by Sarah Kuhn
It feels like the whole street is taking a nap.
When it’s quiet like this, the shadows become more prominent, and I can truly sink into them. It’s like that underbelly of Little Tokyo I love so much is singing to me.
My phone buzzes, and I do the clumsy dance of exhuming it from the yukata’s cavernous pocket. This will be a fun game I get to play for the rest of the day.
It’s a text from my judo buddy Eliza Hirahara (who is my third best friend after Belle and Rory, mostly because Belle and Rory would riot if I referred to anyone else as my best friend). She wants to know why I’m not at the dojo, getting ready for the demonstration. Eliza joined the dojo when we were both seven, and she’s my exact opposite—quiet and calm, as even-keeled as they come. We were destined to become either mortal enemies or inseparable. We’ve gone the latter route, especially after my whole biting incident. None of the other kids wanted to spar with Rika the Biter, and some of their parents even demanded I be kicked out of the dojo. I’d resigned myself to staring resolutely down at the mat as my cheeks heated with humiliation while the other kids paired up, leaving me all alone.
Until the day Eliza toddled up to me and extended a hand.
She was so sweet, so kind. And she still maintains to this day that she hadn’t done that because she felt sorry for me.
“It was because you were so good, I didn’t care what anyone else said,” she always says, warm brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “I wanted a worthy opponent—not like Craig Shimizu, who cheats his way through.”
It’s probably a half lie, but I love her for it.
And once I had a regular sparring partner, other kids started wanting to spar with me again, too. Which helped me get started in my quest to work my way to the top.
Eliza’s also excited about the UCLA scout today—we’ve been practicing extra hard the past few weeks, hoping we can both kill it and land matching scholarships and show Sensei Mary that all her hard work has paid off. She’s been training us since we were tiny, and she’s made sure the dojo feels like a second home to us. She’s the one who’s kept me from getting kicked out, even when other parents protested my Rika the Biter moments, even when my kaiju-temper got the better of me.
I text back that I have to join the judo crew mid-parade, and I’ll explain everything later. Then I shove the phone back in my pocket.
I try to breathe deeply, to relax into the hazy heat. Unfortunately, the sweaty patch has spread up my back and down my sides, and the yukata is clinging to me in a way that’s about as far from relaxing as you can get. I reach behind me, trying to scratch a spot that’s becoming unbearably itchy. My hand is instantly blocked by the obi, which I’ve decided is pretty much my nemesis.
I let out a sputter of indignation, my gaze going to the other side of the street, where Auntie Och’s conver-tible is parked. The convertible is also supposed to be relaxing, preparing for its big moment in the spotlight. But instead . . .
I frown. There’s some . . . guy hovering around the car, running his fingertips along the hood. A baseball cap obscures his face. We’re the only two people on this supposed-to-be-napping street. What the hell is he doing?
“Hey!” I bellow before I can stop myself. I gather my yukata in my sweaty hands and race across the street, once again thankful that I managed to preserve the Adidas portion of my outfit. My voice is a strange, sharp note puncturing the soupy air. The guy’s head snaps up, and he jumps back from the car like he’s been caught doing something illicit.
I mean, maybe he is doing something illicit—maybe he’s a saboteur from another Nikkei Week Princess’s camp, angry that Belle landed the queen title. Am I about to nab a would-be vandal? Will I be the savior of the Nikkei Week parade?
I try to imagine myself being feted, surrounded by Japanese American dignitaries and Asian celebrities, smiling as they clap for my heroic feat. Somehow that just isn’t right, the picture won’t cohere—
“Yaaaaaaargh!”
I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my fevered imaginings that my yukata slips out of my sweaty hands, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m tripping over the hem and crashing headfirst into the possible vandal. I’m not sure who makes that bullhorn-like sound of distress. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe both of us at the same time.
We crash into the lava-hot concrete of the street in a tangled heap. He ends up on the bottom, so he bears the brunt of it, letting out a hearty “oof” as we hit the ground.
“I . . . sorry,” I manage, trying to pull myself up. My hands are on his shoulders, attempting to avoid the blazing concrete. His hands have clamped onto my hips. His hat’s gone flying and I finally get a good look at this possible vandal, who I have just apologized to for some reason.
He looks like he’s about my age. His shiny black hair is doing that K-pop/J-pop thing, playfully mussed in a way that has to be on purpose, perfectly complementing his golden-brown skin. Sharp cheekbones contrast with dark eyes that hint at mischief—although they’re currently overtaken by consternation.
“I mean . . . sorry for knocking you over, but not sorry for foiling your attempts at vandalism,” I amend, trying to give him a stern look. I feel totally undercut by our awkward position and the fact that the yukata has decided to tangle itself around both of our legs, making it impossible for me to pull away from him.
“Vandalism?” He gives me an incredulous look. “What, why? I barely even touched the car!”
“But you were planning on it?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking why you just crashed into me out of nowhere?” he retorts. He scans my face like he’s looking for signs of malfeasance. “Are you some kind of Little Tokyo Citizens Patrol?”
“I could be,” I say, trying to straighten up again. Any movement I make only seems to entangle me in my yukata/his legs further. “I could totally be on patrol.”
For some reason, that makes his face relax a little, a bit of that mischief sparking in his eyes. “Well, then, Officer,” he says, “I’ll confess: I wasn’t vandalizing, I was appreciating.”
“Oh?” I find myself scrutinizing his features further. He’s a little too cute—the kind of cute that knows he’s cute and uses it to his advantage whenever the opportunity presents itself. There’s also something oddly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe he’s one of Belle’s vast, interconnected crowd of cool kids.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a ’66 Mustang, right? You don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.”
“It’s my Auntie’s,” I say. “She was wild when she was younger, but we all know if we get a scratch on it, we’ll pretty much be murdered.”
He lets out a surprised laugh, deep and rich—it’s not the laugh I would expect from someone so focused on his own cuteness. It’s too unguarded, too full throttle in its joy.
He’s on the verge of a snort, even.
That laugh reverberates through my body. I mean, it’s kind of impossible for it not to—we’re still pressed together, tangled in my yukata. I suddenly feel even warmer than I did before, the sweat gathering at the base of my neck and behind my knees and other places I didn’t even know you could sweat.
“Um, anyway,” I mutter.
My face flushes as I yank my yukata free and scramble to my feet, silently thanking Auntie Och for tying the obi so tight. It’s basically glued to my waist, and that’s saving me from flashing the empty streets of Little Tokyo and this person who is apparently not a vandal. Belatedly, I remember he’s still on the ground and offer him my hand. He quirks an eyebrow and gives me an amused look.
I stiffen. “I’ve laid out guys twice your size in judo,” I blurt out.
God. Why am I blurting so many random and oddly defensive factoids to this too-cute-for-his-own-good stranger?
“I’m not smiling because I think you’re incapable of helping me up,” he says, his gr
in widening. “I’m smiling because you look so—”
He gestures to my ensemble.
“I look so what?” I say, my face flushing further.
“Never mind,” he says, his smile getting so big, it’s absolutely infuriating.
He takes my hand but doesn’t really put any weight on it, leaping to his feet with catlike grace. His long limbs, ribboned with lean muscle, look dancer-y.
“I just . . . I like your outfit,” he says, gesturing to my yukata. “Pretty unusual for an officer of the law.”
“Not my regular day wear, really,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You know that was a compliment, right?” He gives me an easy half grin. I can’t help but think everything is easy for him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Belle and Rory emerging from our building. Shit. I need to send this Apparently Not a Vandal on his way before Belle starts crafting our fairy-tale happy ending.
“I don’t have time for compliments,” I say to him, waving a hand. “I need to get to the start of the parade route.”
“You’re a princess?” he says.
“Just a driver,” I say, my tone more defiant than I mean it to be. I see Belle and Rory getting closer, two bright splashes of color floating into view.
“Ah, okay,” he says, looking a bit skeptical. He points to me. “Not a princess.” He points to himself. “Not a vandal. Nice to meet you.”
And with that, he scoops his baseball cap off the ground and strolls away. I . . . wait, is he whistling? Like he’s in some kind of old-timey musical? I tilt my head at his retreating form, trying to make sense of this . . . person.
Suddenly, Belle and Rory are screaming in my ear.
“Rika!” Belle yanks on my arm, jumping up and down. Rory looks Rory-level excited, her little eyebrows waggling. “Do you . . . was that . . .”
“What?” I say irritably, shaking her off.
“That was Hank Chen!” Belle shrieks. “Remember, he was on that show we watched in middle school, about the traveling kids’ show choir—”
“And then he won Dance! Off! last season,” Rory chimes in, naming her favorite competitive reality show. “He had that routine with all the backflips and splits and—”
“Riiiiiight,” I say, fragments of memory floating through my brain, images of some boy smiling and charming his way through a jaw-droppingly acrobatic routine, the sparkle in his eye never fading.
“Is he here for the parade?” Rory wonders, her brow crinkling.
“I dunno, maybe he’s the grand marshal?” I suggest.
“Oh my god, no,” Belle says. “Didn’t you see? The identity of the grand marshal got totally leaked. It’s . . .” She pauses for effect, dark eyes flashing with glee. “Grace Kimura.”
Oh god. As if I need more princess shit in my life.
Every little Asian American girl who dreams of fairy tale–worthy happy endings has grown up swooning as they watch Grace Kimura get hers over and over and over again. She’s the reigning Asian American rom-com queen, one of the modern world’s chief perpetuators of the whole happily-ever-after thing. She’s starred in a seemingly endless cycle of rom-coms, running through countless airports and wedding ceremonies and rain-soaked streets to tell a string of blandly handsome men that yes, she does truly love them. She’s gotten her heart broken onscreen dozens of times, only to have it mended by the end. Her hair is always shiny, her bold lip always on point, her mascara smudged in an artful way that never detracts from her perfect ingénue beauty. She’s her own kind of princess, Belle’s ultimate vision board come to life.
One of my family’s favorite pastimes is to marathon her movies, gathering around the TV with fuzzy blankets and multiple flavors of shrimp chips, Rory oohing over the goopiest scenes, Belle mouthing along with the dialogue she’s committed to memory, Auntie Suzy misting over whenever Grace Kimura cries. I can sometimes be tempted to join by the shrimp chips, especially if they get the spicy ones. But I always find myself getting twitchy once Grace Kimura starts running through the airport or whatever.
It’s another thing that binds all the Rakuyamas except me.
“That’s probably why Hank’s here,” Belle says, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s in Grace Kimura’s new movie. Maybe he’s supporting her. God, he’s cute.”
“We need to get this show on the road,” I say, fishing around once again in my yukata pocket—this time for Auntie Och’s car keys. We don’t need to get into a full-on analytical discussion of Hank Chen’s cuteness, and I know Belle well enough to know that’s what she’s just about to do.
“Wait, what’s this ‘we’?” Belle says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She studies me, clocking my outfit. “Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m your driver,” I say, giving a little bow. “Finally embracing my inner princess.”
“Bull. Shit!” Rory yelps.
“Rory, no garbage mouth,” Belle says. “But seriously, what the fucking hell, Rika. That is so not what you’re doing!”
“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. “The truth is, I thought I could drive y’all to that first big stopping point—where the ondo dancers do their routine? Then jump out of the car and book it over to the front of the dojo for the demonstration. I need to . . .” I pause, gnawing my lower lip. Now that my kaiju-temper isn’t flaring, I can’t find the words to explain to them how important this is.
“Rika-chan.” Belle smiles at me. She looks every inch a queen—she’s also wearing vintage from Auntie Suzy’s closet, but her outfit’s not from the yukata section. It’s taffeta from the fifties, nipped in at the waist and decorated with obscenely large cabbage roses. She’s added a frothy petticoat underneath to make the skirt even more cupcake-esque, and the whole thing fits her curves perfectly. “Of course we’ve got your back,” she continues. “You deserve this.”
For the second time this morning, my eyes brim with tears, and I hastily wipe them away.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for . . . wait a minute.”
Now I clock what Rory’s wearing. She’s pulled her hair into two tiny Princess Leia buns and sprayed her whole head with glitter. Then added little white cowgirl boots and a short purple “dress” that appears to be . . .
I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing her more closely.
“Aurora,” I say. “Is that my nure-onna T-shirt?”
She shrugs. “It looks better on me.”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it.
The thing is, it really does.
THREE
The obi complicates driving even more than I thought it would.
Not only is its bulk pushing me forward in the seat, but it’s tied so tight that it holds the yukata in place in a way that makes moving my arms a challenge. I have a limited range of motion as I steer the convertible, and I’m thankful that I don’t have to make any sharp turns or parallel park or something. I mentally reverse my previous thankfulness to Auntie Och for tying the obi so snugly. Maybe flashing the streets of Little Tokyo and smug-ass Hank Chen wouldn’t have been so bad. That thought makes me flush for some reason, and I order myself to refocus on the task at hand. I definitely don’t need to be any sweatier.
I pilot the convertible forward in painstakingly slow fashion, mindful of the ondo dance group walking—and occasionally stopping and performing—in front of us and the float for the Watanabe family’s flower shop behind us.
The car carrying Grace Kimura is in front of the dancers—top down, like the Nikkei Week court’s cars, so everyone can bask in her beauty. Belle and Rory are practically beside themselves with excitement. Still, they’re trying to carry on with their queenly/princessly duties. They’re both sitting up on the back of the convertible, feet resting on the back seat, waving to the crowd. Occasionally, we catch a glimpse of Grace’s b
rilliant smile when she turns her head, her glossy mane of raven hair swishing around her shoulders.
The sun has moved high in the sky and beats down on us with brutal intensity. I feel hot everywhere. It’s like the sun is slithering its way into every possible bit of my being, down to the roots of my hair. The roots of my hair feel like they’re about to catch fire, actually.
I’m going to take like ten thousand showers after this parade. Or maybe just roll around in ice cubes or something.
“Rika, stop!” Belle’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts, and I hit the brakes. The stop is a little abrupt and jerky—I hear the people on the flower float behind us grumbling.
“Dance break,” Rory says, gesturing in front of us.
The ondo dancers are going through their routine again, identical smiles in place. The crowd claps along to their steps appreciatively, and I can’t help but wonder if any of the dancers have ever cracked and gone on a murderous rampage, fed up with having to smile and perform the same steps over and over again in punishing summer weather.
Why don’t you like any of the nice fairy tales? Auntie Suzy says in my head.
I put the parking brake on so the car won’t roll forward into the dancers. Auntie Och’s convertible is not super reliable at the whole not-rolling-forward thing.
“Being a Nikkei Week Princess is boring,” Rory grumbles.
“Rory!” Belle admonishes. “It’s an honor to serve our community.”
“A boring honor,” Rory says. “I like watching the parade because we see everything and we see it once. Whereas being in the parade means we only see, like, two things and we see them over and over again. I thought being a princess meant I’d get to do cool stuff, like make my own all-you-can-eat mochi buffet or claim one of those warehouses on the edge of Third as my new kingdom.”
I can’t help but smile. Rory’s logic is often indecipherable to anyone but Rory, but there are moments when it just makes sense. She occasionally gets close to envisioning a version of princessdom I could actually get behind.
