From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  “We don’t need a roller coaster for that,” I mutter, my face flaming.

  I study the scene swirling around us again. The rainbow of flashing lights bouncing off the dusky sky and the steady shimmer of the ocean. People laughing and stuffing their faces with cotton candy. And right in front of us, the most gigantic of the roller coasters, a rusting contraption of metal and the same generic “rock” song blasting over and over and over again as people scream their way through the series of loops and drops. The highest drop is, of course, the grand finale of the roller coaster’s routine, and I watch as one of the little cars full of people trundles its way to the top. I can hear every squeak of the wheels against the track, every shift of gears that are badly in need of oil. It’s like running sandpaper over my skin.

  The car comes to a momentary stop, suspended above the drop, building anticipation. Its passengers are already waving their hands above their heads, eager grins splitting their faces. They’re ready.

  Then, just as the generic rock song reaches a particularly dramatic crescendo, the car releases from its perch, plummeting straight down. It’s like watching people get unceremoniously thrown into the abyss.

  But they all love it. Their screams signal release. The cacophony of voices is thrilled, a little bit terrified. They want to be scared.

  I watch until I can’t anymore, then bury my face in Henry’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Rika.” His voice turns concerned. “We don’t have to go on any rides if you don’t want to—I was just kidding. But what is it? Are you scared of heights?”

  “No.” I shake my head against his shoulder, still unwilling to look at the roller coaster. “Not heights.”

  I take a deep breath and lift my head, meeting his gaze.

  “I’m scared of . . . losing control.”

  He stares at me, looking perplexed.

  “I . . .” I try to put the right words together. What is it about this boy that makes me want to say things? Especially things I’m used to shoving so far down that I forget they exist.

  Maybe it’s because I know he doesn’t ask to hear these things because he wants to use them against me or make fun of me or tally them up as weaknesses. He genuinely wants to know.

  “When you go on a roller coaster, there’s always that moment when you lose control,” I say. “You’re in this situation where your body’s thrown all over the place—you’re basically being tossed off a cliff.” I gesture to the new car of people reaching the top of the big drop. “And in that moment, you can’t hold anything in—you just can’t. Every feeling you’ve been having, every emotion you’ve been shoving down or holding so tightly comes tumbling out. You can’t stop it. You scream. You have to feel things.”

  The rock music builds to its uninteresting crescendo yet again, the car releases, and everyone screams their heads off.

  “My temper is always trying to get the better of me,” I say, my eyes glued to this bumpy descent. “It takes everything I have to shove it down. But on a roller coaster . . . all that goes away. You can’t shove anything down.”

  Silence falls between us as we watch carload after carload of people get tossed off the punishing drop, yelling all the way and loving every minute.

  “Maybe that’s what you need right now,” Henry says.

  I give him a look.

  “I’m serious!” he presses. “You’re dealing with this whole snarl of feelings over all these things you can’t control—like whether you ever find Grace or not. But you’re holding on to them so tightly, they’re about to eat you alive.”

  I can’t help but remember what Joanna said—about all my anger, that tight ball in my chest that gets bigger every day, burning me up inside.

  Henry turns so he’s facing me, his hands on my shoulders.

  “I’m not going to push you to do anything you don’t want to. If you’d really rather keep it all locked up here”—he gestures to his chest, closing his hand into a tight fist—“we can skip the rides and go straight to the cheese. But I feel like maybe you want to let some of that stuff out? To scream? Maybe it would feel good, even.”

  I look at him for a moment, my eyes wandering from his hopeful expression to the coaster and back again. My stew of feelings—all that frustration that bubbled up earlier, all those tears I didn’t want to cry in front of Joanna—is thrumming through my bloodstream, my kaiju-temper pounding eagerly at my breastbone. I imagine ordering them back, shoving them down once again. Letting my armor surround me and turning my back on the coaster. Going to eat fried cheese with Henry, allowing all that carby goodness to settle in my stomach, and casting my tight knot of feelings out to sea.

  That thought should comfort me, this idea that I can reset myself so easily.

  Instead it makes me twitchy. Like all these feelings rising up inside of me are my own personal onryo, and no matter how much I try to banish them . . . they’ll always rise up again. I feel the same way whenever Craig says something awful to me. Whenever I feel disconnected from my family. Whenever I get called a mistake by the neighborhood gossipmongers or someone refers to me as a fraction or looks at me like I’m a puzzle instead of a person. It doesn’t go away and it doesn’t get better. It just lives inside of me, and it’s like Joanna said—I start to believe it’s true. The onryo that is my shoved-down feelings always comes back to haunt me.

  “Let’s do it,” I say impulsively.

  I grab Henry’s hand and start towing him toward the roller coaster.

  “What, really?” He lets out a surprised laugh. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m not scared of a carnival ride. And this is how you wanted to celebrate, right? And . . . maybe I do want to let some feelings out. We’ll just have to see.”

  I drag him over to the booth in front of the coaster, and we buy our tickets and get in line.

  “So I told you why I don’t usually do roller coasters,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other. I can’t believe I committed to this. What the hell am I thinking? “Why do you love them so much?”

  “Hmm,” he says. “I think it’s actually the same reason you don’t like them—that loss of control. I spend so much of my life worrying about what people think of me—whether it’s my parents or a casting director or someone who posted a picture of me cramming an entire Egg McMuffin in my face—”

  “Wait, someone actually did that?” I goggle at him, remembering how he used this as a “hypothetical” example of celebrity during our first meal together. “That was a real thing that happened? But why?”

  “Why do people do anything?” he says with an easy shrug. “The next day, some gossip site ran a full spread analyzing all paparazzi photos of me from the last couple weeks, trying to determine if I was filling the emptiness I must feel inside with junk food, and how much weight I might have gained because of that—because what is Hank Chen without his abs, hmm? My parents reminded me that I always have to be mindful about what I’m doing in public. Otherwise, everything I have could go away—just like that.”

  “And you support them,” I murmur. “Send them money. So that would mean, like, everything. For your family.”

  He shrugs again, but it’s less easy. “Not eating an Egg McMuffin in public seems like a small price to pay, considering everything that I have.”

  “But it’s another thing that doesn’t let you be the whole you,” I say. “You have to flatten yourself out again, because everyone in your life expects a certain kind of perfect.”

  He nods, squeezing my hand. “Everyone except you,” he says, trying to make his voice light.

  I squeeze back and study him as we shuffle forward in line. I got it so wrong. I thought he was so comfortable with himself, so at home in his body. I flash back to him dancing through the park, making faces at those kids. I’d assumed he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. I flash back again, to another moment
—him looking around nervously before our Grand Central Market meal, making sure no one was photographing him. Taking the smallest, most delicate bite of a taco possible when all he wanted to do was dive in with gusto.

  The truth is, he cares maybe too much. Because he has to.

  “So that moment when the roller coaster drops off—that moment when everything comes out,” I say. “That feels freeing to you?”

  “Yeah,” he says, shooting me a grin. “It’s the only time I’m not hyperaware of what I look like, how I must seem. Maybe one of the only times I can let go and just feel.”

  “What are the other times?” I can’t help but ask.

  He meets my gaze and looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his mouth quirks into the softest of half smiles and he leans in close, his lips brushing my hair again.

  “The alley,” he murmurs. “By Jitlada.”

  “Oh” is all I can say. And despite the warm summer air, a shiver runs through me.

  We make it to the front of the line, and the ticket taker ushers us into our little car and instructs us to pull down the big foam bar that’s supposed to keep us secure. Personally, I’ve always thought these things are way too flimsy. How does a simple piece of foam protect you from flying into the Pacific Ocean if this creaky-ass roller coaster makes a wrong move?

  I breathe deeply and try to slow my rapidly beating heart. I’m all buckled in now, there’s no turning back. And I want to do this. I do.

  I grab on to the big foam bar and curl my fingers tightly around it.

  “You okay?” Henry asks, his gaze falling to my white knuckles. He’s tucked his incognito baseball cap into his back pocket, totally set for the coaster.

  “Fine!” I say, trying to make my voice sound all easy-breezy. It comes out more like a pathetic yelp.

  “You want to hold my hand?” he says, a trace of a smile in his voice.

  “Um, no,” I snap at him. “I said I’m fine. Just getting ready for this super-thrilling roller coaster. I don’t need you to baby me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says—and that smile in his voice just keeps getting bigger.

  Irritation flares in my chest, my nure-onna hissing at him. It’s enough to calm my nerves, and my hands relax a little on the foam bar. Then the roller coaster takes off, shooting us into the first loop, and they tighten right back up again.

  “Yesssss!” Henry yells, waving his arms in the air.

  I keep my hands latched to the bar, not willing to risk being tossed into the Pacific for even a second.

  We speed through a couple of loops, a mild drop or two. Henry shouts and cheers through all of it. I sneak a sidelong look at him and can’t help but feel a little flutter at how goofy he looks, his eyes lit up with pure delight. He is truly himself right now, and there’s something beautiful about that. This is the Henry I know, the one who would cram an entire Egg McMuffin into his mouth without a second thought. If he didn’t have to worry about the cameras, that is, and everything that shattering his perfect image might lead to.

  As we start the slow climb to the top of the coaster, the biggest drop, I hunker down over the bar, my eyes trained forward, my mouth set in a grim line. I must look ridiculous, like I am absolutely set on not having any fun at all. But at least I’m here.

  Our little car creaks its way to the height of the drop, then grinds to a stop. I grip the bar harder, my palms slippery with sweat. I swear I can feel every rusty gear in this contraption, rattling through my bones.

  I want to close my eyes, but I make myself look down and my stomach heaves. Okay, we are really high up. All the people at the carnival look like tiny ants, bustling through their tunnels on the ground below. The expanse of the ocean stretches out in front of us, endless blue. We’re so unprotected. We’re about to be flung into the sea. My sweaty hands slide against the bar, suddenly feeling desperately insecure.

  And then I hear those rusty gears grinding together again as the coaster prepares to let us go.

  “Henry,” I gasp. “Hold my hand.”

  I shove my sweaty hand in his direction, and he grabs it just in time. Just as the coaster dumps us over the edge.

  And then we’re falling, falling, fucking falling . . .

  A scream tears itself from my throat.

  As we careen toward the ground, the ocean, where are we even going, I don’t know anymore, I am flooded with every single feeling I’ve been trying to hold back all week.

  My frustration and rage at not being able to find my mother. My desperate hope to belong with someone, to be wanted, to finally get that piece that will make me whole. My giddiness when Henry looks at me in that certain way.

  All of these things course through my blood, through my bones, through my entire being. That door to my heart feels like it’s flying open, reckless and free.

  We keep falling, and I scream and I scream and I scream. I can’t seem to stop. All of this has to come out.

  And as tears stream down my cheeks, a realization hits me square in the chest.

  I do want that happy ending, goddammit.

  I want to feel whole, complete. I want that dreamy moment that ends every Grace Kimura movie. I want it so badly, and as we plunge to our possible deaths in the sea, I can no longer deny that. Not even a little bit.

  I want it with all I have, everything that’s in my heart, all of these feelings that are flooding through me.

  I throw my head back and scream again, and Henry squeezes my hand tight.

  We finally hit the bottom of the drop, and the car shifts to a flatter track, towing us back to the start.

  “Amazing,” Henry says, pumping his fist as we exit the car. His other hand is still clasping mine—I can’t seem to let go.

  “Are you okay?” he says, as we make our way back to the boardwalk area. “Was that . . .” He stops and faces me, his expression concerned. “Was that all right?”

  I meet his eyes. Take in a few deep breaths. Reach up and smooth his hair, hopelessly mussed from the coaster.

  “It was more than all right,” I say slowly. My voice is hoarse, my throat raw. I nearly screamed myself into oblivion. “It was so . . . exhilarating. Liberating.” I give him a small smile. “I can’t really explain how I feel about anything specific right now, but I do feel like I let some things out that needed to get out.”

  I raise our clasped hands between us.

  “Thank you for holding my hand.”

  He smiles and brushes his lips against my knuckles.

  “Come on,” he says. “We’ve definitely earned some fried cheese.”

  * * *

  The Hot Dog on a Stick stand—which is apparently the original Hot Dog on a Stick stand; all mall kiosks are mere pale imitations—is a bit off the pier and the boardwalk, a cheery red-and-yellow hut plonked down right next to the beach.

  It’s so weird—I’ve lived in LA all my life and never been to the pier, or this stand. I always assumed it would be annoying and loud and touristy and that I’d hate every second. And maybe I would have, if I hadn’t come here with Henry.

  We get a cheese stick for him and a corndog for me (I can’t quite bring myself to commit to his fried-cheese lifestyle) and a giant lemonade to share. Then we walk out into the sand, and he spreads his jacket on the ground for us to sit on.

  “I’ll give you this,” Henry says, waving his cheese stick at the ocean. “New York does not have sunsets like this. This is incredible.”

  He takes a bite of his cheese, settles himself back on his elbows, and grins at the horizon. The sun isn’t really fighting to stay today. It’s more like she’s trying to put on the most majestic show she can manage. Sinking toward the ground with her brilliance painting the sky glorious shades of pink and yellow and orange. Showing us her beauty in one all-consuming explosion of light.

  I take a b
ite of my corndog, reveling in the greasy mix of slightly sweet bread and salty hot dog. And for a moment, we just watch, easy silence settling between us like the softest of blankets. I slip my shoes off and let my toes sink into the sand, still warm from baking all day.

  There’s a sense of calm at my center, after screaming all my feelings out on the roller coaster. Like the door to my heart is just sitting there now, open. And the nure-onna doesn’t seem to mind at all.

  My gaze slides to Henry.

  “Hey,” I murmur to him. “I was just thinking: What if I don’t find Grace?”

  He flips onto his side, his brows drawing together. “You will.”

  “But what if I don’t?” I say. “I . . .” I play with my now hot-dog-less stick, twirling it through my fingers. That sense of calm surges through me again. “I think maybe it would be okay.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  I turn back to the brilliant sunset, taking it in. “I keep looking for her,” I say slowly, “but I think I’ve been looking for something else this whole time. Something bigger. And it was easy to put that all into one person, this mysterious figure who I actually know nothing about.”

  “Like she represented something?” Henry says.

  “Yes. Because like I said before, I thought finding her would magically solve all my problems. I’d feel like I belonged somewhere, with someone. I wouldn’t stick out so much, because everyone would know who I belonged with. I’d stop feeling like the only one with a bad temper, like a constant disruption, like . . .” My throat thickens, and I swallow. “Like a mistake,” I manage. “But . . .” The beginnings of tears burn my eyes, and I swallow again. “I don’t know. The past few days . . . Sensei Mary and Eliza welcoming me back with open arms. My sisters telling me all the ways they feel like they don’t fit in either. Meeting Joanna and all the others at the Asian Hollywood thing . . .”

  “Halfie Club,” Henry murmurs, and I smile.

  “Joanna especially . . . I don’t know, there’s something about seeing this person who looks so much like me, who understands me on this weirdly deep level, and who’s leading this awesome full life and thriving . . . and doing all that because she’s embracing who she is so fully . . .”