed he found their little bickering entertaining. Putting the dish Naoko asked in front of her and sitting beside the girl, he pestered, “Maybe I shouldn’t have done the favor of grabbing your food for you…”

  “Maybe Produ-San would be a dead man by now if he didn’t!” Naoko replied caustically. Abruptly smiling and petting his shoulder, she added gently, “Also, so sweet of you! Thank you!”

  Megumi, giggling, diligently and respectfully told her situation again:

  “When I said to Naoko-S…Chan that Aratani-San looked as kind as her, she asked me about my producer. I was just telling Naoko-Chan I… don’t have a producer anymore. I failed her seven times. I made her lose more than five months with me. I was Yoshida-San’s agency Queen, but every time I stepped on the stage, I was petrified. I didn’t even deserve the trust she put on me. Naoko-Chan was trying to cheer me up, to what I’m deeply grateful.”

  While Aratani ate, his face turned serious just like Naoko’s. The producer questioned:

  “What about you application test? If you’re so afraid to step on the limelight, how were you accepted, Megumi-San?”

  Covering her temples with her palms in an expression of dismay, Megumi revealed:

  “That’s what fazes me the most: I have no idea! All I remember are glimpses of that day: I got there during fall and, after that, I walked away of the building! I’ve no recollections of my test.”

  Resting his hashi – his chopsticks – on a small hashi support, Aratani exchanged puzzled looks with Naoko, and she recalled:

  “Megumi-San also said she only attempted the test because she needed the job, and she still needs it. So I asked if she couldn’t try one more time, but somehow also overcoming her fears in the meantime.”

  “That’s very specific of you to suggest Megumi-San needs to overcome her fears “somehow”, Naoko-Chan,” her producer teased the girl, and she, looking blankly with wide eyes, commented, “I noticed it, but In my mind it made more sense than when I listen to it…”

  “Even so,” the man turned to a cool but objective tone, “if Megumi-San performed well enough in her test, even if she doesn’t know how she did that, she must have it in herself to be a potential idol. There must’ve happened something for you to have overcome your fears at that test, and if you get it, maybe you can employ it on future show.”

  “But… there’ll be no future shows, I… was fired,” Megumi repeated, sorrowful. Glancing sideways to Naoko, who appeared directionless, the man pondered and inquired, making it sound like a rhetorical inquiry:

  “Say, Megumi-San: do you really want to be an idol? Or do you just want a job?”

  Naoko was upset for a second by her producer’s question. It sounded a little offensive to her. But to her surprise, Megumi seemed almost to be expecting that, and didn’t look troubled in the slightest by it. It’s as if Aratani could somehow read the girl better than Naoko, and to say the things that were relevant for the situation instead of trying to cheer a person up without solving anything. Megumi, though not happy, humbly replied with a glad tone:

  “Aratani-San is very observant. I just wanted a job, indeed. I needed… I need the money. The idol job just had a few perks.”

  Keenly, Aratani kept on, though his cool and genuine demeanor made it look less pressuring than his words would otherwise suggest:

  “You said you looked for a job about five months ago. That was the end of fall.” While Megumi seemed to acknowledge the man’s words as if he’d stated something far deeper than the obvious, Naoko was left visibly confused and facing her producer puzzled. The man, thus, explained, “Naoko-Chan, Megumi-San helps homeless people. She said many unsheltered indigents die during winter. She looked to become an idol by the end of fall. Ring any bells?”

  Though Megumi wasn’t too interested in explaining her motivations clearly, Naoko was amazed by her producer’s ability to reach logical conclusions as if he composed a jigsaw puzzle from the idol’s fragmented speech. Even more, the results lef
t Naoko touched:

  “Megumi-San wanted the job to raise money to help homeless people?!” Naoko asked, shocked. Megumi, smiling sadly, humbly explicated, “Naoko-Chan and Aratani-San make it sound nobler than it really is. In fact, I didn’t want the money to help homeless people. Maybe a little, but I mostly needed it to pay my university studies. I want to be a nutritionist, and I enrolled this month, so I wanted to start saving money as soon as possible. And it’s not that much, since I already have a scholarship. So… in terms of money, almost any job would do.”

  “But then why… the idol thing?” Naoko inquired, even more confused, “I mean, I believe Megumi-San would be an amazing idol if she wasn’t afraid of stages, but since you are, why would you choose a job you’re petrified about if any other can pay what you need? Is it… because in the long term you can gain much more money than you need being an idol?”

  Seeing Megumi was too modest to be able to answer that, who did so was Aratani, as if he could see the reason right through the girl:

  “Megumi-San not after the idol business for a career for long-term money, she already has other plans for her life. She already said what she wants to be: a nutritionist. When she said any job would do, but the idol one had its perks, she’s talking about the visibility she can get, from what I understand. She said homeless people died on the streets but no one cared to make news about it. If she became famous, she could draw the public attention to that cause. And it’s easier to become famous as an idol, even if you’re not in the Major League, than if you’re a nutritionist, or almost any other thing for that matter.”

  With a glad look Megumi nodded. Naoko, surprised, said:

  “I… am speechless. Megumi-San is… easily one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. But if that’s the case, why did you look for a job on the end of fall? You… thought you’d become famous in a month to draw attention to the homeless people before winter? Probably not, right? Then why?”

  “I… knew I wouldn’t,” Megumi agreed, looking reminiscent, “but I was desperate to find an answer to all my worries that fall. I’d almost graduated from high-school by that time and had no way of paying the university I had enrolled, even with the partial scholarship I was granted, so I needed a job. I also saw the approaching winter, and it always made me uneasy. At that time I was thinking about becoming a journalist. I never wanted it, but that was the only profession I could think that would pay me something and would let me promote the cause I fight for. But I disliked it and the long work-hours would not let me continue my studies. Furthermore, I would be just a mere reporter, and I know many. They’re good people, I know it, but they tell me the companies they work for don’t usually let them write about the homeless beggars. It makes for uninteresting news that no one likes to know about, the companies say. So even if I became a journalist, I’d probably not be able to draw any attention to what I wanted. Not unless I became a renowned journalist, but that can take decades to occur, and I’m not talented for that job, really. It was last fall I desperately talked about it with everyone I knew, and when a friend asked me why I didn’t try to become an idol, I didn’t think twice. I trained for a whole week while looking for an agency with vacancies. I knew it’d take a few years, but that was my best bet. Also, I’m not shy, I’m usually quite outgoing, so I thought I’d be fine. I think I managed to perform well on my tests just because I was so pumped up and desperate at the time. But to get in front of many people, be judged and face the possibility of failing… is too much for me.”

  A long silence followed. The three quietly ate with thoughtful countenances, though Naoko had no idea what the other two pondered about. All she knew was that Megumi’s humble and kind ways grew on her and she sincerely wanted to help that person, though Naoko was as clueless as the very girl she tried to aid.

  It was Aratani who ultimately broke the silence:

  “I apologize for us bringing up such topics and ultimately not being able to help, Megumi-San. From what I take, you only have two options: solving your fear of stages “somehow” like Naoko-Chan said, or looking for another job. If you want help on the second, I can try talking with businessmen I know and see if they need a girl like you for any job position.”

  In the stead of Megumi, Naoko reasoned:

  “But another job wouldn’t help her promote her cause, and to solve a fear, like Produ-San said, is not that simple. Also, she’s already dismissed anyway.”

  Megumi agreed nodding, and Aratani was left with the hard task to shoot them down and bring both girls back to the reality:

  “Sorry if it seems rough, girls, but we’re people just like the ones we try to help. Naoko-Chan and I have just as much of a hard time trying to help Megumi-San as she has helping homeless people. We’re not saints, we can only do so much. It’s not how I wanted it to be too, but you girls need to face reality: we can’t solve all the problems of the world. Megumi-San, maybe you’re not going to be able to help every single homeless person in Tokyo, but that doesn’t mean your efforts are useless. You’re already doing your best and there are people being helped by you. I know you probably wanted to help many more, but think it this way: would it do any good for an ant to suffer because she’s not able to carry a whole tree all at once to the anthill? You can, and must, expect only the best of yourself, but you can’t blame yourself for not being able to do what’s beyond your human capabilities. And Naoko-Chan? I know you only wish the best for Megumi-San and I know you’re trying to help, but insisting on the idol subject can bring her even more suffering without accomplishing anything. Megumi-San needs to pay her bills somehow, there’s no use insisting on a job she’s having trouble performing and that ultimately is not bringing her any satisfaction. The homeless people surely have massive problems, but they’re not the only ones in the world to have problems: Megumi-San has her own share, too. She needs money, and another job can do that for her. After she is sure to pay her university she can think about what to do next. Trying to solve everything at once will accomplish nothing.”

  The two girls stared their food for long, their faces an enigmatic mix of feelings. Sighing, the man added:

  “Just so you girls don’t accuse me of trying to persuade Megumi-San to quit the idol business once and for all, let me just clarify one misconception here: even if her producer told her today she was fired, it’s not that simple. I.S.S.G. imposes a legal period of seven days for an idol to be removed from the system. They check for debts, try to understand the reasons to improve what they can and, in case of high-class idols, try to persuade her and her agency to find alternate solutions. They also give a week so people can reconsider. You two are girls, you know how young women can be impulsive and do stupid things at times, like asking to quit. All in all, they require one week. It’s not as simple as saying “you’re fired”. So even if her producer won’t accept her anymore on her agency, until next Saturday Megumi is still an idol. If she somehow manages to overcome her fears until then, she can make herself a registration on an audition, pay the fee of ten thousand Yen and qualify. It’s going to be a hassle, but it’d prove that Megumi-San can really achieve the success her producer once envisioned on her.”

  Resting his hashi on the chopstick holder, only then Aratani faced back the two surprised girls. They clearly didn’t know about those legal facts and looked staggered. Snapping out of it, Naoko quickly asked:

  “Can we help Megumi-San, Produ-San?! Like… if she’s able to control her fright of stages, can we… or, rather, you… help her with the registration and… stuff?”

  Looking very serious for a moment, Aratani loosened up and, with a faint smile, replied while leaning back on his chair:

  “I knew I’d hear it. Naoko-Chan, you understand that Harumi-Chan, Sakura-Chan and Megumi-San are actually your rivals, no matter how nice they are or how much they deserve to be helped, right?” Shaking his head, he proceeded, “Well, I suppose the business needs more kind girls like you and Megumi-San than cold and insensitive people like
the majority of the idols we have on the lower classes nowadays. Fine, though that’s not something we can decide for her. Megumi-San, tell me: what do you really want to do?”

  The tall girl silently contemplated Aratani and Naoko’s faces for quite some time. Megumi’s expression was surprised, though it’s also frozen. Only her eyes moved around, and only slightly. It took the girl long seconds to respond:

  “I… don’t want to betray the expectations of anyone ever again… and I need the money… But there are other places where I can get it…but I also want to help those people…”

  “Megumi-San, you’re giving us reasons to insist on this kind of work or not,” Aratani pointed out, getting very direct and sharp for a while, “Surely you have your motivations and there are many other possible jobs for you. That’s not what I asked. I’ll rephrase my question. What I want to know is: even knowing you’ll still need to overcome your petrifying fear of stages and that you’ll need to present yourself numerous times on your career for increasingly big audiences, and that even this is not a guarantee of success, do you seriously want one final chance to be an idol and would you like to be it, for whatever reasons you have? Yes or no?”

  The girl, with her black eyes wide-open, hesitated. Naoko found Aratani’s question to be extremely upfront and intimidating, but she couldn’t say that at the time without possibly causing many problems to the conversation. In a sense, she got it was almost a test of willpower, not unlike the blank stares the judges gave to the girls while they tried to sing, dance and appeal to them. If a girl managed to keep her determination under such harsh conditions, the judges would know she was ready for a real, bigger but generally more welcoming audience. If not, the girl could have problems during a real show, which would be even worse. It was borderline cruelty, but in a twisted sense, it protected not only I.S.S.G., but also the idols and their agencies from a potential public fiasco.

  For almost two minutes Megumi was meditative. Sometimes hints of fear could be seen on her face, while at others, hope surfaced. She looked worried at all times, twice getting close to crying. Her eyes were the only windows that led to beyond her statuesque, motionless exterior. They didn’t move because they looked at Aratani and Naoko alternately. In fact, they looked at nothing. Her eyes moved as if shaken by the hurricanes of thoughts that could almost be seen through her dilated pupils. Eventually, the still insecure girl came back from the tempestuous and terrifying lands she appeared to have walked on, her expression reticent but her eyebrows folded in however much determination she was able to gather inside her.

  “Yes!” she announced suddenly, almost as if spitting out the word before she had the time to reconsider. Though not appearing too confident, Aratani nodded.

  “Remember the “yes” you just said, Megumi-San, when you get on the stage the next time. Here’s the deal: if Megumi-San is really serious about her career as an idol, even if her reason is to become famous in order to help promote a just cause, there is still a small hope. But you, Megumi-San, have seven days. If you miraculously manage to overcome your fears by next Saturday by nine a.m., look for me.”

  The man, handing Megumi his black business card, instructed her:

  “You’ll have to prove me you conquered your fears, but if you do, I’ll do the registration with you. The registration process for a gig is not difficult, but I’ll need you to bring me a detailed plan of your choreography. In general dancing instructors have this set up, so if you have a teacher, ask him or her. If not, take it on your agency or write it yourself. Include your personal documents, a copy of your contract with your agency and the name of the song you’ll be singing. Depending on your contract with your agency, a written permission of your current producer allowing you to participate in an audition might be necessary too, though if it’s the standard fare, we can circumvent it through a loophole that lets idols not be limited by their producer’s decisions if they deem it improper. If you want I’ll pay your entry fee of ten thousand Yen, as long as you accept that I also want to be repaid by my services and the risk involved in it, the quantity of… say, fifty thousand Yen if you qualify. If you don’t, you won’t owe me anything, though. Not even the entry fee. So it’s only fair I get a share of your profit. Oh, and one more condition: I won’t register you in the same audition Naoko-Chan will participate, if she competes on that day. And she will, since next Saturday is during the Golden Week. Do you accept these conditions, Megumi-San?”

  The girl, standing up, promptly agreed in a respectful voice while bowing:

  “Yes. I’m very grateful for your support, Aratani-San! I’m also very grateful for your kindness, Naoko-Chan! I’ll do my best to try and overcome my fear somehow by Saturday and not let you two down!”

  Regardless of Megumi’s words and best intentions, Naoko had no idea how it would be possible to overcome such a dread in a mere week. As the three talked, Megumi came up with a vague plan involving trying to figure out how was she able to perform her tests. Aratani believed that could work for a few auditions too, but that unless the girl found pleasure in being on a stage, she wouldn’t get far. To sacrifice herself for a dream was one thing, but to do anything against one’s will was a surefire way to make one’s life miserable. Naoko agreed on that, trusting the girl would have much better chances at succeeding if she got a plan to do what made her happy, though Megumi told the two she found very hard to enjoy singing for judges and an uninterested audience like that of the auditions.

  They discussed briefly about how the people at the auditions weren’t her real spectators and Aratani asked her a few what-if questions to evaluate what exactly scared the girl. The scenarios he created removed or altered single elements of the shows and auditions. He inquired her how would she few if there were no judges, then if the judges appeared to like her, then if there was no other people in the auditorium, then if there were hundreds of fans there rooting for her and so on. One of the many scenarios the producer created included a crowd of homeless people, but contrary to his expectations, Megumi’s imagination showed her that wouldn’t make her feel any better than if she sang for a bunch of rich people. However, she did get slightly excited by imagining that after a show she could get a few seconds to talk to those rich people about the situation of the ones who lived on the streets.

  It gave Aratani an idea:

  “Megumi-San, you said you considered the possibility of becoming a journalist just to publicize the drama of the homeless people, but was afraid to find no space to do it and to have no talent for the job, right? What if there were actually songs about homeless people? About their sufferings, their situation, songs through which you could say all the things you want?”

  “Songs?” Megumi repeated, “But would people want to hear an idol sing about this?”

  “It doesn’t matter for the time being, just tell us how would you feel about it,” Aratani request. Megumi closed her eyes and quieted down for some time. Opening them with a surprised face, she confirmed, “That could work, I think! Even if I sang it on an audition and failed to qualify, at least someone would’ve heard what I had to say!” Even though looking content, the girl reiterated, “Though I don’t know if there is any song like that and I still think not many people would enjoy hearing about it. Can you imagine a song saying “They get hungry and have no money to buy food! They get lonely and find it hard to trust others! They get sad and have no shoulder to cry on!” That’s not a very nice song…”

  Searching for something on his cellphone, Aratani took some time to respond, wittily:

  “I agree, but that’s because you suck at creating song, little bird. That’s the reason why you’re an idol, not necessarily a composer. Also, I can’t see the difference between people hearing this song or enjoying a happy one and then suddenly the idol asking, “Hey! Did you all like my happy song?! Are you all happy?! Well, too bad, because for the next minute I’m going to talk about how horrible a life in the streets are and how you or a person you love can become an in
digent someday too!” Now that will make your fans like you more, won’t it?! Short answer: no.”

  Letting Megumi laugh for a moment, the man finally found what he was looking for on his black cellphone. Resting it on the table and raising his eyes to the tall idol, still way shorter than him, he affirmed:

  “If you say people won’t like to hear you singing about it, you’re censoring yourself even before trying. It’s like the newspapers not accepting certain news about homeless people because someone there thinks the public won’t enjoy it and it won’t be relevant. Like you said, it’d be worthwhile to sing about it even if you failed on an audition, because you’d have delivered your message. And with such a mindset maybe Megumi-San won’t be as afraid to perform and can focus on enjoying herself. You just need to find a good song. Don’t worry about it being sad, there is demand for sad songs too, even when sung by idols, as long as they are good. I’m not a composer, but I can imagine a creative mind could come up with a nice song about it.”

  Taking his cellphone back on his hand, Aratani continued talking:

  “Since it costs millions to create and copyright a song, at first you’ll have to make do with what already exists, but don’t lose heart: if Megumi-San perseveres, she will someday have her own songs. Until then, let me show you an example of a well-made sad song. It has nothing to do with homeless people but nevertheless talks about a long, arduous journey. It’ll hopefully show you it is possible to create songs like the ones you’re talking about.”

  Thinking for a second, Naoko inquired before her producer played the composition:

  “And heck, why do all songs needs to be sad in the first place? If we’re talking about the hardships of homeless people, why not focus on their will to fight against the odds instead of lamenting their suffering? Like an energetic song about overcoming adversities! I think people at gyms would like it! Also, this way you can also show people not all hope is lost!”

  The two were startled by Naoko’s quick thinking, and visibly approved the idea. Just to make his point through, though, Aratani played the song he’d chosen. It was melodic, slow and the male voice that sang in English was accompanied only by faint instruments on the background. It was apparently the story of a person on a journey of thousands of miles for love, facing perils through many nights and days. In first person, the lyric was very touching and led the listener through a grand and somewhat solitary adventure in just a few minutes. There were no big crescendos or heavy beats, but behind the calm voice of the arguably excellent singer there was an extremely well-crafted song, simple on the surface but quite deep in its meaning.

  When it was over, Naoko immediately congratulated Aratani for having that song saved on his cellphone, stating she didn’t know he liked anime. Seeing he looked puzzled, the girl lost the glitter on her eyes, saying it’d be too good to be true, and explained that was the opening song of an old anime. Her producer looked vexed when he discovered that, but quickly forgot it and turned his attention back to Megumi.

  She looked ecstatic as if she’d discovered a new world of possibilities. Even the reality check made by Aratani, reminding her she’d have to find a song of her liking, write her choreography for it and practice it, presumably without the help of a dancing instructor since her producer would not spend any more money on her, wasn’t enough to break her resolution. Pumped by the idea of truly saying something meaningful on her audition, coupled with Naoko’s suggestion of finding upbeat songs that made sense for promoting her just cause and hanging on a thin thread of hope, Megumi was thrilled.

  As they exchanged contacts and she went her separate way, copiously thanking the two, Megumi had regained the brightness on her eyes. Sighing, Aratani scratched his eyes and, looking tired, murmured:

  “I hope she succeeds. She’s a kind girl if I’ve ever seen one. But dear goodness, Naoko-Chan! You’re just as hopeless as her! While Megumi-San tries to help every homeless person in the universe, you do the same with idols in need?! If you keep like this I’ll soon have no time to actually produce my own idol!”

  Staring at him with glad eyes, the girl smiled radiantly:

  “Aw, Produ-San, you say that, but I know deep down you agree it’s much better to have people like her around than, say, Ruby! I can sense you’re actually happy to be able to help Megumi-San!”

  The man was unable to hold back a little smile while they walked around the stores, prompting Naoko to tease him:

  “A-ha! I knew it! You talk about her and me, but you’re just as hopeless! You can’t deny help from a person you know that deserves it!”

  Not really looking too happy about it, but keeping it cool, the man unenthusiastically replied “I guess”, to what Naoko excitedly agreed:

  “I guess so too! And Produ-San, you were so amazing back there! I had no idea what to say, but you did so like it’s second nature! You called her a bird, gave her a nickname, did the most nonsense talk I’ve heard since last time I opened my mouth and made a depressed girl laugh! How?! I could see Megumi-San already likes you a lot, Produ-San! During a second back there I was almost getting a little jealous of you two!” Suddenly looking angry, the girl ordered, “Don’t you ever trade me for her or anyone else, you hear me?!” Getting back to her cheerful complexion, she kept talking as if she hasn’t flipped her personality twice in less than five seconds, leaving her producer baffled, “Produ-San is quite the ladies’ man, isn’t it? You didn’t even bat an eye to talk with her, and Megumi-San is quite attractive, isn’t she? You even charged her fifty thousand Yen if she got qualified, you slimy fox! Is that how you treat the ladies?! Oh! How did you managed to maintain that crazy story that she was a bird for so long?!”

  Completely disoriented, her producer tried to answer whatever he could remember of Naoko’s convoluted sentences while resuming his walk through the shopping mall:

  “I… was always at least passable at conversations to begin with and was taught to argument like every lawyer is or should be. I… was also going to say Megumi-San is pretty, yes, though not as gorgeous as Naoko-Chan, but since you just became enraged for a moment in a sudden mood swing a while back I think it’s best if I don’t tell you that since it usually doesn’t end well. Especially because Naoko-Chan got jealous of me trying to cheer up a girl that Naoko-Chan herself asked me to talk to in the first place, and got afraid I’d trade her for another idol when I was clearly against even helping Megumi-San to begin with. Ah… about the fifty thousand Yen, it’ll cover expenses and little else, but it’s important to do that so Megumi-San feels she can repay us. It’s just like if a homeless person is helped by her and doesn’t even thank her. Megumi-San would probably feel bad otherwise, maybe even falling back on the dangerous assumption that she’s useless and unable to help people who are important to her, thus risking her to lose the will to sing. And… Oh, right. You don’t cheer a sad person by reminding her of her problems, you either give her a solution or change subjects altogether to something happier and trust her capability of solving her own conflicts by herself when she’s alone. Let me see… if I left some question you did unanswered I’m sorry. I just can’t keep up with you. Whew. You’re one tough girl, you know that? Can we finally get to buy the clothes and accessories we came here to purchase before we get late for the ad’s photo session and your show, Naoko-Chan?”

  That was the kind of reassuring answer she liked to hear! Flashing a bright smile in response, Naoko nodded and tagged along, only then completely at peace.