by Sarah Kuhn
Auntie Och chooses this moment to slam two steaming plates of katsu down in front of us. Mine is a fairly traditional pork cutlet, but Hank’s gone for the experimental side of the menu: cheese katsu. Kind of like a big mozzarella stick. My eyes go instinctively to the food, the freshly fried panko bread crumbs glistening in the light. Mmm.
“Here. Eat,” Auntie Och says, waving a hand and giving Hank a suspicious look. I told her he was a “friend from school” and that we were working on an extra credit summer project together. Auntie Och’s eyesight is just bad enough, I hope she won’t recognize him from all of Rory’s Dance! Off! viewing.
“Arigato,” Hank says, with a perfect accent. Rolled r and everything. Show-off.
“Ah, good boy, speak Japanese,” Auntie Och says, her suspicious gaze turning to something more curious. “You not Japanese, though, ne?” Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes him. “Filipino?”
“Filipino-Chinese mix,” he says, grinning at her.
“Mmm, a mutt like Rika,” Auntie Och says. It is unclear from her tone whether this is a good thing or not. Then she sweeps away from the table with no other pleasantries.
“This looks great,” Hank says, inhaling the fragrant, greasy steam wafting off the katsu. “Good god. I haven’t had carbs in months.” He glances around surreptitiously—like, what, he’s expecting paparazzi at Katsu That? Then he very carefully picks up a piece of katsu with his chopsticks, the cheese oozing out of its panko shell as he pops it into his mouth. “So,” he continues, gnawing on his katsu. I try not to stare at the little bit of cheese that gets stuck to the corner of his mouth—or the striking fullness of his lips, the way the lower one is just a little bit fuller than the other. Even his imperfections are interesting to look at.
Not that I’m interested. In anything.
“You were saying?” Hank says, making a “go on” kind of gesture with his chopsticks.
“Right.” I assess him, trying to block out the imperfect perfection of his features and get a read on his gullibility. What lie can I tell that will get him to help me? What lie would the nure-onna tell? What lie will be believable?
Then I realize: the freaking truth isn’t believable. So I might as well go with that.
“Hank—”
“Henry.”
I blink. “What?”
“Henry. Is my actual name. When I was starting out, my reps thought Hank sounded more . . .” He gestures vaguely with his chopsticks.
“Henry,” I say. I don’t know why, but this tiny change seems to focus him. Like he just got a little bit clearer before my eyes or someone removed the Instagram filter or something. “I think Grace Kimura is my mother,” I continue. “Like, I think she had me as a teenager and then left me with her sister and it was all a big secret and . . . well, I don’t know the rest. Because of the big-secret part. That’s why I need to find her.”
I tell him about yesterday’s discoveries in a garbled burst, my katsu getting cold in front of me as I recap what happened, the evidence Rory found in Auntie Och’s weed drawer. Everything we think we know—which isn’t much. I show him the photos of Auntie Suzy and Grace, of Grace and me when I was a baby. And some more recent pictures on my phone of Auntie Suzy, to really sell it.
“See,” I say, jabbing an index finger at a current photo of Auntie Suzy that I’ve positioned next to the picture I stole from Suehiro. “This is obviously the same person. So—”
“You don’t need to show me all this stuff—I believe you,” he says, waving a hand.
I blink at him again. “You do?”
He flashes me that easy grin. “Like I said, you’re a terrible liar. These sound like the first true words you’ve said to me since we met.”
I bristle. “That is not true—”
“So you really are the Citizens Patrol of Little Tokyo?” His grin widens. Ugh, so very annoying. “I do have one question, though.” He rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, meeting my eyes. “How has the truth of Grace’s identity remained a secret for this long? Has no one else in Little Tokyo recognized her? Because she still looks”—he taps the photo of young Grace—“so her.”
I lean back in my seat, considering. “That’s part of this whole mystery, I guess. But to be honest—Little Tokyo has a lot of secrets. And people keeping each other’s secrets. Grace getting pregnant when she did was probably seen as shameful. If she was, like, banished or something, and then went on to become one of the most successful and beloved Japanese American celebrities on the planet . . .”
“Then no one would want to admit they’d banished her in the first place,” Hank—er, Henry—says, pointing at me with his chopsticks. “Yeah, I gotcha—shame, duty, family, community secrets. I’m familiar with all of these things thanks to growing up in not one but two Asian cultures. Do you think everybody’s just pretending they don’t recognize her?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But the more pressing issue at the moment is that it seems like Grace has dropped off the face of the earth. And I really need to find her. I know you guys did that movie together, so . . . have you talked to her? Since yesterday?”
Henry takes his sweet time answering. He pops another bite of cheese katsu in his mouth. Sets down his chopsticks. Brushes away that wavy lock of hair that keeps falling over his eyes. Looks at me in a considering way, like he’s trying to figure out if what I just told him is also a big ol’ load of bullshit.
“No,” he finally says, drawing the word out slowly (which makes me stare a little too long at his mouth again). “I came to the parade to show her some support—my part of the movie’s wrapped, and I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. She did check in once last night with Asian Hollywood—”
“Asian . . . Hollywood?” I sputter, leaning in, trying to make sure I heard him right. “That’s a thing?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, cracking his charming smile. “We have a group chat.” He brandishes his phone. “Grace is usually on it a lot, actually. She’s Chiitan.”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Chiitan—the otter mascot from Japan? The one who’s always doing those wild stunts? That’s her avatar.” He shows me the phone screen, featuring a cascade of tiny avatars. One of them does indeed look like a cartoon otter wearing a devilish expression and a pink turtle for a hat. “She checked in late last night,” he continues. “Said she was okay and she didn’t want any of us to worry, but she has to go off the grid for a bit. I dunno how they’re working that out with the movie since she’s got a couple weeks of shooting left, but yeah.”
“And you just believed her?” I shake my head again. “What if she’s been kidnapped or something?! What if that’s her captor feeding you lies—”
“Whoa, what’s with the instant conspiracy theorizing?” He holds up his hands. “Or is this another one of your Citizens Patrol duties? She actually sent us this secret code we came up with in the group—the one that means ‘I’m okay.’ It’s a code no nefarious kidnapper could ever hope to get out of her.”
“And that is . . . ?”
He raises an eyebrow. Amused again. “A secret. Hence the name ‘secret code.’”
“Wh-why does Asian Hollywood need a secret code?” I say. “Is kidnapping that much of a regular occurrence?”
“It’s usually used in more mundane situations,” Henry says, chuckling a little. “It’s like a shorthand. Say you’re out at an event and some garbage story with big scandal potential breaks—like that you’re having an affair or your public meltdown was caught on camera or the paparazzi got a horribly unflattering photo of you cramming an entire Egg McMuffin down your throat—”
“That’s a scandal?!” I scoff.
He hesitates, something passing over his face that I can’t quite get a handle on. It’s the ghost of a shadow, a flicker of . . . uncertainty, maybe? No, that can’t be right. This boy has nothing to be unc
ertain about—that is the one thing I am sure of. Then he shrugs and presses on.
“Just an example. So anyway, everyone in that group is about to start spamming up the thread with ‘Are you okay?!’ messages. Instead of typing back some long-ass reassurance, you send that one little code word. This is also useful if you need to go off the grid and don’t feel like getting into all the gory details—but also want to make sure people aren’t worried about you. Seems like that’s what Grace is doing.” He shrugs again and pops the last bite of katsu into his mouth.
I crumple my napkin in my fist in frustration, curling my fingers tightly around it, feeling it get all hot against my palm.
“But still,” I say, “don’t you want to make sure? If she’s your friend and all?”
“She needs to do her own thing right now. I’m giving her space to do that. As a true friend would.” He flashes me a genial grin, and I ball my fist more tightly around the napkin. How can this infuriating stranger remain so calm?
My kaiju-temper claws at my insides, heat rising in my cheeks. He’s acting like this is no big deal, like for me it isn’t the biggest deal ever. I flash back to his easy smile from yesterday, me thinking about how everything must be easy for him. Is this how you act when it’s all just that easy for you, like you don’t have to worry about the fact that the mother you’ve imagined as a hazy, lost figment all these years might possibly be . . . found?
What do I have to say to get him to help me, to find the one person in the world who might . . . might . . .
“Won’t it be kind of disastrous for you if she stays MIA?” I press.
A ghost of a frown pulls at his lips. “What?”
“If she doesn’t come back, if she decides she likes being off the grid,” I say. “That movie you guys are doing—like you said, she’s not done yet. They need her to finish it?”
“Yes—”
“What if she doesn’t come back and they can’t finish it? It might never come out. And then you wouldn’t get your shot, right?”
His brow crinkles like he’s confused—but I can tell he knows what I mean.
“Your chance to prove yourself,” I continue. “To show the world that you’re more than a cute smile who can do the splits. If you are, in fact, more than a cute smile who can do the splits.”
That last bit sounds snarkier than I intend it to, but I can tell it hits. He leans back in his seat, his brow creasing further. His smug, carefree facade has dropped entirely now, and he looks downright perplexed. Well, good. Maybe I got him to see how serious this is. For me and him.
“You know,” he finally says, drawing each word out slowly, “you could’ve just asked for my help.”
Now it’s my turn to look perplexed. “What?”
He rests his chin on his hand, a hint of that self-assured smile returning. “You want to find your mom. That’s a very understandable thing.”
“But . . . I said that . . .”
“Right. And then you proceeded to run through various elaborate reasons why I should help you, like that maybe she was kidnapped or that helping her also helps my career ambitions—”
“You need a reason to help me, no?” I sit back in the booth, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Sure.” His smile returns fully, and I try, yet again, not to stare at his mouth. It really is . . . at the peak of its power when he smiles like that. “But that reason could be a lot simpler than you’re making it: you need help, I’m in a position to offer help. It’s the right thing to do.”
I am actually speechless. Is this “Aw, shucks, I’m just so decent” thing part of his aspiring Hollywood heartthrob persona?
“I’ll help you,” Henry says simply.
“Okaaay,” I say, my eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And what do you want in return?”
He hesitates for a long moment, then finally says: “How about some more cheese katsu?”
“I can do that,” I say.
“You remind me of her,” he says abruptly.
I shake my head. “What?”
He leans in, his eyes searching my face. I squirm a little, even though it’s not an intense kind of searching—more like he’s trying to memorize my features, to map them to hers.
Hmm. Actually, that is kind of intense.
“You remind me of Grace,” he says.
And goddammit, my eyes fill with unexpected tears.
“Because I’m angry?” I manage.
“Because you’re passionate,” he says. Then he gives me a mellow smile—as if he’s trying to take us back to a casual vibe, as if he knows anything more is too much for me to take right now. “So, do we have a deal?”
I nod and gesture to Auntie Och to bring more katsu, blinking away my tears. I don’t trust myself to speak.
I can’t make whatever happens next mean anything less than everything.
SEVEN
You would think that what happens next would be super dramatic, stuffed full of intrigue and mystery.
Instead, smug-ass Henry Chen insists on butting in on the Nikkei Week mochi demonstration.
It’s the day after our lunch at Katsu That. We left it like this: Henry would put some feelers out in Asian Hollywood to see if anyone had more information on Grace’s whereabouts. I’d see if I could find anything in our apartment from the past, anything at all that might give me a clue about what happened all those years ago, when my mom fake-died. But Rory’s super-sleuth lock-picking skills didn’t yield any new information. The birth certificate and the photo appear to be the only remnants of Grace’s presence on the apartment premises.
It’s like Grace herself is the onryo, the ghost. She’d vanished into the mists of tragedy all those years ago, only to reemerge as something more powerful, ready to wreak vengeance on all who wronged her. Or that’s what the onryo would do, anyway. I don’t know what Grace would do. Because I still don’t know my mother at all.
I didn’t tell Belle and Rory about my new . . . hmm, I guess “partnership” with Henry. I just said I’m “making inroads with people connected to Grace” and we should still keep our investigation from the Aunties. They didn’t protest, I think because their Nikkei Week court duties are now kicking into high gear.
Today is the mochi demonstration, wherein all the princesses gather in the big room connected to the garden at the Japanese American Community and Cultural Center, and Uncle Hikaru leads them in a demo of wrapping fresh mochi around blobs of anko—red bean paste—and then rolling it into balls.
The modest crowd that gathers is mostly old Aunties who relish telling the princesses they’re doing it wrong, with a couple of white girls who are “so into Japanese culture” sprinkled in. I make a note to sit on the opposite side of the room so none of the Beckys will try to talk to me in loud, halting Japanese or ask me where I’m really from or explain why they just feel “so Asian” on the inside.
As I’m heading over to that side of the room, though, I notice yet another person I don’t want to deal with—Craig Shimizu, the biggest asshole at Belle’s and my school. Well, actually he graduated two years ago. These days he makes a lot of noise about going to “business school,” but mostly he works for his father, who does some kind of fancy investment banking and heads up the Nikkei Week board—the committee that organizes, manages, and administers the festival every year. The Shimizus wield a lot of power in the community, and Craig likes to make sure everyone knows it.
He’s actually the kid I bit in judo when I was eight, and I’m still not sorry (unlike Auntie Suzy, who reminded me once again that I needed to try my hardest to not rock the boat and not cause disruptions and not stand out in a bad way). That incident really kicked the Legend of Rika the Biter and Her Uncontrollable Kaiju-Temper into the stratosphere, tripling the intensity of all the disapproving looks and whispers that were already being thrown my way. Like Craig was some noble
prince, unfairly attacked by a vicious monster.
I change course and scuttle to the very back of the room, wedging myself between two Aunties. Belle told me I should at least act like I’m participating in Nikkei Week activities so Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och don’t get suspicious. So here I am. Participating.
Before things can even begin, Uncle Hikaru is pissed off at Belle because she’s insisted on bringing Nak.
“No dogs,” he says, slicing a hand through the air. “Unsanitary. Plus, no dogs allowed in the JACCC, period, so you’re double breaking the rules, Belle Rakuyama.”
“Nak is part of my royal entourage,” Belle says, drawing herself up tall and pulling the dog more tightly to her chest. Nak lifts his nose in the air and stares Uncle Hikaru down, as if trying to prove Belle’s point. “And I am the Nikkei Week Queen, am I not?”
I can’t help but admire Belle’s willingness—I mean, that’s not even the right word, it’s more like a desire—to make a complete spectacle of herself. And here I am trying to go to the shadows so my temper won’t act up and destroy everything around it.
“Guh, fine,” Uncle Hikaru snorts. “Just try to keep him hidden under the table. If any of the Nikkei Week board members come in here during our demonstration, I know nothing.”
Great—Craig is so reporting this to his dad.
I hear disapproving mutterings among the audience of Aunties as Belle gives Uncle Hikaru a regal nod and settles in behind the long table that’s been set up at the front of the room. Completely disregarding Uncle Hikaru’s orders, she keeps Nak clutched to her chest, his little paws resting on the tabletop, precariously close to the blobs of mochi. Rory sits next to Belle, the rest of the court taking their places around her as Uncle Hikaru starts barking instructions.
“Mmm, our famous Hollywood grand marshal is a no-show,” the Auntie next to me murmurs, frowning at the empty seat at the end of the table. “I told the Nikkei Week board not to choose some flighty actress. Not that they ever listen to me. And now look: she’s disrespecting our traditions, hmm?”
