Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

  They’re like me. It feels so comfortable and good I could almost cry.

  And they’re so beautiful. Like, Rei beautiful. They know how to do their hair and makeup and dress themselves because they’ve probably been taught by parents who understand they shouldn’t just copy whatever the white celebrities and models are doing. Because they have different faces and body types and colors. It’s like painting—you don’t just use any color you feel like; you pick the color that fits the subject the best.

  I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to learn the lesson I’ve needed since childhood.

  I don’t have to be white to be beautiful, just like I don’t have to be Asian to be beautiful. Because beauty doesn’t come in one mold.

  It doesn’t make it okay that people are jerks about race. But it does make me feel like I’m not alone. It makes me feel like less of a weirdo.

  It makes me feel like Mom was wrong.

  When I look around at the people in Chinatown, I don’t feel like I’m desperate for their acceptance. I feel at ease.

  I think I know why Shoji accepted our Japanese side a long time ago. I think he realized there was another world out there—a world Mom wasn’t a part of. I think he knew that, somehow, finding our heritage was like finding a safe place from her.

  There are so many things to do and see. We pass by a store where a man is selling bonsai trees. I try boba tea for the first time—Jamie’s is mango flavored, and mine is coconut. We look around the grocery store, spending a lot of time in the candy aisle observing how different the flavors are—green tea Kit Kat bars, wasabi drops, squid-flavored gummies, and melon soda.

  And then we see an artist outside a bookstore doing a live drawing. Her black hair is separated in two buns, and she’s wearing a long skirt and a Sailor Moon T-shirt. She draws the way Hiroshi paints, like she has all the confidence in the world.

  There’s a stack of books on a table nearby, all titled Manga Pop Art by Tanya Fujisaki. Positioned above them is a sign that reads: MEET THE ARTIST AND GET YOUR COPY SIGNED TODAY.

  Jamie hovers over the table and picks up one of the books, flipping through the pages casually. “Hey, these are pretty cool.” He holds up the open book so I can see inside. It’s a collection of the artist’s drawings, paintings, and tips on how to draw manga. They remind me of Emery’s tattoos, but so much more detailed and colorful.

  I look back at Tanya Fujisaki. She’s speaking in Japanese to a nearby teenager, who’s watching her like he’s starstruck. I’m pretty sure he’s a fan.

  I pick up a book of my own, turning the pages and falling in love with the drawings the way I did the first time I watched one of the anime shows Dad brought home. I don’t know if it’s normal to look at cartoons and feel so happy, but I can’t help it. Some people look at pictures of animals and scenery and feel an overwhelming sense of joy. I feel that way when I look at art.

  Jamie holds the book up to me again, tapping his finger against one of the pictures. It’s a girl with black hair flying up to the stars, her hands trailing at her sides and the rest of the world far below her. “It’s you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  I flip through the book and find a picture of a girl stuffing her face with food. “No, this is me,” I say.

  He frowns. “Nobody should look that mad while they’re eating doughnuts.”

  “She’s hangry,” I say. “It’s when you get so hungry, you feel angry.”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “It absolutely is.”

  Jamie laughs and sets the book back down. I decide I don’t want to be finished with my copy, so I pay for it at the counter.

  “The signing starts in an hour,” the man at the register says.

  Jamie and I wander around the rest of Chinatown to waste time, except it doesn’t feel like it’s being wasted. I’m having the most fun I’ve had in years.

  When we find a store called Paper Tokyo, we walk down separate aisles that stop right below our chins. Every time we see something cool, we hold it up for the other person to see.

  I lift a box of highlighters, all shaped like boiled eggs. “How cute are these?”

  Jamie holds up a giant eraser that’s shaped like a piece of toast with a face on it.

  I hold up a notebook with the word “Wishes” written on the front. Just below it is a giant walrus holding a magic wand.

  Jamie finds a pair of fake eyes that you put on your eyelids. The box says they’re supposed to trick people into thinking you’re awake, but really they just look scary.

  I find a set of drawing pencils with erasers shaped like pieces of sushi at the ends.

  Jamie finds a back scratcher that looks like a bear paw.

  I laugh. “What does that have to do with stationery?”

  He shrugs, grinning. “Even people who sit at desks get itchy.”

  I buy the notebook with the walrus because I don’t want to leave such an amazing store empty-handed.

  “You should’ve gotten the fake eyes,” Jamie says as we’re walking out the door.

  When we’re standing in line for the book signing, I tell Jamie I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.

  “You say ‘hi’ and tell her you like her work.” He points to my bag. “You could tell her you like the picture of the hangry girl.”

  I feel my heart start to race. My eyes count the people in front of me, assessing how much time is left before I have to speak to a complete stranger. “Is this going to be awkward? It feels like it’s going to be awkward.”

  “Breathe. She does this for a living. She’ll probably do all the talking. All you have to do is say ‘hi.’ ”

  When I get to the front of the line, I don’t say ‘hi.’ I freeze, drop the book on the table like it just came out of the oven, and look at all the space around Tanya Fujisaki’s head without ever looking directly at her.

  I think she asks me a question—something about if I’m from California—but I’m having trouble concentrating on anything besides passing out, so I keep nodding my head at everything she says until she smiles, hands me the signed copy back, and thanks me for coming by.

  I clutch the book against my chest and tear away from the desk like I’m trying to find somewhere to breathe.

  When I find a place away from the crowd, I look up at Jamie with large eyes. “Was that as bad as I think it was?”

  For a second he just stares at me, and then he’s laughing so hard he shuts his eyes and tilts his head away from me.

  And even though I’m embarrassed, I’m not angry at Jamie for laughing. It takes only a few seconds before I’m laughing too.

  “I did try,” I say, my eyes pooling with happy tears.

  “It’s my fault,” Jamie says. “I was trying to help you figure out what to say when I should’ve been reminding you not to assault the artist with her own book.”

  The skin between my eyes pinches together. “I did kind of throw it at her, didn’t I?”

  He nods. “You really did.”

  I sigh, and a smirk spreads across half of my face. “Today was going so well.”

  “Come on,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  We find a Japanese bakery and buy a selection of anpan—red-bean buns. Some have sesame seeds on them and some are coconut flavored, but they’re all so delicious. In fact, they’re kind of all I want to eat for the rest of my life.

  Jamie pushes the last anpan toward me. “I’m stuffed,” he says, picking his camera back up from the table. He’s been taking photographs all morning, and I’m pretty sure half of them are of me.

  I eat the last anpan like it’s still the first one—it tastes like happiness.

  “Do you come to Chinatown a lot?” I wipe my empty fingers on my crumpled napkin. “Because I would come to this bakery every day and become the fattest person alive. I never knew how delicious this kind of food was.”

  Jamie snaps another picture of me, and I don’t
even flinch. “Not a lot, but I’ve been a few times. I like the architecture here. And there’s all this graffiti in one of the back alleys—it’s great for photos.” He pauses, letting the camera sink toward his chest. “Didn’t your dad ever make you guys Japanese food when you were little? Or take you to a Japanese restaurant?”

  I shake my head. “Mom hates Asian food. She says it’s too greasy.” She also makes a lot of comments about the hygiene at Asian restaurants, but I leave that part out.

  “It’s weird. You’re the only Asian person I know who doesn’t know anything about her own culture.” He makes a face. “Sorry. That sounded rude. I didn’t mean it in a bad way; it was a stupid observation.”

  “Well, it’s true. And I think it is a bad thing.” I would have loved to have known about anpan and mochi and boba tea when I was a kid. I would have loved to have known about any part of my heritage that didn’t make me feel so alone in the world.

  And I would have loved it if I knew something about being Japanese that didn’t make my mother turn her nose up.

  A group of teenage girls walks past our table. They’re staring at Jamie and giggling in the most obvious way possible. Of course they are—Jamie is perfect. But they’re kind of perfect too, with their smooth skin and cute sandals and layers of shirts and vests that I’m guessing is what Asian hipsters wear.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and pretend I don’t notice.

  “I’m not looking at them,” Jamie says softly. “I’m looking at you.”

  When I bring my eyes up, I’m looking at him, too.

  Like, really looking at him. It’s hard to breathe when all the colors of his face are so rich and intoxicating—pale blue eyes, a honey tan, and dark chocolate hair. How could someone so beautiful be looking at me the way he is, with half of a smile and affection in his gaze? What does he see?

  And then I realize. He sees the same thing I see when I look at him.

  He sees something beautiful.

  I know if I look at him for another millisecond I’ll vaporize into mist all over the bakery, so I shift my eyes to my bag and rummage for my phone for no reason other than to keep my mind busy.

  He drops his gaze to his camera and makes himself busy too. The next time our eyes meet, we realize we’re still smiling at each other.

  I tell Jamie I want to go back to the grocery store before we leave. I buy enough Hi-Chews, Pocky Sticks, and cans of Royal Milk Tea to fill up my bag, because even though it seems silly, buying Asian food makes me feel connected to a part of my heritage I never knew what to do with before.

  • • •

  I draw five Japanese women with very different faces, but all of them are equally beautiful because beauty is not just one thing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Dad calls to ask how I’m doing in California. Mom’s been telling people I came out here to celebrate graduating. As annoying as it is that my mother is a liar, I don’t have the heart to tell Dad about Uncle Max. Upsetting him wouldn’t help anything. Giving him something extra to worry about when he has two little babies isn’t an option. I won’t make him unhappy just for the sake of needing someone on my side. I won’t be like Mom.

  So we talk about beaches and the weather instead. I tell him about Hiroshi, how I ate ramen and mochi with his family and how I went to Chinatown for the first time.

  He tells me he’s happy I’m getting to have these experiences. He says he wishes I could’ve had them when I was younger. He starts to tell me a story about Mom telling him to stop making Japanese food because it “made the house smell awful,” but he seems to change his mind before he says too much. He says it’s not good to complain about the things we can’t change. And after we hang up, he sends me pictures of the twins. It feels nice, like I’m included in his life. It makes me feel like I have a family.

  Mom calls an hour after him. I swear it’s like she can sense when I’m moving further away from her, like an ex-boyfriend who never shows any interest when you’re dating, but calls the moment you feel like you’re in a good place without him.

  I don’t tell her I talked to Dad, but I’m not sure I could fit it in anyway. All she wants to talk about is herself.

  She tells me about the fight she had with a woman at work over wrapping paper. According to Mom, the office had an unofficial agreement to never bring their kids’ school fund-raising catalogs to work. The woman did it anyway, and Mom decided it was her job to chastise the woman in front of everyone. Obviously the woman didn’t appreciate it.

  I don’t bother telling Mom she should have said something in private instead of in front of the whole office. Who wants to be publicly scolded by their coworker over wrapping paper? But there’s no point in saying this to Mom—she’s in a good mood, at least by her standards. I’m too relaxed to get into an argument.

  She tells me about her website, too. Apparently it doesn’t look professional enough, so she wants to pay a web designer to make it better. I don’t comment on any of this either—I don’t want to get into an argument. I’m trying to relax.

  Then Mom tells me Taro went to stay with one of his college friends for the rest of the summer. And that Shoji doesn’t do anything to help clean. And that she wants us to get our hair done together when I get “home.”

  I’m not relaxed anymore. I’m having a brain aneurysm. When did I become one of Mom’s friends? Are we friends? Is that why we’re having a conversation where she’s managed to avoid saying a single negative thing about me?

  Mom asks me to call her tomorrow, and we hang up. There isn’t room to think about the twins anymore. All I can think about is what this is supposed to mean.

  • • •

  Jamie holds the camera up to his face. A second later I hear the click of the shutter.

  His hands drop to reveal a smile. “So when do I get to see your painting?”

  “When it’s finished.” I scoop up another bite of white chocolate and raspberry ice cream.

  He leans back in his chair and sets his camera on the table. We’re surrounded by pink and blue, like we’re in a pool of cotton candy. There’s a neon sign on the wall shaped like an ice-cream cone, black-and-white tiled floors, and a jukebox in the corner. It feels like we’ve stepped into a time warp.

  But I guess being with Jamie feels like a time warp all the time. We’re kids again, finishing what we started all those years ago.

  He slices his metal spoon into a glass bowl filled with two perfect scoops of mint chocolate chip. “Are you going to miss it? When you finish the painting and you don’t get to see Hiroshi anymore?”

  I press my thumb against the spoon tightly. “I hadn’t actually thought about that.” I’ve been spending so much time with Hiroshi that he’s starting to feel like a friend. I guess a part of me forgot this was a temporary arrangement.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the mood.” Jamie blinks at the table, thinking.

  My trial period is almost up. We both know it. We just don’t talk about it.

  Hiroshi isn’t the only one I might have to say good-bye to—it’s Jamie, too. Because I can’t live in his parents’ home forever, just like I can’t paint in Hiroshi’s studio forever. I’ve invaded their lives, and eventually, if I can’t figure out how to survive here by myself, I’ll need to return to the life I left behind.

  I feel sick. I’ve gotten used to Jamie and Hiroshi and California. I don’t want to go back to living with Mom, existing alongside my brothers without ever really speaking, never going anywhere because Emery isn’t there to go with me, and occasionally seeing my dad. This—right now—feels more like a family than I’ve ever had.

  I kind of need them. I need Jamie.

  The world seems too scary without him.

  Click. Jamie’s face is once again obscured by the camera lens. I cross my eyes and make my nostrils flare. Click. He laughs, and I do too.

  “I’m going to keep that one forever,” he says.

  “Forever is a long time to keep a s
illy picture of me,” I say.

  “It’s not the picture.” His voice is gentle. “It’s the memory. I want to remember you forever, Kiko Himura.”

  I don’t say a word. I’m too busy glowing.

  • • •

  I draw a thousand fairies circling around a girl so that she can finally fly away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  When my car gets a flat tire, I’m overwhelmed by the realization that my bank account is rapidly depleting. It scares me, worrying about money and things going wrong and not having a source of income. It makes me wonder if I’m being an idiot for hiding out in California when I have a job waiting for me back home.

  Since Jamie and his parents all know my time in California may be limited and my time with Hiroshi definitely is, Elouise offers to drive me to the studio while Jamie picks up a new tire for me.

  I’m grateful to both of them. To their whole family.

  I need every spare minute I can get. I want this painting to be perfect. It has to be perfect.

  Every time I’ve been close to Elouise I can smell the sour bite of wine. But today she smells fresh, like honeysuckles and soap. Her dark hair is parted neatly in the center and tucked behind both ears. She’s beautiful the way a vampire would be, with red lips, a cold stare, and dark circles under her eyes. But unlike a vampire, Elouise isn’t pale. She’s so bronze her skin is practically metallic.

  She seems like she’s been tired for a very long time.

  “Have you heard anything back from any schools?” she asks, her eyes focused on the road.

  “Not yet.” I pause. Maybe she’s trying to get a better idea of when I’m planning to leave. Or if I’m planning to leave. “I put down my mom’s address in the application, so that’s where they’ll mail the letter.” My chest tightens thinking about how fast the time seems to be going.