Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

I start to ask how he knew, but then I decide I don’t care. “Did you need something?”

  “Can’t I find out how my only daughter is doing? I’m worried about you. I gave birth to you. I will always care about you, no matter how many times we fight.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m fine.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “I don’t know. Looking at schools and stuff.”

  “What, so you’re moving there now? Are you coming back home?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. And I told you, I’m not living in the same house as Uncle Max.” My heart starts to beat faster and my throat closes up.

  “Max didn’t take your money. I asked him.”

  I roll my eyes even though she can’t see. Because of course he isn’t going to admit it. Why would he? It’s my word against his, and I’ve already moved out.

  “Look, I want to ask you something, but don’t get mad. Did you take some money out of my purse to pay for California?”

  “What? No,” I growl into the phone. “Of course I didn’t. I have a job, remember? I don’t need your money, and I certainly wouldn’t steal it. Why would you even ask that?” Thud. Thud. Thud.

  “I think I’m missing money too.” She laughs uncomfortably. “I’m only asking, okay? You don’t need to get so upset.”

  “Umm, did you ask Uncle Max?” My voice is too loud because I can’t help it.

  “I knew you were going to say that.” Her voice is almost melodic.

  I sit at the edge of the bed and grab a fistful of quilt. “Did you seriously call me to find out if I took money from you?” I’m breathing so quickly the air is hurting my nose.

  Mom groans loudly. “You are making this a way bigger deal than it needs to be.”

  WHAT I WANT TO SAY:

  “It hurts my feelings that you think I’d steal from you.”

  WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:

  “I have to go.”

  “Well, all right. Call me later, okay?” Mom says in her cheeriest voice.

  “Bye,” I say. My heartbeat doesn’t slow.

  When I return to the kitchen, Jamie is clearing the table. He looks up at me thoughtfully, his left hand balancing two plates and his right hand holding the tub of butter.

  I cross my arms to hide how shaky my hands are. I don’t want to talk about Mom, and I don’t want to talk about why Jamie didn’t want to see me. “I’m going to apply to Brightwood.”

  His smile is brighter than the sun.

  I return a little bit of his warmth so he won’t ask if anything is wrong. After we clean up, Jamie lets me borrow his laptop. While he watches TV, I fill out the online application and try to imagine what it would be like to never go home again.

  • • •

  I draw a girl living on the edge of a crescent moon, staring down at the earth and not missing it at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Do you think aliens are a lot more advanced than humans, or do you think they’d look at us and think we were the Japan of the universe?”

  Jamie’s hands are behind his head and he’s only slightly propped up by a wooden lawn chair.

  Laughing, I stare up at the broken pieces of glass decorating the night sky from my own chair. “I doubt we’re the Japan. It’s impossible that another planet out there doesn’t have better robots than us already.” My arms are folded around my knees.

  He hums. “We are pretty behind on the artificial intelligence. I was at least expecting some kind of robot butler by now.”

  I grin. “Robot chef or robot housekeeper?”

  “Housekeeper. Who likes cleaning?”

  “But a chef could make you a sandwich at literally any time of the day. Like you could wake up at three in the morning and ask it for a snack.”

  “Or you could never clean again for the rest of your life.”

  I shrug. “I know how to clean. I don’t know how to make butternut squash risotto with truffle sauce and fried gouda cheese.”

  Jamie rolls his head toward me. “Is that a real thing?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds good though, doesn’t it?” I’m grinning. And hungry. Brandon started making enchiladas but had to run back to the store when he realized they were out of cheese. Jamie and I are the only ones home.

  “If you could travel back in time to any point in history, what would you pick?”

  I blink at him lamely. “I’m half Asian, a girl, and I believe in aliens. Pretty much every lifetime before mine would have sucked for me.”

  He raises his brow and pulls his hands to his chest. “That’s a good point. I thought you were going to say medieval times or something because you like all those fantasy games, but you’re right—they would’ve arrested you for heresy or something.”

  “And burned me at the stake.” I shrug. “I wouldn’t even last in medieval Japan—they’d just be wondering why the weird not-really-Japanese-but-not-white-either-looking girl was wearing pants.”

  Jamie’s face steadies. “Why do you always refer to yourself as weird?”

  Surprised, I scrunch my nose. “I don’t know. Because it’s true?”

  He sits up and grips the metal of the chair. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. Like you think ‘weird’ is all you are.”

  It gets quiet. We just breathe to ourselves, and while Jamie watches me, I watch the crickets leaping away from the stone fire pit next to us. The light breeze tickles the palm trees, and I can hear the crackle of the ocean from down the coast.

  “I want to show you something.” His voice slices across the air, stirring something in the pit of my stomach.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I follow him upstairs, where he leads me to his room. The walls are painted dark blue, and there are oversized black-and-white movie posters crammed close together like a Tumblr grid. Blade Runner. Back to the Future. E.T. The Empire Strikes Back. It’s sci-fi heaven.

  To top it all off, his room smells like him—like the ocean and warm sand and crisp leaves. It makes my brain spin in a thousand rapid circles.

  Jamie pulls out a small frame from his desk drawer and hands it to me.

  My fingers press against it, but he doesn’t let go. “There is a fairly good chance you’re going to think it’s creepy I still have this, but just . . . Well, please don’t think it’s creepy, okay?”

  Frowning, I take the frame from him and look down at the picture inside the glass.

  At first I see two kids with teeth that are too big for their faces, with huge smiles and giant nostrils because they were both staring down into the camera lens when the picture was taken.

  And then I realize it’s me and Jamie. It’s a photograph from a lifetime ago—a snapshot of what our friendship was like. Two wildly happy children with our faces close together and our arms around each other’s necks because sometimes we felt like one person.

  “I don’t even remember taking this,” I say softly.

  Jamie scratches his forehead and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t think about you. When I went back there, I always thought about you. I always wanted to talk to you. I missed you, Kiko. And I don’t want you to think I moved away and forgot about you like you didn’t matter.”

  The room feels warm. It’s hard for me to concentrate. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you visit me?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” There’s frustration behind his eyes. “It wasn’t because of you, I swear. I just . . . couldn’t be around you.”

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I’m not sure if his words are supposed to be comforting or hurtful. “Then why did you keep this picture?”

  Jamie goes still. His eyes are ice and mine are fire. Why can’t we meet somewhere in the middle? “Because I missed you.”

  He swallows. I swallow.

  “And because I think you’re beautiful.”

  My heart explodes from my chest and my body fills with starlight and hope. I don’t realize he’s stepped closer to me until I feel
his fingers trail along the top of my shoulder. My body zaps to life.

  He tilts his chin down, his blue eyes locking onto mine with urgency. I can’t pull my gaze away, or my shoulder away, or my body away. I’m frozen, but this time I want to be. Jamie is trying to hide his breathing, but it’s the only sound I can hear. He smells like spearmint chewing gum and the beach. I want to reach up and touch the softness of his chocolate hair. I want to trace my fingers against his jawline. I want to press my hand against the muscles that protect his heart.

  I want to be more than friends.

  Somewhere below us a door closes and the echo of footsteps bounces through the house.

  “Guys? Are you upstairs?” Brandon calls out.

  Jamie’s hand drops and he takes a step back. “Yeah, Dad. We’ll be down in a second.”

  I take a step back too, and press my hand on the shoulder his fingers just left. I hold the frame out in front of me. “Thanks for showing me this.”

  He pauses before taking it, not wanting to leave the brief world we built together but knowing we have to. I can’t stay up here when his dad is downstairs making enchiladas and probably waiting for us—it’s too weird.

  When I walk downstairs and look over my shoulder, I see Jamie standing at the top of the stairs, watching me like there’s so much more he wants to say but can’t. He runs his hand over his collarbone and follows me anyway.

  Whatever it was, it will have to wait.

  • • •

  I draw a black heart exploding in every direction, and inside is a girl made entirely of light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Mom texts me: When are you coming home?

  I text back: Is Uncle Max still there?

  It takes her an hour to respond: Can you call me tonight? I want to know how you are.

  I’m going to an art show. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  Okay. I love you.

  Okay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Hiroshi Matsumoto doesn’t look anything like his photo in the magazine. He looks like he’s been electrocuted, for one. His black hair is wild and points in every direction, like someone who drove for hours with all the windows down. His warm ivory skin is free from a single imperfection, like a porcelain doll behind a glass case. And he’s shorter than the average person, but not short enough to be considered “short.” Like me.

  I’m also pretty sure he’s wearing a dress. Or the longest shirt in the world. I can’t quite decide.

  Pacing back and forth like a ghost haunting a museum, Hiroshi never makes eye contact with any of the people here to appreciate his paintings. He simply floats by them with peculiar disinterest.

  It makes me nervous. If he isn’t interested in his adoring fans, he isn’t going to want a single thing to do with me.

  I don’t have to look far for Jamie—he’s one step behind me, admiring a large painting of a flock of black swans pulling a carriage through the air. Inside the carriage is a voluptuous woman spilling over the edges with her hands up in the air like she’s on a roller coaster.

  “These paintings are hilariously random,” Jamie notes.

  “They’re amazing,” I correct with my head dipped low and my voice quiet. I’m afraid someone will hear me.

  “Did you see the frog one?” Jamie asks with a grin. “It’s just a giant green frog—I’m not kidding—wearing a top hat.”

  “But they’re so good,” I gush dizzily.

  “What are you supposed to call this kind of art?” Jamie looks genuinely curious, even if he does think the paintings are silly.

  “Pop surrealism is what the art people keep calling it.” His voice is mellow and soft, but it sounds like the only noise in the room. Hiroshi blinks at the painting on the wall like he’s not entirely satisfied with it. When he leans toward me, I can smell vanilla and smoke. “I’m not sure it’s supposed to be called anything though, really. It’s just my own brand of nonsense.”

  Oh my God, Hiroshi Matsumoto from the magazine is talking to me.

  “Oh, hey, you’re the artist,” Jamie says with blissful innocence. “Really cool gallery. I liked the frog.”

  My face is burning—literally burning—and I think I’m going to pass out when I watch Jamie and Hiroshi shake hands.

  “And your name?” Hiroshi watches me with small eyes the color of cocoa powder.

  “Kiko,” I manage to whisper. My breath hiccups nervously.

  “Ah, a cousin of mine,” he says with a mischievous smile. “I thought you looked part Japanese.”

  “My dad’s side,” I tell him.

  “Mine too. And my mother’s.” He’s chuckling slowly. Everything he does seems slower, like he’s in complete control of time and makes it match his pace instead of the other way around. He looks back at Jamie. “What about you?”

  Jamie laughs easily. “I’m the odd one out, I’m afraid. My mom’s family is German, and I think my dad’s family was Scottish or something, but it was so long ago nobody knows for sure.”

  “And do you speak German?” Hiroshi bounces on his toes.

  “I can barely speak English.” Jamie scratches his head with a grin.

  Hiroshi’s laugh is like a song. “I always ask, because people always ask me if I can speak Japanese. I try to beat them to it.” He looks over his shoulder at some of the other people waiting to speak with him. I get the feeling he’s trying to avoid them. “Do you both go to school around here?”

  I shake my head like a frightened rabbit.

  Jamie nods at me—he’s trying to be encouraging, but it’s not working. I don’t know how to talk to strangers, and especially not ones I admire. He pulls Hiroshi’s attention from me to break the silence. “I do, but Kiko lives in Nebraska.” He pauses thoughtfully. “She’s actually here visiting to look at art schools for the fall.”

  Panic floods my body. He wasn’t supposed to tell him that. Now Hiroshi’s going to think I’m an artist. He’s going to wonder if I’m any good. He’s probably going to assume I’m better than I am. And I’m a complete amateur compared to him.

  This is so embarrassing.

  “Art school, eh? And what’s your flavor?” Hiroshi presses his lips together in a tight smile.

  “Acrylics,” I say meekly. “But not like this. I mean, I’m not as good. As you, I mean. I’m not as good as you. At all.” Oh my God, I can’t speak English either. I look at Jamie, my eyes begging for him to save me, but he doesn’t seem to understand that I’m drowning.

  “We all start at the same place, but you’re completely in charge of where you finish,” Hiroshi says. “You can be as good an artist as you want to be. You just have to practice and work hard. I’m sure your parents have told you this, yes?”

  I’m frozen. My parents don’t talk to me about art. Will he know this without me saying it? His serious eyes tell me he does.

  Hiroshi presses his hands together like he’s praying and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers. “My parents told me art was what lazy people did when they just wanted to work on the side of the street. They wanted me to be a doctor. So when I had two daughters, I told them they could be anything they wanted, even if it was a painter on the side of the street. And do you know what? One of them is in medical school and the other wants to be a surfer.” He laughs. “We all have to dream our own dreams. We only get one life to live—live it for yourself, not anyone else. Because when you’re on your deathbed, you’re going to be wishing you had. When everyone else is on theirs, I guarantee they aren’t going to be thinking about your life.”

  Jamie pulls his phone out. “She’s really good. She just doesn’t realize it. Here, look.”

  I don’t know what’s going on. Hiroshi is leaning in to Jamie, looking down at the brightly lit screen while Jamie swipes again and again and again. Each time, Hiroshi stares thoughtfully, grunting to himself the way a dog does when it’s having a dream.

  What are you doing? I manage to mouth. Seriously, Jamie, what are you doing?


  Jamie shakes his head at me like he doesn’t want me to ruin whatever moment they’re having. I make the mistake of leaning forward and looking at his phone.

  They’re pictures of my paintings. Pictures of my portfolio. On Jamie’s phone.

  And Hiroshi Matsumoto is looking at them.

  Can I please die now?

  I feel my body shrinking and shrinking. I’ve shriveled up into a small, frightened child. Why would Jamie show him those photos? Why did he even have them on his phone to begin with? Has he completely lost his mind?

  I hold my breath and try not to vomit while I wait for Hiroshi to look back at me. I’m sure he will, eventually, to say something along the lines of, “Good effort. Just keep working hard.” Something to confirm I’m nowhere near as good as I’d like to be. Words to remind me I’m not good enough for Prism and their superstar art program.

  When Hiroshi looks back at me, a black strand of hair hanging at his temple, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me like he’s only just noticed me, even though we’ve been talking for at least five minutes.

  A tall woman with a short bob taps Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a Mr. Bolton here to see you.”

  Hiroshi nods. “Okay, I’m coming.” He looks at me and Jamie and gives a wrinkled smile. And then, just to me, he says, “You should bring your portfolio to my studio sometime. Those art schools like their recommendations. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I think my brain might actually blow up. I nod frantically, like a bobble-head strapped to a rock crawler.

  Hiroshi floats away like a phantom, the hem of his white dress trailing behind him.

  “Oh my God, what just happened?” I hiss in Jamie’s direction.

  A smirk appears. “I think he was impressed.”

  I blush. “Why did you take photos of my portfolio?”

  “Because I wasn’t sure if you’d ever let me see it again. You’re so private about your art—you panic if you think anyone is watching you draw in your sketchbook.”

  “Well, that was super embarrassing.” And a huge violation of my privacy, I want to add, but I don’t because my tongue is fighting with my brain and really I’m just hearing Hiroshi’s words on a continuous loop. I clear my throat, and then I’m unable to contain my happiness. “And awesome. And seriously the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life.” Hiroshi Matsumoto wants to see my portfolio. And write me a recommendation. And help me get into art school.