From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  He’s still staring at me with that dazed look, like he’s barely hearing anything I’m saying.

  “Hey,” I say. “Henry.”

  I flop forward and plant my hands on either side of his head, getting all up in his face.

  “Are you okay? Are you listening to me?” I say.

  He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me in that weird, wide-eyed way. Almost like he’s seeing me for the first time.

  I am suddenly very aware of our breathing again—it’s so loud, syncing up and echoing off the high ceiling of the dojo. And we’re pressed up against each other once more, even closer than we were in the alley.

  He reaches up, his fingertips grazing my cheek.

  What would the nure-onna do in this moment? Probably kick him away, snarling and hissing. That . . . should be my instinct right now. That’s what I would normally do.

  But I don’t do that. I do . . . well, the opposite.

  I close those teeny, tiny millimeters of space between us and press my lips to his. He sighs, like he was waiting for it, and pulls me closer.

  His hands run through my hair, down my back, finally landing on my waist. He shifts his weight and flips us in one fluid motion, so now he’s on top.

  “Now who’s the judo champion?” he says between kisses, a little growl in his voice.

  “This . . . is . . . not . . . judo!” I manage.

  His mouth moves lower, trailing kisses to the delicate hollow between my neck and collarbone. He dedicates an amazing amount of focus to that spot, grazing it with his tongue, his teeth. Brushing the collar of my T-shirt aside so he can pay even more attention. That spot feels like it’s on fire, the blaze radiating outward to consume my whole body.

  I close my eyes and sink into that feeling. I want to touch him more, to slide my hands under his shirt and feel the muscles rippling over his back. But I can only manage to desperately cling to him, like he’s some kind of life preserver.

  And I still don’t want to push him away. I want to fall into him, get swept up in the sensations crashing over me. I feel like the nure-onna again, but a nure-onna who’s free to be unleashed, wild. Not afraid of her temper destroying everything around her.

  When he kisses me, it feels like I can be that. It feels like I’m . . . safe.

  Like he’s standing behind me for the trust exercise, telling me he’ll catch me no matter what.

  And I believe it. I let myself fall.

  FIFTEEN

  I eventually come back to earth and remember that Sensei Mary probably won’t appreciate it if she returns the next morning and finds that (1) I have not locked up, the one and only task she requested of me, and (2) I’m still rolling around on the mats with Henry Chen, and the stuff we’re “practicing” definitely has nothing to do with judo.

  So we disentangle ourselves and I do lock up, say goodbye to Henry, and walk home. We have our mission set for tomorrow. We’re going to get on that lot, Henry’s going to slay his audition . . . and maybe I’ll finally meet my mother.

  Henry and I don’t really talk about what just happened between us. I guess I feel like saying anything will puncture the euphoria, that wildness I found myself so swept up in. But as I walk through the muggy evening air, reality starts to puncture my blissful-feelings bubble.

  I felt safe with him.

  What does that even mean? Why do I feel that now and so . . . naturally . . . when I’ve never been able to get anywhere close to that before, with anyone?

  How can I trust it?

  My head feels so mixed up. My heart is still swelling, carried away as it tries to store up every precious sensation—every kiss, every touch—to relive later. Both of these things are happening at the same time, turned up full blast, trying to drown each other out. I usually love that kind of wild juxtaposition, but this time? I most sincerely do not.

  I let myself into the apartment, slip off my shoes, and pause in front of the mirror hanging in our entryway. I don’t know what I expect to see. The return of the nure-onna? The beginnings of the princess?

  But this time I just see . . . me.

  My clothes are rumpled, the collar of my shirt stretched out to expose that tender hollow between neck and collarbone that Henry was so, um, interested in. My lips are swollen from all that kissing. And my hair is, of course, a mess—not that it’s ever really anything less, but it’s an extra snarly tangle right now, sticking out every which way, practically tying itself in knots.

  I stare at myself for a moment, expecting the image to shimmer, to change into something else. For my armor to reinstate itself and contain all of these too-big emotions that want to come spilling out of me.

  It doesn’t happen.

  I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, considering. I could slip back to my room, wrap myself up tight in bed, shove everything down until all of these things roaring through my heart and mind quiet down. It’s what I’m used to doing when I’m trying to control my temper.

  But . . . I don’t want to do that right now.

  So. Where do I put all these feelings?

  I find myself wandering through the apartment. The living room is empty—Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och are probably still feeding the hungry Nikkei Week crowds at Katsu That. I eventually end up in front of Belle’s bedroom door, and before I can think too hard about why I’m doing what I’m doing, I knock.

  “Come in!” she bellows over the perky K-pop beat blaring into the hall.

  I enter the room and find her sprawled on her bed with Nak, both of them in their pink sweatsuits. Nak is once again trying to chew one of the sleeves off.

  “Rika-chan!” she sings, sweeping out an expansive arm to beckon me closer. “Where have you even been? I’ve barely seen you since you brought your very special guest to Katsu That yesterday. Why haven’t you responded to any of my texts with more than, like, one word? What’s going on with the Mom Quest? And why won’t you tell me what kind of studying you’ve been doing with Hank Chen?”

  She sits up eagerly, jostling a put-upon Nak in the process. He gives her an aggrieved look and goes back to chewing his sleeve.

  I sit down next to her on the bed, wondering where to even start.

  “Henry’s still helping with the Mom Quest,” I finally say, thinking that this sort of encompasses both things she’s asking about. “We’ve had some leads about where Grace might be, and nothing’s panned out yet. But tomorrow . . .” A small smile plays around the corners of my mouth. “We have an idea of where she’ll be, and I actually think it might work out?”

  “Ooooh, intriguing!” Belle says, slapping her bright pink duvet. Nak lifts his tiny head to frown at her for jostling him again. “And very mysterious, Rika-chan.”

  “Not so mysterious,” I say, laughing a little. “Henry has an audition on the Pinnacle lot, and we’ve heard Grace will be there for reshoots. So I’m going to sneak around until I find her.”

  “I love it,” Belle says, her eyes flashing with eagerness. “Do you need me to come along? I’m sure I can convince any pesky security people you encounter that you are there on very official and important business!”

  “Not necessary, but thank you,” I say, laughing again. “I mean, technically we will be there on very official and important business—Henry’s audition.”

  “Ah, yes, Henry.” Belle cocks an eyebrow at me, her gaze turning sly. “Such a wholesome dreamboat. What else is he helping you with?”

  I meet her eyes, studying her. Now is when I usually pull away, stuff everything I’m feeling back inside because I don’t want her to see. I don’t want anyone to see. And every instinct I have is screaming at me to do that. Because I know if I put these too-big feelings out there, it’s like they become . . . real?

  But this is why I came in here, isn’t it? Because my feelings are too big for my body. Because I don’t feel like stuffin
g them down this time.

  So I take a deep breath and release them into the space between us.

  “We . . . did some things,” I begin, my face immediately heating up as the “some things” flash through my brain. “He kissed me. And then he kissed me again. And then I kissed him, and . . . I’m very confused. It’s like my brain wants one thing, but my heart wants something else, and I’ve never really felt anything like this before—”

  “Wait. Stop.” Belle holds up a queenly hand, and I cease my babbling. Her eyes are dancing with barely contained excitement. “We need reinforcements for this.” She picks up her sparkle-encrusted phone and starts typing. Nak lifts his head, trying to look at the screen. “I am absolutely dying here, but I don’t want you to have to repeat yourself. You’re going to have to share this with everyone.”

  “Who’s ‘everyone’?” I say, my voice tipping up with suspicion.

  “Rory. Eliza.” Belle taps on the screen and nods to herself, satisfied. “Your two other best friends. We’re going to have a night out and help you with all these feelings you’re having.”

  “Belle!” I grab for the phone, but she holds it just out of reach. Nak gives me a look like, Why did you even try? “Don’t bother them! I . . . I just wanted to talk about this quietly, it doesn’t have to be a whole production—”

  “Rika-chan!” Belle shrieks. “Of course it’s a production. You never admit to having actual feelings, and I am not going to let that go without some measure of fanfare.” She grins at me and waves her phone in the air. “Anyway, I already sent the text.”

  “Gah.” I slump back on the bed, defeated. “Fine.”

  “Now we just have to wait for them to respond,” Belle says, her eyes narrowing at the screen. “But I don’t want to hear one more word until we’re all together—everyone should experience your epic telling of your emotions at the same time.”

  “Fine,” I repeat, throwing up my hands. I try to suppress the tiny smile that’s tugging at the corners of my mouth again. When Belle gets like this, there’s no sense in arguing. But just this once, I’m kind of enjoying it.

  We sit there in silence for a moment, her staring resolutely at her phone, waiting for a response. I clamp my lips together, determined not to spill any more of my story until it’s time.

  After several minutes of this, she sets her phone down with a loud sigh and turns to me.

  “They’re taking forever. Wanna go try on some of Ma Suzy’s old dresses while we wait?”

  * * *

  Belle manages to get everyone into Auntie Suzy’s vintage treasures before we leave the apartment. Then she herds us all out the door. We cross First and swan through the Japanese Village Plaza, our footsteps tapping lightly against the quaint brick path, lit by strings of glowing lanterns dancing overhead. When we pass by the Fire Tower—a tall, majestic column composed of interlocking scarlet-orange poles—I look up, letting myself sink into the magical feeling this neighborhood always gives me.

  Belle teases me for still being in awe of the Fire Tower, which was rebuilt in steel after the original version was demolished by termites. It’s sometimes referred to as “Termite Tower”—not very majestic—and is also a prime spot for white guys to take photos with just-purchased samurai swords. But there’s just something about it I find beautiful, a sense of history housed in its rebuilt bones. Tonight, there’s not a termite or a faux samurai in sight, and the stars glitter around the tower’s peak, giving us a show.

  Belle guides us through the plaza and over to Bae—an extremely hip soft serve spot that specializes in charcoal ice cream. “Pitch-black—just like Rika-chan’s heart,” Belle always jokes.

  Once again, I marvel at her ability to bend people to her will and execute a plan so efficiently. She really is meant to be a queen.

  “Okay!” Belle says, smacking a hand down on our table at Bae. “It’s time. Rika-chan is going to tell us all about her too-big feelings, and I, for one, have been waiting for this moment for seventeen years.”

  “So since you were born?” Rory rolls her eyes. “That’s not possible. Anyway, Rika didn’t even exist when you were born.”

  “A technicality,” Belle says, swooping an index finger through the air.

  I smile and look at each of them in turn. Belle is swathed in a beautiful satin frock—this one emerald green, a stunning contrast against her creamy skin and midnight hair. Eliza, who doesn’t really do dresses, discovered a brightly patterned blazer with swirls of blue and yellow that looks incredibly sharp on her long, lean frame. And Rory, who is too tiny for any of Auntie Suzy’s grown-up clothes, simply grabbed a vibrant orange ruffled number and threw it around her shoulders like a cape. Belle managed to talk me into wearing a fitted silk sheath in the palest of pink. It’s not something I would have immediately chosen for myself, but I have to admit I like the way the silk feels brushing against my skin, the way the soft color contrasts dramatically with my brassy hair.

  “You look pretty,” Belle cooed when I put it on. “But also like you could kill a man.”

  I’ll take it.

  Now we’re all gathered around one of the tiny tables at Bae, eating black ice cream in our fancy outfits. This place represents another one of Little Tokyo’s fascinating juxtapositions: unlike some of the more traditional, old-school spots, it’s super modern and hopelessly hip, all black walls with flashing neon mini-signs that seem to exist purely for Instagram photo ops. The ice cream is similarly photogenic, black swirled with a more unicorn-appropriate rainbow of colors and topped off with cascades of sprinkles and sugary cereal bits.

  It’s also just so delicious. The special charcoal flavor of the day is pineapple, and I’m eating the pineapple-vanilla swirl, a perfect combination of tart fruit and soft sweetness. Those things that shouldn’t make sense together but just magically do.

  Henry would love this.

  “Stop stalling, Rika-chan, eating your ice cream all slow!” Belle yelps, slamming her hand against the table again. “Tell us about Hank—Henry—Chen. Tell us about all the stuff you did.” She waggles her eyebrows and takes a somewhat suggestive lick of ice cream.

  “Um . . .” I begin—but then my eyes slide to Rory. Still a tiny innocent, happily eating her ice cream and being very careful not to drip it on her makeshift cape.

  “Oh, stop, she’s old enough to hear this,” Belle says, rolling her eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m twelve,” Rory says with her mouth full of ice cream. “I know all about romance.”

  “Rika!” Eliza waves a hand in the air, like we’re in class and I need to call on her. “What happened after I left you at the dojo? Did you and Henry, like”—she lowers her voice, her eyes shifting from side to side—“do it on the mat?”

  “What!” Belle shrieks—not bothering to lower her voice at all. “If that’s the case, it should’ve been the first headline you relayed to me, Rika-chan.” She gives me a disapproving look. “Momentous both in terms of you losing your virginity and desecrating a historic Little Tokyo landmark.”

  “God, no,” I blurt out, covering my flaming face with my hands. “We didn’t . . . do that. We just . . .”

  I take a deep breath and look at all of them again. They’re all waiting. Eager. My nure-onna instinct is to stuff all these feelings down again, but they’re just too big. I need for them to come out.

  “We might’ve gotten . . . close,” I admit. “Closer than I’ve ever gotten before.”

  “Oh my god,” Belle whispers, her face lighting up.

  I have been kissed exactly three times—well, three times before Henry—and it’s never gone beyond that. The first time was Jack Fukuhara, who smashed his face against mine when we were thirteen and working on a bio project together. I guess he found all that talk of cells and blood and intestines super romantic. The second was Simon Jones, one of the only white guys in judo, who thought I was about to fu
lfill all his fetishy geisha-girl fantasies. The third was Chris Reyes, who asked me out on exactly one date and then was scared to come near me ever again. Probably because I shoved him away so hard, he nearly fell into the fountain at the god-awful outdoor mall he’d decided to take me to.

  I shoved all of them away, actually. All three times, the kisses were like clumsy lunges with no warning and way too much saliva. I’ve never been kissed by someone as careful as Henry. Someone who will spend an endless amount of time fascinated by a very specific section of my bare skin . . .

  “But wait, back up,” Belle says, holding up a hand. “Why were you at the dojo? I need this entire sequence of events laid out for me, Rika-chan. Start from the very beginning.”

  So I lay it out. I tell them everything—rewinding as far back as the day of the parade, when we tumbled to the ground. I also catch Eliza up on my Mom Quest, how all of this ties together. I finish with our moment at the dojo—where we did kind of desecrate a historic Little Tokyo landmark.

  “Unf,” Belle groans, sitting back in her chair. “That all sounds beyond swoony. Why are you freaking out so much, Rika-chan? Is it because you’ve never done this much with someone?”

  “I . . .” I stop and think about it. And I swear that one spot he couldn’t stop kissing pulses. “Actually, no,” I say slowly. “Doing things with him, him touching me, us being together . . .” That spot pulses again, and I don’t even want to know how red my face is at this point. I toy with the silky hem of my dress. “It doesn’t feel weird at all. It feels right. It feels like . . .” I play with the silky hem some more, my voice lowering to the softest of whispers. “. . . we fit together.”

  The table falls silent. My cheeks burn, and I wonder if I’ve revealed too much, if they’re all looking at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. I very slowly raise my gaze from my lap, expecting to be met by a trio of appalled expressions.