Love You, Dad—Gimme That Allowance (2)
“Get home safe. No detours.”
“...Yeah, see you next week.”
After lunch, we waited at the station for the next train and then parted ways.
“Oh, today... was fun.”
“What part? Falling asleep on my chest?”
“N-no, not that...”
“Heh heh. Just kidding, kidding. Hurry up and go. I hear a car coming.”
“Oh, for real.”
“Don't waste money on stuff like subway vending machines. Even if you buy me Zero Lime Cola, I still won't tell you when my birthday is.”
“I-I know that much.”
Do Ha-min tapped his student ID at the gate, face flushed, and headed down the stairs. This time, unlike before, he didn't come rushing back up with a cola in hand.
I stood in front of the gate he'd left through until the sound of the train completely faded away.
“It's not even 3 p.m. yet.”
Too early to call the day over, but too late to make new plans. My Saturday date with Do Ha-min wrapped up a bit ahead of schedule. The movie was great, lunch was delicious.
“...Should've suggested karaoke after all.”
These past few days, since possessing Half Half Island's Ban Do-young, I'd figured something out. My memories, mind, and values were the same as the old me from the real world, but the talents tied to this body basically followed Half Half Island's Ban Do-young.
The agile movements and athleticism from her superior physique, the neat and cute handwriting from her slender jade-like fingers, and the vocal talent from her solid throat. None of it was anything I'd had in the original world.
Whether running laps on the athletic field, jotting notes, or humming to myself—even then, I could feel my body moving perfectly without any extra effort.
Talents granted to the character Ban Do-young in the story—or, in other words, her settings.
“If I'd belted out the Magical Girl Marina★Harina opening with this voice, that punk Do Ha-min would've pissed himself right there on the spot.”
Regrettable, but unavoidable. Even at the cheapest coin karaoke, it's 500 won a song. With Ban Do-young's bank account at a measly 474 won, I had no right to touch a mic.
“How am I gonna survive till next allowance day? Hmm...”
A high schooler's wallet is thinner and barer than some broke office worker's. Unlike adults who can tough it out till payday when they're hungry, this growing 17-year-old body of Ban Do-young was utterly defenseless against hunger. Even if my mind stuck to the original Ban Do-young's habits, the flesh was still that of a 17-year-old whose stomach would cave in the second she turned around.
“Maybe I should get a part-time job... Yeah, I did a bunch in high school back then. Or, per the settings, raid my big bro's room while he's in the army...?”
Mulling over funding for future activities, I headed home. The first Saturday routine as Half Half Island's Ban Do-young came to an end.
“I'm home.”
“Back already?”
Dad came out to the entryway, looking pleased at his daughter's early return.
“Home sooner than I thought. Movie any good?”
“Masterpiece. Oh, and that new tonkatsu place was delicious too. We should go together some—”
The moment our eyes met at the entryway, I couldn't finish my sentence. Pink apron, bright red rubber gloves, orange broom and mop. Gear that didn't suit the word “Dad” at all, strapped all over him.
“What the... is that getup? Playing mommy?”
“Quit talking nonsense. Change and come help. We're cleaning the dojo.”
“Eeeeeek!”
“Quit your yelling, you brat.”
Dad grimaced and plugged his ears against my shrill screech.
“We agreed this morning. You skip morning chores for your friend thing, but you promised to help clean the dojo instead.”
“Tch... You actually remembered that.”
Dad handed me the blue plastic mop he'd been holding.
“Here, Do-young. You take this one.”
“I'm still a virgin, you know.”
“Cut the crap.”
Ban Do-young's Saturday wasn't over yet.
....
Per the settings, Ban Do-young's family runs a kendo dojo. Dad's the dojo master. Big bro's in the army, majoring in sports science in college; the baby sis is abroad studying kendo. Excluding Ban Do-young herself, it's a family pretty deeply rooted in kendo.
Pretty common trope, right? The heroine from a storied swordmaster lineage.
“Looks like passing out flyers at that new apartment complex paid off. Didn't expect this many sign-ups. Even surprised me a bit.”
March, with the new semester starting, is peak season for beginners signing up at academies or dojos to learn something new. They ramp up promotions then to draw in newbies.
'Uncle, you selling this Beyblade set?'
'Oh, you want it? Come to our dojo, and the master'll give it to you for free.'
'Whoa! Gotta tell Mom I'm joining the dojo!'
Thinking back to elementary school, when the taekwondo master promoted with those trendy yo-yos in front of our school and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker—it made total sense why newbies flood in this time of year.
The Ban family had run the dojo in the neighborhood for ages, so they'd stocked up on doboks and practice shinais for the seasonal rush. But this year, sign-ups exceeded expectations, forcing them to dig into warehouse stock.
“Already missing the 'it's not even 3 p.m.' vibes.”
Thanks to that, even I got dragged to the dojo with no escape.
Should've borrowed cash from Do Ha-min and hit karaoke instead.
“Ugh, weekend overtime with overtime pay... What is this, the army?”
“You wouldn't even know, since you're not enlisting.”
“...”
“Why are your fists shaking?”
Oh, come on. Can't even give a serial number.
“Quit sulking and put your mask on right. Who knows how much dust has built up since we last hit the warehouse.”
“Guh... Black ops... So unjust.”
-Fwoosh
The second Dad unlocked and opened the basement warehouse door, gray dust from the ceiling and shelves greeted us like long-lost friends.
“Kuhak! Ka-haak! Kek! So much dust!”
“Worse than I thought. Your mom finds out, she'll blow a fuse.”
I covered my mouth with my hand and peeked inside. Long neglected, the shelves were caked in dust and cobwebs.
“We really cleaning all this? Looks haunted.”
“Ghosts? Just whack 'em with a shinai. What's to fear—”
-Scuttle scuttle scuttle
Then, something dark brown burst from the warehouse threshold, darting between me and Dad. Some call it a “mutant”; others, a “teacher.” But no words felt right to name it.
“...”
“...”
Having opened Pandora's box, Dad and I exchanged glances. The moment we saw the state of that warehouse, instinct told us: even using the whole weekend, we couldn't clean it fully.
“...Just use what's here? Some might sign up and quit right away anyway. Better to order new doboks if we run short...”
“Wise choice, Father.”
I gave a thumbs-up to Dad's customer-first business spirit. Like we'd committed a crime, we stealthily shut the warehouse door we'd flung open with such vigor.
-Bzzz
Just as Dad went to lock it again, his pocket vibrated with an incoming call.
“Ah, phone...”
Dad pulled out his cellphone. The name on the caller ID made his face stiffen.
“W-wait a sec.”
He paused mid-lock, stepped away, and answered.
“Hello... Ah, Do-young's mom.”
That tense title from Dad's lips—Do-young's mom. On the other end was Mom, abroad with the baby sis for her studies. More precisely, Ban Do-young's mom.
“Yeah, me and Do-young are fine. Si-young working hard? Uh, yeah...? N-no no no... I asked about Si-young first 'cause I'm worried how she's settling in abroad, not 'cause I don't care about you... Of course I love you. Yeah yeah. Who else would I be eyeing?”
Like taking a call from the boss, Dad's eloquence tanked; he hunched over in a polite bow for the duration. For a moment, he even reminded me of Do Ha-min.
“...What? N-next week? I-I see... Ah, of course. We'll tidy the dojo spotless and wait.”
-Click
After a while, Dad hung up with a grim face.
“Ban Do-young, grab the mop. Mom's coming next week.”
And there Ban Do-young's weekend ended.