by Sarah Kuhn
“Rika . . .” he calls after me, his voice breaking.
I don’t turn around. I don’t want to see everything I’ve destroyed.
* * *
I walk until I can catch a bus, dragging my giant princess dress behind me. I don’t know why I still have it or why I even took it with me in the first place. I imagine how I must look, a sad girl hauling a mass of sparkly tulle down the streets of LA.
It takes three buses and the whole morning to get back to Little Tokyo. When I finally get there, I start to instinctively walk home.
But then I see the huge mob assembled outside Katsu That. There are paparazzi, cameras at the ready. Clusters of girls craning their necks to try to see inside. I swear I see the denizens of the Becky table in there. A buzz of excitement floats through the air, surrounding the restaurant like an overeager swarm of bees. For the first time ever, the windows are dark. The place is closed.
After struggling and sacrificing and fighting like hell for so many years, Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och actually had to close their beloved restaurant for the day. All because of me.
Before all this, I was a scandalous mistake who could disappear into the shadows. Now I’m a scandalous mistake who’s going to ruin her family.
My Aunties, who worked so hard for their place in this community. Belle, who yearns for her own happy ending. Rory, who is destined to do something brilliant one day.
I will never belong here. It would be better if I left, if they didn’t have to deal with me anymore.
I don’t know exactly where I’m going, so I start wandering in the opposite direction of the restaurant. In the back of my mind, I’m all too aware that this giant-ass dress makes me super conspicuous and I probably need a place to hide while I plan my next move.
I need a good shadow to sink into.
My legs take me to the place they were meant to go all along: the JACCC garden and the onryo tree. A place where I feel hidden and safe—and where my mother apparently did, too, all those years ago.
Luckily, the building and the garden are deserted today. I guess everyone’s too busy trying to ferret out the Secret Love Child.
I crawl under the tree, trying to let its long, drooping branches soothe me. For some reason, I wrap my Cinderella dress around me, like some kind of shield. I sit there for a long while and make myself very, very still—completely hidden from view. And I wait. For what, I’m not sure. I just know that I can hide here. I watch the patterns of the sun change as light filters through the tree, casting shards of brightness on my dark little nook. I don’t know how much time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.
Before I know it, my body starts to feel heavy, all the adrenaline from the day leeching into the soft grass beneath me. Then my eyes are fluttering closed and I’m asleep, my beautiful ball gown spreading over me like a blanket made of fairy dust.
* * *
It’s dusk when I wake up. The light has stopped filtering in through the tree, and the sky is beginning to darken. My head feels muzzy, like it’s stuffed with cotton. I rub my eyes and note that my cheek probably has some very interesting patterns dented into it after being pressed to the grass for so long.
I pull my phone out and check the screen. Endless messages. A long scroll of notifications. I dismiss them all.
I decide to check social media, just to get a read on what’s happening. Unsurprisingly, the story has blown up there, too, speculation flying about the SECRET LOVE CHILD. Uncle Taki and Craig Shimizu have already posted long, rambling comments on the Nikkei Week website about how Grace Kimura’s entire family should be banned from the festivities for this disgraceful scandal.
That ban should start NOW, Craig’s comment reads. Belle Rakuyama and her family do not embody our values or the Japanese American pride that our sacred festival is supposed to celebrate. She should be decrowned immediately and should not be allowed to claim the title in any way whatsoever. Rest assured that my father and the rest of the board are taking this matter very seriously.
We cannot allow our traditions to be tarnished, Uncle Taki’s comment insists. The Rakuyamas should not simply be banned from this year’s Nikkei Week. They should be banned FOR LIFE.
And there’s more. Of course there are plenty of comments about me, how I’ve always been a disruptive force, a sour mark on the community. I don’t care about that. It is, after all, nothing new.
But there’s also stuff about how Belle doesn’t fit the image Nikkei Week is trying to project, does not seem like the classic Japanese American princess for reasons. A snarky comment about Rory’s failure to make perfect mochi at the demonstration and how she always “dresses like a weirdo.” A very pointed screed about my Aunties’ restaurant, how it should be boycotted, how they also do not fit with Little Tokyo’s traditions or image.
That last one sends me over the edge and I feel my blood heat to the boiling point, a red haze descending over my vision.
How fucking dare they say any of that about my family?
There’s no one in Little Tokyo more queenly than Belle—and no one who works harder to be that fabulous. There’s no one more brilliant than Rory, an actual genius in so many ways. And my Aunties . . . angry tears prick my eyes, my kaiju-temper snarling like mad. They’ve worked so hard. Just to be accepted by a community that should have embraced them from the beginning.
The rage burns through my body, and my hands shake with fury.
I put down the phone, my nure-onna brain crafting a cunning plan. The Nikkei Week gala is tonight. And despite all my protests to the contrary, I’m going to go.
I’m going to use all this rage to proclaim myself publicly disowned from the Rakuyama family. I will tell all of Little Tokyo that they should never be tainted by me again.
I will throw myself away in the most public way possible.
Then maybe my family can get the happily ever afters they deserve.
I’m not dressed for a gala . . . and I guess this is why I insisted on hauling this ridiculous princess dress with me.
I scoop it up and get to my feet, marching toward the JACCC bathroom. I change quickly, wrapping myself in all that tulle, all those sparkles.
It fits perfectly.
I bunch my other clothes into a tight ball, cram it under my arm, and turn to the mirror next to the bathroom’s entrance.
The girl looking back at me is not a girl I’ve seen before. She’s in that big princess dress, those sparkles swirling over her body like pixie dust. The tulle looks like fluffy clouds sewn into place. The full skirt shimmers under the dim bathroom light, its magic refusing to be muted. The skirt is a little torn at the bottom and spotted with patches of dirt and grass stains, but there’s no denying it: this is a girl in a princess dress.
But she’s an angry girl in a princess dress. Her hair is tangled and festooned with leaves and other bits of garden greenery. Her eyes are wild, flashing with rage, and she looks like she’s ready to breathe fire on whoever wronged her.
She looks like a princess. She looks like the nure-onna. She looks like a bunch of things that should not go together, but somehow do.
And for perhaps the first time ever, I feel something settle in my chest. A click into a place. An acknowledgment of the power I see, staring back at that girl.
Because that girl makes sense to me. She feels whole.
I’m not just living in my own skin, I’m celebrating it.
Celebrating it with rage, that is.
I remember what Joanna said about anger pushing you forward. Giving you power.
I feel that power right now, bright and alive and thrumming through my veins. No one is going to mess with the Rakuyamas—I’ll make sure of it.
I stomp out of the bathroom, clothes clutched under my arm—I’m still wearing my gold Adidas, since Grace’s dress didn’t come with any glass slippers. I march through the garden and back to
Little Tokyo’s main drag. The gala always takes place in the courtyard of the Japanese American National Museum, which is at the end of the street. In the distance, I see twinkle lights and colorful lanterns strung through the trees, beckoning me.
It doesn’t look like anyone’s there yet, which is odd. Dusk is about to give way to night, and people should be starting to gather. At the very least, Belle’s court should be assembling for photo ops.
Unless she’s been decrowned already.
That sets my blood boiling all over again, and my marching gets more forceful. My shoulders bunch up, my posture goes ramrod straight. That haze of red swims over my vision again, and I’m just . . . so . . . angry . . .
“Rika . . . Rika-chan!”
A voice punctures my angry bubble. At first I think it’s some kind of auditory hallucination, me hearing things because my brain is burning up with so much rage, concocting things out of thin air.
But then it’s joined by other voices. All yelling my name. They sound so far away . . .
I stop in my tracks and whip around, my princess dress swirling dramatically. I see Belle running toward me, her face a mask of distress. I notice that she’s not all gussied up in her queen attire; she’s wearing her pink sweatsuit, and her hair is stuffed into a messy topknot. Her eyes are red and puffy.
And then I look just beyond her—and I see that she’s not alone.
Rory’s trying to catch up to Belle, her tiny legs not quite getting the job done. Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och hustle alongside her. Sensei Mary’s there. Eliza. Uncle Hikaru. And, like . . . a good portion of Little Tokyo.
It’s another parade, just like the one that kicked off Nikkei Week. Only way more haphazard and distressed-looking, all the joy and festive facade stripped away.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. I’m so confused . . .
Belle reaches me first and sweeps me into a suffocating bear hug.
“Rika! Chan!” she exclaims, sounding like she’s about to either cry or yell at me. She buries her face against my shoulder and squeezes me so hard, all breath leaves my body.
I still don’t know exactly what’s happening—my brain cannot seem to process it. But suddenly everyone else is piling on top of Belle, surrounding me in a very weird group embrace.
“We’ve been looking for you all day!” Rory cries, her voice plaintive.
“Where were you?” Auntie Suzy demands. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?!”
“Or answering, like, anything!” Eliza adds.
“Worried sick!” Auntie Och proclaims. “All of us! You cannot just disappear like that, Rika-chan, I know from watching news that the detectives only care when white girls are missing!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I manage to yelp.
I carefully disentangle myself from the crush of people and face them, trying to figure out how to put my words together. So many feelings are crashing through me all at once.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “None of you are mad?”
“What?!” Belle says, looking at me like I’ve grown another head. “Why would anyone be mad?”
“B-because,” I splutter. “The scandal, the Secret Love Child! All the stuff that’s been simmering underneath the surface for all these years, the scandal centered around me, has finally blown all the way up. I . . .” Tears fill my eyes again, and my voice shakes. I don’t want to cry, but I’m just so overwhelmed. I can’t seem to control anything my body’s doing, not even a little bit. “I’ve never belonged here,” I manage, my voice breaking. “I’ve never belonged to anyone. Not really. I’ve always been a mistake, and this just proves it. That is what I am. What I’ll always be. I can’t deny it, no matter how much it hurts. I can’t deny the truth . . .” My tears spill over and turn into sobs, and now I can’t talk anymore.
In a way, it’s a relief to say all of that. Finally.
“Rika-chan.” Auntie Och’s formidable eyebrows draw together, her piercing black eyes taking me in. “What you saying? That sounds like some kind of garbage. You are family. Of course you belong to us.”
“Hai, yes,” Uncle Hikaru says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And all of Little Tokyo is family in some way. We take care of each other.”
That only makes me cry harder. Auntie Suzy steps forward—and for the first time ever, she doesn’t look tired. She looks like something has awoken inside of her, just enough for her heart to break.
“Oh, Rika—my Rika-chan.” She pulls me against her, wrapping me in the tightest hug she’s ever given me. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I never . . .” She strokes my hair, and I can hear the tears in her voice. She keeps doing that until my sobs quiet, my tears start to dry. Then she pulls back and puts her hands on my shoulders, her eyes glinting with something I’ve never seen before. A certain kind of resolve. I am struck with an eerie feeling, like I’ve gone back in time and am seeing the Auntie Suzy I’ve heard so much about—the one who stood up to her father all those years ago and married Auntie Och. “It’s time to tell you the truth,” she says. “All of it.”
NINETEEN
We all pile into Katsu That—yes, the whole crowd. As people situate themselves in booths and at tables, I spot a familiar face I didn’t notice before.
“Joanna?” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you, I’m your fairy godmother,” she says with a wink. “I saw the gossip this morning, obviously, and tried texting you. But you didn’t answer, so I came down here to see if I could find you. And then happened upon all these other people trying to find you.” She smiles. “So many people care about you, Sweet Rika.”
I don’t quite know what to do with that, so I smile back and then cram myself into a booth next to Belle and Rory, my nure-onna T-shirt clutched in my fists.
“Well,” Auntie Suzy says, surveying the assembled crowd. “I was picturing this as a more, mmm, intimate discussion where I only shared this story with Rika—”
“It’s all right,” I manage to say. “You can tell it in front of everyone.”
I’m not sure why, but it feels like the whole community needs to hear this story, some of their shared secrets finally emerging from the shadows.
“All right, then,” Auntie Suzy says. She draws herself up tall, that defiant glint returning to her eyes. “I guess it’s time we all talked about this properly.”
She trains her gaze on me, so many emotions passing over her face. “Rika-chan. I know you hate a lot of fairy tales. But maybe you’ll like this one—because the ending is so bittersweet.”
She stays standing and turns to gaze out the window, a faraway look overtaking her expression.
“Once upon a time, my sister, Grace Kimura . . . no. Grace Rakuyama.” She smiles slightly to herself. “She and I were as close as two people can be. Our father was strict and often cruel. Our mother was scared of him and rarely said anything—she faded into the background so much, eventually she faded away to nothing. She died of some kind of heart condition—my father would never tell us exactly what—when I was ten and Grace was only three.”
My heart is beating so fast and so loudly, I’m convinced everyone in the restaurant can hear it. A hush has fallen over the crowd as Auntie Suzy tells her tale, her voice clear and strong.
“I remember loving Grace from the moment she was born—I thought that’s what everyone meant when they talked about love at first sight. This sudden full-body pull toward another person. The first time I got to hold her, she looked up at me with the biggest smile, like she somehow knew to trust me completely—and I was gone. When our mother passed, my first urge was to take care of her. To protect her with everything I had.”
Auntie Suzy pauses, her eyes going a little glassy. She’s still looking out the window. Like she can’t quite look at me.
“We were so tightly bonded together—as we got olde
r, sometimes I didn’t know where I ended and she began. Did we both love this certain kind of curry because one of us had first? Or had we developed a taste for it simultaneously, being so in sync? My father never wanted to have girls. He had very little use for us—except when we were fulfilling some kind of outdated notion of what femininity should be. I don’t think Grace ever truly thought that he loved her. So I made sure she knew she was loved by someone. Every day. I was determined that she would never lose that big smile she’d given me when she was a baby.”
My eyes have already filled with tears. I feel like I know where this is going, where it will end up. I want to cry for Auntie Suzy, who has been taking care of other people so selflessly since she was just a child herself. And for my mother, who began a hard life with such joy.
It doesn’t feel like I can cry yet, though. So I hold my breath and fight back the tears, waiting for Auntie Suzy to continue.
“Even when our father disapproved of the things we did, we always had each other. When I became Nikkei Week Queen and fell in love with Och, Grace helped me. Covered for me when we went on dates, things like that. She was convinced that one day our father would approve and we’d all live happily ever after, as a family.” Auntie Suzy’s jaw tightens, her smile twisting. “I knew that would never happen. And when Grace started acting, started having these fanciful dreams of pursuing it as a career . . . well, I knew our father wouldn’t like that, either. But I helped her however I could. At that point, Och and I had gotten married and opened our restaurant, so I would give her money for school play costumes and acting classes, things like that. And I always sent her flowers on opening night.”
I picture my mother, only fifteen, her eyes lighting up as she’s handed a dreamy bouquet of pink flowers. Somehow I just know they were pink.
“And then . . .” Auntie Suzy’s gaze darkens. “She got pregnant. Some boy who was in the play with her—and I’m so sorry, Rika-chan, but I don’t know who he was. Rumor has it that he and his family moved away right after, wanting a fresh start. But there was no fresh start for Grace.” Auntie Suzy takes a deep breath, and I feel like I can practically see inside her brain—all the memories she’s tried to forget for so many years.
