The Lost Souls of Benzaiten

by Kelly Murashige

Genres: Young Adult; YA Fantasy; YA Contemporary

Synopsis

This heartfelt and quirky young adult fantasy debut follows a young outcast on a journey of transformation . . . into a robot vacuum cleaner.

A fresh twist on Japanese mythology that doubles as a deep, honest dive into mental health.

“I wish to become one of those round vacuum cleaner robots.” That’s what Machi prays for at the altar of Japanese goddess Benzaiten. Ever since her two best friends decided they want nothing to do with her, Machi hasn’t been able to speak. After months of online school and a carousel of therapists, she can no longer see the point of being human. She doesn’t expect Benzaiten to hear her prayer, much less offer a different prayer on Machi’s behalf—that Machi  discover the beauty of humanity, ultimately restoring her to her previous self.

Benzaiten is enamored with the human world and, as she’s the goddess of love, humanity is enamored right back. Being second-best once again isn’t helping Machi move past her trauma, and with each adventure they share, Machi is reminded of everything she’s lost. It isn’t until Machi starts interacting with the souls of the dead—which tends to happen around Benzaiten—that she starts to rediscover her place among the living.

From an author to watch, The Lost Souls of Benzaiten is a highly original debut about the nature of happiness and the potential for healing.

Release date: July 23, 2024

Publisher: Soho Teen

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

I IMAGINE A first appointment with a new therapist is never
easy. However, it is about eight million times more di#cult
when you don’t talk.
In my defense, this doctor has been forewarned. My parents
called ahead of time. !ey told the others beforehand too, but
I’m hoping this therapist will be smart enough to know when
he asks me, And what brings you here today? my only response
will be to slowly lift my eyes to his face and stare at him like
I’m trying to suck out his soul.
!at being said (or, well, unsaid), as soon as the door to his
o#ce opens, I shoot to my feet, then start to sit, then change
my mind and hover in an awkward squatting position like I’m
about to lay an egg in his waiting room.
He blinks, his expression unreadable. After a few excruciating
seconds of silence, he says, “You must be Machi.”
I chew my lip. It’s good to know I’m as socially incompetent
as ever.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I’m Dr. Tsui. Would
you like to come in?”
Not really, but I don’t have a choice.
I follow him into his o#ce, casting one last backward look
at the exit like I’m about to be imprisoned for a crime I never
meant to commit. I mean, it’s not illegal to stop talking, is it?
Why can’t I plead the Fifth for the rest of my life?
2 KELLY MURASHIGE
“Welcome to my o#ce,” Dr. Tsui says, closing the door
behind me.
I can practically hear Angel’s sco$.
What a dork, she would say.
I think Sunny would like him. He seems nice. Compassionate.
You need someone who understands you without making you
explain everything that brought you here.
But I can easily explain what brought me here.
!ey did.
!e walls of Dr. Tsui’s o#ce are purple. Not a deep, claustrophobic
mauve but a calming shade of lavender. To the left,
light "lters in through the window blinds. A trio of "gurines
sits on his desk in the corner. Made of porcelain and painted
with muted colors, they look like triplets. !ey wear their hair
in %owery buns, the blossoms light pink and purple. Each
woman holds a musical instrument, her expression placid as
she plays a song no one but her sisters can hear.
I stop in front of the two identical plush chairs placed in the
center of the room, then lift my eyes to Dr. Tsui, waiting for
him to take a seat.
His smile is kind. “Choose whichever one is calling your
name.”
I try not to frown. So he just lets his clients pick whichever
chair they want? He’s constantly switching from one seat to
the next, as if doctor and patient are interchangeable?
I bite the inside of my cheek, my temples throbbing with
the beginnings of an overthinking headache. If I sit in the
chair he usually takes, whichever one that is, he’ll think I’m
trying to undermine him. But if I take the one all his patients
choose, I’ll be just like the other wrecks who come to his o#ce,
weeping over breakups and narcissistic mothers and the universal
yet crushing burden of being alive. And God forbid I
switch seats from session to session. !at would tell him I’m
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 3
the kind of person who bounces between two chairs, two roles,
two identities, never knowing who I really am.
Maybe I just need to sit down.
I perch on the edge of the closest seat, careful not to let my
shoulders brush the back. I don’t like being touched. Not by
people. Not by things. Not ever again.
Taking the other seat and picking up a clipboard from the
table, Dr. Tsui regards me through his thin, rectangular glasses.
I scrutinize his expression. If my seating decision has displeased
him, he doesn’t let it show.
“I’ve heard you are, at the moment, not willing to communicate
verbally.”
I nod, a bobblehead in a tacky gift shop bought on a whim
and forgotten in the car.
“You have a whiteboard, though,” he says. “Is that right?”
Another nod. I carry it everywhere I go. By now, a year
into my silence, it’s a part of me. Every time I step outside,
it’s tucked away in my bag, bumping against my side like the
world’s most pathetic metronome.
“I also asked if you could "ll out the intake form,” he continues.
“Did you happen to bring that today?”
I nod again. At this rate, I’m going to give myself a neck
ache.
I guess I should be used to it by now. When I "rst went
silent, I didn’t even have a whiteboard. I just nodded and
shook my head. But the only people who ever interacted with
me, aside from my long string of therapists, were my parents.
Eventually, they stopped asking questions.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out the thin, cerulean folder I
bought before my freshman year. I thought I was going to "ll
it with my chemistry notes and study guides and graded essays
with the words GREAT JOB written at the top. But I’m not in
school anymore.
4 KELLY MURASHIGE
“!at’s a nice folder,” he says. “Very blue.”
I don’t say anything. I mean, yeah, no kidding, but even if I
hadn’t stopped talking, I still wouldn’t have responded. What
could I have said? !anks, I bought it myself?
I give him a tight-lipped smile and hand him the intake form.
“!ank you,” he says. “Would it be okay if I read this now?”
I nod, and his eyes fall to the papers.
INTAKE FORM: Dr. Tsui
Patient Name: Machi
Date of First Appointment: June 3
Narrative (What brings you to my o#ce?):
Hi. My name is Machi. I’m seventeen years old. I have
listed my address and phone number on the bottom
of the sheet, as requested. I found you through online
searches. Or my parents did. Sheryl, my previous therapist,
gave me some referrals, but every time I tried
to look up the names, I started to spiral. I don’t take
change well. Every time something has changed, it’s
been for the worse.
!at’s probably not a good thing to say—write—to
a new doctor. It doesn’t sound very hopeful, does it?
But then again, if I were hopeful, I wouldn’t be here.
I’m a student, but I don’t go to a regular high school
anymore. I do my classes online. It’s frustrating when
the online programs tell me I’m wrong for putting (f(a
+ h) – f(a))/h instead of [f (a + h) – f (a)]/h, but that’s a
price I’m willing to pay.
You asked me to state, in my own words, what
brought me here. When I used to write to Sheryl, she
said she felt like I was holding back.
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 5
I mean, she didn’t say it like that; she said something
like You know I’m always here for you, Machi, no
matter what you tell me, which was so sweet and comforting,
it made me want to blurt out all my secrets,
from the little things, like the time I spit out a piece
of stew meat in a napkin and threw it away because
my mother went through a Cooking Mama phase and
burned everything she touched, to the one big thing:
what really happened to make me stop talking.
I didn’t get to tell her, though. Not everything. She
left before I could.
So instead of giving you the diplomatic answer as
to why I’m here, which is that I’m dedicated to bettering
myself and becoming a functioning being in
society, I’m going to be honest: I’m here because I
have to be.
I go to doctors because it’s what my parents want.
I’ve always caused them so much stress. Losing the
will to speak didn’t help. And going to doctors also
means paying for doctors, which puts more stress on
them. According to them, the money is less important
than my mental health, but that only makes it
worse.
Sheryl said it’s best not to think about it that way.
What we put out into the world, whether it’s voiced or
written or simply thought, has power.
Her words, not mine.
!at was the one thing I didn’t like about her:
her optimism. Visible in everything from the crossstiches—
&'() *+,-)., and .-/, 01' (234,5
)15-06—hanging on her walls to the bouquet of cake
pops set in a mug on the table between us. Her cheeriness
was downright grating in our early sessions, but I
6 KELLY MURASHIGE
grew to tolerate it. I never did take a cake pop, though.
!at would have felt like a step too far. Like I was just
taking and taking and taking.
Now she’s gone, and there’s nothing left for me to
take.Anyway, going back to your prompts: Yes, I have
been to doctors before. !ere was Sheryl, obviously,
but I saw some others before. !ey didn’t help.
!e second doctor I saw, for example, displayed all
his diplomas in his waiting room, a nonverbal way of
saying I AM VERY IMPORTANT. Clearly. !e man
had gone to Harvard. But all he did was observe me
with startlingly light eyes. When he "nally spoke, he
said, Tell me about all the things that made you hurt so
much, you stopped talking.
I didn’t know how to answer. How could I? Every
time I tried to write, he would shake his head like I was
disappointing him, and I would sink just a little lower,
shame burning at the corners of my eyes. So instead
of responding, I used our session time to examine his
room. Everything was beige, from the chairs to the
walls to the desk and the little inbox perfectly aligned
with the left corner. An emergency kit hung on a hook
above his head. It was the old-fashioned type, a white
metal box with a red plus sign. I imagined if it ever fell
from the hook, it would conk him on the head, which,
granted, would be quite the emergency. We lasted two
sessions, which is, coincidentally, how many weeks’
worth of food and water you should store in case of a
real emergency.
All the therapists I’ve seen tried to get me to recall
the worst parts of my life. But the problem isn’t that
I’ve forgotten; it’s that I remember.
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 7
I’m an only child. My parents have no history of
mental health diagnoses. !ey’re still married. Happily,
I hope. !ey’re also, as you know, not here because
they’re back in my mother’s home state, where they
lived before they had me. My maternal grandparents
recently passed away, so my parents are getting things
settled.
I don’t have friends.
I don’t have any problems with crime, drugs, or alcohol.
I somehow doubt people admit they do, especially
to doctors like you. For whatever it’s worth, though,
I’m being honest here.
!e rest of your questions are optional, so I hope it’s
okay if I don’t answer them. I think this was enough
for you to read. Am I sitting silently while you’re skimming
through these notes? Probably. What else would
I be doing?
As my appointment with Dr. Tsui nears its end, the clock
ticking toward the hour, Dr. Tsui says, “I’ve enjoyed getting to
learn more about you.”
Doubtful.
“I know it’s our "rst meeting,” he says, “and I understand
this has been di#cult for you.”
I stare at the wall. He already knows how I feel about
Sheryl’s abrupt departure. How I felt like I was so, so close
to telling her everything that had happened with Angel and
Sunny. How I even occasionally let myself think about the
good times, if only because Sheryl was so focused on the positive,
it made me want to be more like her.
How her leaving made me feel like every bad thing was
happening all over again.
8 KELLY MURASHIGE
“Coming here today was a major step forward,” Dr. Tsui
says. “Would you be okay if I issued you a challenge?”
What are you, "ve? I can almost hear Angel saying.
“Well, it isn’t just a challenge,” he says. “It’s also a gift.”
Great. I just met him, and I’m already taking from him, just
as I did with Sheryl.
Reaching into a shoulder bag slumped against the table—I
bet he set it there so I couldn’t discern which seat is actually
his—he pulls out a notebook. I try not to look too interested
as he holds it out.
“!is is for you,” he says. “You aren’t obligated to write in it,
but if you ever want to share some of your thoughts with me,
on your own time, without having to scribble on your whiteboard,
you can use this.”
I take the journal, feeling its weight in my hands. A yinyang
symbol the size of my palm adorns the front cover.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Of course.
“Before our next session,” Dr. Tsui says, “would you be willing
to go on a little adventure? Visit someplace you’ve never
been before? I would recommend someplace relaxing. A place
where you could spend some time around people, even if you
don’t speak to them.”
I pick at my nails. I’m not exactly the adventurous type. !e
most daring thing I’ve done recently is eat yogurt with yesterday’s
date printed beneath the *,() *0 sticker.
“I prepared a list of places you could explore. You can
"nd that on the front page of the notebook. Forgive my
handwriting.”
See? imaginary-Angel says. A dork.
I don’t know, imaginary-Sunny says. I think he’s just being nice.
Okay, great. I’ve started hearing my former friends’ voices in
my head. But I’m sure a little trip to—I open to the notebook
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 9
and glance at the "rst line—a small, hole-in-the-wall co#ee shop
will "x me right up. Because a good espresso will make me all
better. Espresso to heal the depresso, as they say.
“Would that be okay?” Dr. Tsui asks. “Again, you don’t have
to write in the journal, but would you be willing to visit one of
those places?”
I bite down. My teeth clink like ice cubes in a glass. I don’t
want to go anywhere. But I promised my parents I would try
to get better. Compared to what my mother’s going through
now, stopping by one animal shelter or co$ee shop is nothing.
I don’t want to go anywhere, though. Not as myself.
I imagine waking up as someone di$erent. Waltzing into a
bookstore, leaning on the display, and asking the workers for
all their recommendations, a grin on my face and a sparkle in
my eye. Maybe if it were that easy, things would be di$erent.
Maybe I would be happy.
I let out a breath, still staring at the page, painfully aware of
the silence. I wonder what Dr. Tsui is looking at. Me, I guess,
but he’s bound to get bored after a second or two. I’m not particularly
interesting. Not the kind of girl people write songs
and poems about, or the one people take photos of on the
street because there’s just something so intriguing about her.
Angel was that kind of girl. Sunny too. While Angel was
visually striking, her con"dence palpable and impossible to
ignore, Sunny had a beautiful quietness to her. A captivating
sort of poise. I would "nd myself looking at them sometimes,
thinking I was lucky to have them.
Until I wasn’t.
I look up at Dr. Tsui. Balancing the notebook on my knee,
I nod.
HOME, I TEXT my parents as I unlock the front door. !e
o$-white paint slapped across the doorframe has begun to
10 KELLY MURASHIGE
crack, peeling o$ like drooping petals from a pistil. My father
keeps saying he’ll deal with it soon, but considering he’s in a
completely di$erent state for his in-laws’ dual funeral and his
daughter is at home eating expired yogurt and having her "rst
appointment with her seventh therapist, I think the door is
pretty low on his list of priorities.
I’ve just stepped into the apartment when my mother
sends back a thumbs-up. She’s usually much more verbose,
the type to send huge, blocky messages that take up my entire
phone screen, but I know she’s busy—and possibly still upset
with me.
In a lengthy email I wrote and deleted at two in the morning
the day before my parents left, I tried to explain I had
decided to stay home not because I don’t love them, or because
I want to spite my grandparents, or even because death and
packing are two of my greatest fears.
I just couldn’t stop thinking about how my "rst time visiting
my grandparents’ town would be for the funeral, because
my grandparents had died and I hadn’t even been there, and
even once I arrived, I wouldn’t be able to talk. If we ran into
one of my grandparents’ friends, what would I say?
Well, nothing. I would say nothing.
How would I act? Would I have to hold up my whiteboard?
Would my parents do the explaining for me, their heads
bowed like they were taking on the weight of my sins? At
the funeral, people would whisper about me. !ere was always
something “o# ” about her. !ose poor parents. !eir family is such
a trainwreck.
!en there’s the racism.
My phone buzzes. My father has sent a heart, likely to o$-
set the curtness of my mother’s thumbs-up.
When I "rst went quiet last year, my parents would cry
and hold me too close, saying, We love you, Machi. Please tell us
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 11
what’s wrong. It made me sick to see them upset, so I closed
my door and tuned them out, my head full of so much noise.
If they knew why I stopped talking, I don’t think they would
love me anymore.
I perch on my bed, open the notebook from Dr. Tsui, and
spend about ten minutes trying to convince myself to visit
one of the places he suggested. But I just can’t stop thinking.
Of my grandparents and my parents and that toxic town
where my mother grew up, a cesspool of crooked convictions
and backward beliefs. Of the funeral I will not be attending
because I am a bad daughter. Of Sunny. Of Angel. Of what
we once were and what we could still be. Of how meaningless
everything is because we aren’t.
I don’t know where to go. Just looking at Dr. Tsui’s list makes
me sick. I mean, really? A fabric store? What am I going to do?
Bundle myself in layers of cotton and polyester to sweat out
all my sorrows? Or I could go to the animal shelter, watch a
bunch of sad animals wait and wait to get chosen, only to "nd
them there again the next week, and the week after that, and
the week after that because some of us just aren’t wanted.
I’ve never had a pet. My parents said our apartment was
messy enough without an animal shedding all over the place.
One of the neighbors has a cat, though, and I swear I hear her
robot vacuum cleaner beeping, humming, and singing at least
four times a day. A few months ago, I fell asleep in the living
room with my head set against the wall separating our unit
from hers. My dream-self stumbled through my old school,
cramming for an exam I hadn’t studied for, and the robot warbled
beside me, letting out an apologetic chirp every time it
got underfoot.
As afternoon bleeds into evening, then into night, I abandon
all hope of "nishing my homework. !e assignment from
Dr. Tsui and my various essays and responses for my online
12 KELLY MURASHIGE
classes will just have to wait until tomorrow, when I’m not
tumbling down a Yelp rabbit hole.
Yelp. How pathetic. Of all the sites I could have gotten
addicted to, I had to choose the one where people can leave
scathing reviews of all the things they hate. It’s a good thing I
don’t have a Yelp page.
But if I had one, no one would care enough to say anything
about me, good or bad.
Silence hurts. Indi$erence hurts. It all hurts. And running
around town, hopping from cafés and bookstores to animal
shelters and cultural centers and checking o$ each item on Dr.
Tsui’s list isn’t going to change that. Nothing will change that.
Nothing will change ever.
I tighten my grip on Dr. Tsui’s list and rip the page from the
notebook. I could tear it in half right now. Tear it once, then
again, then again until nothing is left.
Vvvrrrrr. Zziiip.
My eyes %ick to the wall. On the other side, the neighbor’s
robot vacuum cleaner comes back to life, summoned to serve
its one and only purpose.
Breathing out, I set the list on the old, tattered loveseat,
grab my canvas bag and whiteboard, and head out with three
words echoing in my mind: One. Last. Try.
CHAPTER TWO
THIS ISN’T THE "rst time I’ve turned to divine intervention.
Since my life fell apart, I’ve made the trek to two churches and
two Buddhist temples.
I’ve yet to say a single prayer.
!ere was nothing wrong with those places of worship.
Each was beautiful, painted white or red or a rich brown.
!e colors of home. But every time I stepped o$ the bus, my
knees shaking, I would only see the people. All the people. At
the churches, they were standing with their hands raised and
their voices lifting like doves to the skies. !e temples were
less crowded, but that only made things worse. Everyone there
knew what they were doing. I just stood on the sidewalk, a
pale, "ve-foot-three aberration.
At the second temple, which I visited after my "rst and last
session with the third therapist my parents forced me to talk
to, I spotted a little boy with his parents, their heads bowed.
Twenty feet separated us, but I could see his hands balling into
tiny "sts as he squished his eyes closed to boost the strength
of his prayer. I imagined he was praying for his sick grandmother,
his precious Nana, who went to every single one of
his soccer games—until the day she started coughing. She was
his "rst loved one to fall seriously ill. !ere he was, battling all
these new, turbulent emotions, and there I was, some interloper
wearing a backpack with a small bell key chain hanging from
14 KELLY MURASHIGE
the zipper. If I got any closer, the bell would ring, and from
that day forward, he would hate the sound of jingling because
it would remind him of the time that strange girl invaded a
sacred space in his time of need. If his grandmother were to
pass away, Christmas would become a total nightmare for him,
and upon moving into a new home as an adult, he would rip
the doorbell out of the front door with his bare hands just to
avoid the sound. His partner would ask, What’s gotten into you?
and he wouldn’t know how to explain his hatred of bells and
how it all started because of me, that weird, quiet girl who
could never "gure out what to do with her hands.
But I’m sure the "fth time’s the charm.
I look up at the shrine I’ve chosen. It isn’t in such disrepair
that it attracts urban legends and those who chase them, but
it’s not pretty enough to catch people’s eyes and leave them
breathless. !e torii is at least "fty feet tall, but it’s faded, the
usual bright red-orange peeling to reveal a pale salmon undercoat.
!e gate hasn’t been maintained for what looks like years.
Good.
I mean, not good. I’m not glad a place of worship has fallen
to ruin.
My grandparents used to love visiting shrines when they
stayed with us. !at was the sole thing they admitted they didn’t
like about their own town: it didn’t have any shrines or temples.
Why would it when my grandparents were essentially the
only Japanese family around?
!ey never visited this particular shrine, though. I don’t
think anyone has. It isn’t listed on most shrine directories. It
doesn’t have a marker in Google Maps. It doesn’t even have
its own Yelp page. !at’s the whole reason I tumbled down
the Yelp rabbit hole in the "rst place: I was looking for a place
of worship no one would ever think to visit. Which means I
might just be able to make this prayer alone.
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 15
On tiptoes, I peer around the edge of the gate. It’s eight at
night and deathly quiet. !ere are no families. No children. No
individuals with hands clasped and heads lowered.
After placing my boots just o$ the stone path, I bow and
enter. I picture myself sinking into the center of the Earth
with every step, but the pavement holds me, unforgiving
beneath my socks. !ey’re my favorite pair, a cartoon penguin
face printed on each heel. My parents got them for me
for Christmas a few years ago. I never wore them around
Angel. I was afraid she would hate them. Or worse, she
would love them, and I would wear them down to bare
threads.
I stop at the large wooden box beside the altar and bow. My
heart knocks against my chest, a prisoner dragging a chipped
mug along the bars of my ribs.
My parents and I are almost entirely unfamiliar with Shinto
beliefs, so I had to look up how to pray at a shrine, sitting in
my darkened room with one leg hanging o$ the edge of my
bed, my laptop balanced on one knee.
It feels like a small betrayal, doing all this research only
after my grandparents’ deaths. If I had really cared about the
racism they faced, I would have embraced my culture while
they were still alive to appreciate it. I wish they could have
lived with us instead of spending so much time trying to convince
us to move back. Maybe then, I wouldn’t have to rely on
internet strangers to educate me.
Maybe then, they wouldn’t have died alone.
I press the pad of my thumb into my coin. According to
tradition, I’m supposed to o$er a "ve-yen coin. A nickel’s the
closest thing I’ve got. It isn’t even a good nickel, corrosion leaving
the edges white and light-green. !is was all I could "nd,
though, and I don’t know if anyone’s listening anyway.
!e shrine’s hanging bell has begun to deteriorate, rust
16 KELLY MURASHIGE
running along the insides. But when I ring it, the chimes are
sweet and clear: clang, clang, clang.
I bow my head to make my prayer: I wish—
!ere are a lot of ends to that sentence: I wish I had just
sucked it up and gone to the funeral with my parents because
at least then one aspect of my life wouldn’t be a trash "re; I
wish I hadn’t ruined things with Angel and Sunny; I wish . . .
My eyelids drop. I listen to the stillness. I’m not expecting
to hear a %ourish of bells or the heavenly voices of angels as my
prayer is lifted to the skies, but I keep my eyes closed anyway.
It’s not like there’s anyone to see. Not here. Not at home. Not
at Sheryl’s o#ce. !ere’s no one anywhere.
“Did someone call for Lady Luck?”
I sti$en at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, my brain shortcircuiting
before I can even open my eyes.
I thought I was alone.
Breathe. I just have to breathe. If Sheryl were here, she
would tell me to think of three happy facts to calm myself
down.
One: Otters sometimes hold hands when $oating down a river.
Two: Cows have best friends.
!ree: I do not hold hands with anyone and do not have best
friends.
Well, Sheryl would say, at least you got TWO happy facts.
I exhale, open my eyes, and turn.
!ere’s no one behind me.
Rotating on my penguin sock, I make a complete circle. I
see nothing but the wooden o$ering box, a smattering of thin
trees, and, in the distance, the washed-out torii.
“Hora!” !e voice sounds like it belongs to a young woman.
“Up here.”
I tilt my chin upward, the moon shining high above me.
A "gure is perched on a tree branch like a snowy owl, her
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 17
long white skirt a ghost %owing in the breeze. I start to follow
the swathe of white up to a face, but before I can inspect it
closely, the silhouette leaps from the tree. When it lands—that
was, like, a twenty-foot jump—there’s a girl in front of me, her
irises a mishmash of gold-leaf fragments.
She cocks her head to the side. “Are you going to answer
my question?”
I watch her with a wary gaze and shake my head. She must
be a shrine attendant. A miko, I remember they’re called. I
don’t know why one would be here when it’s late and nobody
is praying. Well, nobody except me.
!e girl doesn’t look like a miko, though. Instead of a red
hakama, she wears a plain white dress, almost like a nightgown.
She’s pretty, especially with the gold contacts, but her
face is young. She could be my age.
“You’re so quiet. You should be singing my praises.” She
lifts her chin and puts her hands on her hips. “I very much
enjoy music, I’ll have you know.”
I hope she doesn’t think that makes her special. Everyone
likes music. Sunny did, naturally. It was her life. But Angel did
too. At the peak of one of her experimental phases, Angel said,
God, I wish I could take this electropop and stab it into my veins.
Typical Angel, really.
“‘Why, beautiful being,’” the girl says, pitching up her voice
to, I assume, mimic what she thinks I sound like. Hint: I do not
sound like Minnie Mouse. “‘Where did you—a well-spoken,
stunning, incredibly graceful individual—come from? And
why should I be singing your praises?’
“Well,” she continues, dropping her voice back to its usual
clarion tone, “let me tell you. I have no idea why you would
show up here, of all places. !is shrine has been abandoned for
years. Years and years. Like, probably longer than you’ve been
alive. How old are you?”
18 KELLY MURASHIGE
Old enough to know the rules of stranger danger.
“I’m going to guess a teenager? So yeah, longer than you’ve
been alive. I mean, people have stopped just to see what’s here,
maybe thrown in some money. Trash too, which is very rude.
Once, I got a lollipop, still in the wrapper and everything, but
it was blue raspberry. Yuck.”
I just look at her. She can’t seriously be saying people pray
to her, as if she’s the actual patron of this shrine.
“I heard you,” she says. She takes a seat on the wooden
o$ering box, her dress draping over the slats. I watch her
arrange her skirt over her knees and realize her leap from the
tree should have shattered every bone in her legs. “When you
prayed to me.”
A small chill rustles along my skin. !ere’s no way she
actually heard my prayer. If she had, she wouldn’t be traipsing
around the shrine grounds in a nightgown and poking fun at
my voice, which she’s never even heard.
I study her. Her long, dark hair has been pulled back into a
ponytail, but a small section falls to frame her face. Her bangs
part slightly in the middle and end just before dipping into her
eyes. Her thin eyelashes curl upward. Her expression exudes
con"dence. !ere’s nothing to indicate she’s joking. No surreptitious
smirk. No hint of malice. I’m sure she’s kidding,
though. She has to be.
“Nothing to say?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“What is with you?” She leans forward. Her eyes are such
an unnatural color, %ashing gold whenever she moves. “You
can talk, can’t you? From what I understand—which is a lot, as
I am actually extremely intelligent, even among the gods—the
problem isn’t getting mortals to talk; it’s getting them to shut
up. I mean, you should hear the kinds of prayers I get. Sometimes,
I just want to be like, ‘For Hotei’s sake, get to the point.’”
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 19
I stare at her. She has to see the irony in that statement,
right?
“But,” she continues, “I see nothing physically wrong with
you.”
My throat tightens around words I’ll never voice.
I’ve heard that one before. !ere isn’t anything physically
wrong with me. !at’s what all the doctors said.
“You should consider taking up weight training, though,”
she adds. “Your arms are small.”
I frown. Her arms seem just as slender as mine, though the
%owiness of her sleeves makes it di#cult to tell.
I shake my head again and start heading back down the
stone path, walking along the edge. I don’t know who this girl
is, what makes her so intent on getting me to talk, or why she
seems to be expecting something of me when I have nothing
to give, but I don’t care. I made my wish. I’m done.
“Where are you going?” she calls out.
I keep walking. My socks are going to be "lthy after my trek
down this dusty path. Poor penguins.
“Machi,” she says.
I stop. My feet press into the edge of the stone path.
Her ballet %ats make no sound as she moves along the center
of the path, right where the gods are meant to walk.
How could she possibly know my name?
When she stops beside me, I turn, scanning her face for
some recognizable feature. She must know me from somewhere,
though I can’t imagine where. It can’t be from school. I
haven’t gone in over a year. Now I’m just another blurred face
in the periphery of my former classmates’ memories, some girl
whose name they never learned.
“I am Benzaiten, one of the Seven Gods of Fortune,” she
says. “!is is my shrine.”
Okay, now it’s de"nitely time to go.
20 KELLY MURASHIGE
I’m about to reach the torii, my socks crunching against the
stones, when she says, “‘I wish to become one of those round
robot vacuum cleaners.’”
I freeze. !e wind picks up, %irting with my hair. I wrap my
arms around myself and pivot on my heels.
“‘How do you know that?’” she asks, her voice high and
mocking again. “I told you already, silly child. Your prayer went
to me. I heard it, up in the spirit world.”
!is girl is delusional and in need of help. I would email
Sheryl, but she’s not around anymore. I guess I could contact
Dr. Tsui, but considering I spent the entirety of our "rst session
convincing him I’m not out of my mind, I’m not sure I
should type out an email and go: Hey, I wasted the entire afternoon
trying to muster up the courage to go to one of those places you
suggested but got so overwhelmed by the calamitous state of my life,
I wound up going to an obscure deity’s even-more-obscure shrine,
where I made a desperate prayer, only to be confronted by a girl who
keeps insisting she’s a goddess. !is is Machi, by the way. You know.
Your new client. Please help. Also, thanks for the notebook.
So yeah. Maybe 911 would be better. Or, like, 911@gmail.
com. If I called 911, the dispatcher would only hear my Darth-
Vader breathing and this girl’s inane rambling.
I put my hand to my pocket and take out my phone. Does
911 have a text line?
A sharp pain like carpet burn runs beneath my "ngers. As
I suck in a breath, I do a double take at my now-empty hand.
“Is this what phones look like in this day and age?” !e girl
stands "ve feet away with my phone, too far to have snatched
it from my grasp without my noticing. Her golden eyes %ick
to me and dance with amusement. “Do I have your attention
now?”
I storm over to her and extend a hand. I don’t understand
what’s happening here, and frankly, I don’t care anymore. I
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 21
shouldn’t have come. !is, like so many other things in my life,
was a big mistake.
She shakes her head. “I’m not returning this until you talk
to me.”
I swallow my anger and swipe for the phone, but she
switches it to her other hand. “Listen, I came all the way
over here just to see what could have led you to make such
an unconventional request.” She waves her free hand, ignoring
my attempt to take my phone. “Inspiration for "ne arts?
Sure. More harmonious family occasions? Yes. !e meet-cute
to out-cute all meet-cutes? Can do. But a wish to be a vacuuming
automaton? I had to see you for myself.”
I reach for my phone again.
“If I give this back to you, will you tell me what you’re
thinking?” She waits for my nod. “All right, but if you’re lying,
prepare for divine punishment.”
She deposits my phone in my hands and monitors my
movements as I unlock my phone, open my notes, and type
out a message. She taps one foot and hums a song I don’t
know, her voice full and warm like honey.
!e moment I hand her my phone, she reads the message
aloud: “‘I don’t talk.’” She drops her hand to her side, her lips
pursed. “I know that. Why not?”
I shake my head. She’s not the "rst person to ask—but she
is the "rst to think she’s a goddess.
“!en tell me, on this weird tippy-tappy device, why you
would ever want to be a robot vacuum cleaner.”
I take my phone and type out my answer, trying to hide my
annoyance. I came here to get away from people. Away from
everything. So of course I wound up stuck in a shrine with a
chatterbox who refuses to let me go. I’m tired of being human.
I stare straight ahead as she reads my message. I don’t want
to see her expression. Don’t want her to see mine.
22 KELLY MURASHIGE
She raises her eyes to me. Speaking just a little slower, like
she wants to be sure we’re understanding each other—which
we’re not—she says, “And you think asking to become a robot
vacuum cleaner is going to "x that?”
I mean, yeah? Everyone loves those little round things.
!ey’re treated like humans, given names and showered with
praise when they "nish cleaning, but no one expects them to
be anything more than what they are. !ey weren’t built to
mingle or get along with fellow machinery. !ey do what is
asked of them, and that’s it.
I don’t mind cleaning. I like it. I could do that for the rest of
my existence. I would be a lot happier than I am now.
!e girl lies down on the o$ering box. Now I hope she
is the actual goddess Benzaiten. Otherwise, her blatant disrespect
is most de"nitely invoking the wrath of the gods.
But what if she’s telling the truth?
I know how that sounds. Goddesses don’t just appear in
the regular world. I’m not even sure they exist. When my
grandparents made us take them to shrines, I stayed in the
car, watching them from a distance, and wondered what they
were asking for. If they had just moved here, they could’ve had
everything.
But they stayed, and now they have nothing.
“What’s so bad about being a human?” the girl asks. “It
seems so amazing.”
I shake my head. Being human is a lot of things, but amazing
is not one of them.
!en I shake my head again, harder. I don’t know what I’m
thinking. !is girl is human too.
“What about a do-over?” She swings her legs o$ the box. “I
can’t grant your wish. We don’t work like that. I can, however,
help you learn to appreciate the human world and "nd your
voice again.”
THE LOST SOULS OF BENZAITEN 23
I cross my arms. I don’t need to appreciate this world, and
I don’t plan on ever using my voice. Even if this is a hoax, I’m
not jinxing anything by changing my prayer.
“Here,” she says, holding up my corroded nickel.
I glance at the o$ering box. !e slats are too narrow for her
to have stuck her hand in there, and I didn’t see her open the
lid with a key.
She tosses the nickel my way. I manage to clap it between
my palms, which, given my lack of coordination, is quite the
accomplishment.
Shaking my head, I pocket the coin and take out my phone.
Once I’ve typed out my message, I hand it to her.
“‘I don’t want that prayer.’” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not
playing around here. Even if I could make you into a robot
vacuum cleaner, I wouldn’t. So I’ll tell you what: Redo your
prayer, the way I suggested. Give me until a certain day, and
if you aren’t happy . . . I’ll see what I can do about your robot
vacuum wish.”
I shu7e my feet and swipe my "nger along my phone, only
to almost drop it as she rockets to her feet.
“Tanabata,” she shouts.
God bless you, I think to myself.
“It’s the Star Festival. It’s celebrated on a lot of di$erent
days, but because I’m one of the Seven Gods of Fortune, I’m
saying it’s on the seventh day of the seventh month. Seven,
seven. I’ll remember that way. You can hold me to it. Okay?”
She wiggles her eyebrows, her hair shining under the light of
the moon. “Deal?”
No. No deal. I don’t want her to edit my prayer. It’s my
prayer. And it doesn’t even matter anyway because this isn’t real.
I shake my head.
!e girl frowns. “Machi.”
I shake my head again, harder. !en, pushing the nickel
24 KELLY MURASHIGE
deep into my pocket, I pivot on my heel and start walking
away.
“Machi,” she calls out. “Come on. Give me a chance.”
I don’t slow down. As I leave her behind, I feel the most
disgusting sense of satisfaction. For once in my life, I get to be
the one to walk away.
Just as I reach the bus stop, I catch a %ash of dark blue
in the corner of my eye. I whip around, preparing to run from
the girl.
But when I turn, no one is there.
And the nickel is still in my pocket. ...