The Book of the Pearl

by Carrie Asai

  “I’ve been thinking about last night all day, Heaven. I just can’t get over how much you rock!” Cheryl stirred the macaroni into the cheese sauce, then glopped it into a baking dish, spilling some of it onto the counter.

  “Oh, please. It was nothing. I think it seemed more impressive because you’d had a little too much to drink.”

  “Well, that’s an understatement…I waswasted! ” Cheryl said cheerfully. “But I know what I saw, and it was cool.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “Really, it’s just a few little things.”

  “Youhave to show me how you did that. Iso want to be able to protect myself the way you did last night.” Cheryl pulled salad stuff out of the fridge and tossed it onto the counter.

  “Here, let me wash the lettuce,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to change the subject.

  “Seriously. Do you think you could teach me how to do some moves?”

  “I’m not good enough to train anyone,” I said, ripping off lettuce leaves. “Why don’t you just take a self-defense class or something?”

  “Why spend the money when I have a badass martial arts diva living in my own house? Come on…,” Cheryl wheedled, chopping a tomato with manic glee. “What could it hurt?”

  “You know—what happened last night was just luck. Those guys were drugged up and scared and didn’t really know what they were doing. They were practically babies.”

  “Still,” Cheryl said, undeterred, “most people can’t do what you did. How did you start training with Hiro, anyway? I mean, what made you decide to do that?”

  I turned toward the sink, concentrating on washing each leaf of lettuce thoroughly. I’d known these questions might come up eventually—expected it, even—but I’d hoped somehow that I’d be able to avoid them. What was I supposed to tell her? That I had to learn how to protect myself because someone, somewhere, was determined to kill everyone in my family? That I’d been the victim of two ninja attacks already and now it looked like I was up against the Japanese mafia? Telling Cheryl would just put her in more danger than she probably was already just for being my friend. I turned around.

  “Cheryl—I’m sorry. I just really can’t talk about that. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just…I’m sorry,” I repeated softly. Cheryl’s smile faded. I could tell she was hurt. The loneliness I’d felt earlier that day came flooding back. No matter how much I wanted to reach out, I couldn’t. Just being who I was put an unbridgeable distance between me and anyone I cared about.

  “Why can’t you? Don’t you trust me?” Cheryl asked, still joking around.

  “Of course I trust you.” I smiled. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what? Your secrets can’t be that deep and dark. Besides, I’ve toldyou lots of things.”

  It was true. Cheryl was the kind of person who was into total disclosure. If she liked you, she’d tell you all her most private secrets.

  “I know you have. And if they were just my secrets, you know I’d tell you. But this one—I just can’t. Please understand,” I pleaded, wanting so bad to just tell her the whole story. But I couldn’t.

  “Okay, whatever,” she said quietly, going back to her chopping. “That’s fine.”

  But it wasn’t fine. I could tell.

  “So why don’t you tell me more about Marcus?” I asked, hoping to smooth things over.

  “He was nice,” Cheryl said without enthusiasm, “whatever.” She was definitely hurt. But what could I do?

  “I’d tell you if I could,” I said softly. “Please believe me.”

  Cheryl was quiet for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Okay. I just really wish you trusted me.”

  “Cheryl! I do trust you!” I threw my arms around her. “I trust youtons. ”

  “Ouch! You’re going to get stabbed next time you do that,” Cheryl said, trying to be funny. But I wasn’t so sure she was convinced that my silence had nothing to do with her.

  “So…are you going to see Marcus again?” I pressed, trying to break the ice and steer us back to regular conversation.

  “Mayyyybe…,” Cheryl said, her voice growing warmer. I knew she couldn’t stay mad for long.

  “Why don’t you come with me to Vibe tonight?” I asked hopefully. “Will he be there?” I reallydid want Cheryl to come—suddenly it seemed kind of daunting to be going back there on my own, even though I knew it was a great job.

  “He might—but I can’t go out. I have an early shift tomorrow, and I barely made it through today without falling over. Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “Cool,” I said. Cheryl and I chatted about Marcus while we finished prepping dinner, and for the moment things felt homey and comfortable. It was nice to be there in the warm kitchen, making some American food and knowing that I was about to go out and earn some money. One of the best things about being on my own in L.A. was that I was learning how to cook. At home all our meals were cooked for us—and though they were delicious, they’d always catered to my father’s tastes—not mine. It was liberating to be able to have comfort food when I wanted it and not have to sit down to a dinner of Japanese haute cuisine or a cut of meat slathered in a rich French sauce. Although come to think of it, I’d been craving some yakiudon lately—stir-fried noodles. Now that I’d have more money and time (I pushed the thought of my argument with Hiro out of my head), I could go shopping in Little Tokyo and buy what I needed to cook some traditional Japanese recipes. I’d have to get a cookbook, though. Pathetically enough, I’d never cooked anything but microwave popcorn until Hiro took me in.

  Cheryl and I brought our plates over to the coffee table. Just as I was about to dig in, Cheryl jumped up.

  “I almost forgot! Look what I picked up for you.” Cheryl dug through her bag and took out two DVDs. “Check it out.”

  “Fear of a Black Hatand8 Mile, ” I read out loud.

  “So you can get up to speed on your hip-hop knowledge.Fear of a Black Hat is old school—and I’m sure you’ve heard about8 Mile. Eminem is still, like, everywhere. I can’t tell if I like him or I hate him.” Cheryl looked pensive.

  I stared at the movies, feeling guiltier than ever that I couldn’t be honest with Cheryl. “That’s the nicest thing…,” I said. I wasn’t used to people going out of their way for me because they wanted—and not because my father was paying them to do it.

  “You can watch them whenever. I’m actually kind of surprised you haven’t seen them, Miss Movie Buff.”

  “I wanted to see8 Mile, but my father wouldn’t let me. I’ll definitely check them out soon.”

  “So what are you going to wear tonight?” Cheryl asked through a mouthful of mac ’n’ cheese.

  “I don’t know. Any suggestions?” I hadn’t even thought about what to wear to Vibe. I didn’t have that many options. I’d picked up some new clothes with the money my father sent me before he was attacked, but my wardrobe was still pretty slim.

  “Any suggestions? Are you kidding? We’ll get youall tricked out! Never fear, Cheryl is here!”

  I grinned. I couldn’t wait to get back to Vibe. And that mac ’n’ cheese sure tasted good.

  At ten on the dot I found myself in front of Vibe. There was already a line, but I went right up to the velvet rope. The bouncer greeted me with a smile, opened the door, and waved me in.

  “I’m Heaven,” I said, with an awkward little wave.

  “I know. And you areheavenly, my dear. I’m Matt.”

  Matt had been so sweet that I forgave the pun. At leastsomeone seemed to approve of me. As I walked down the darkened staircase into the quiet club (it didn’t officially open until eleven), I took deep breaths and tried to relax. I was nervous as hell. Without Cheryl around to help me out, I felt every inch the new kid in school.

  A. J., the bartender, was lining up glasses behind the bar and talking to a tall guy with cornrows who sat on one of the bar stools nursing a beer. A. J. looked up as I approached and flashed a smile.

  “Hey, Heaven, what’s up? Good to see you.”
>
  “Hey,” I said, feeling only slightly less nervous. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, good. You look great.”

  “Thanks,” I said, a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t exactly sure what to wear.” With Cheryl’s help I’d slithered into a tiny black cocktail dress with a deep cowl neck. She’d parted my hair into sections and twisted each one back and pinned it up. I felt a little naked, but I had to admit—I lookedgood. My motorcycle boots completed the outfit, much to Cheryl’s dismay.

  “Well, you chose right,” A. J. said. “Heaven, meet DJ Slavo—he’s going to be spinning for us tonight. Straight from London!”

  “Really?” I said, shaking DJ Slavo’s hand. “I love London!” I’d always been a little bit of an Anglophile—Hello!was one of my favorite tabloids. Or maybe it was just the Cadbury chocolate that had won me over.

  “You’ve been?” he asked, in a surprisingly high and lilting voice. I couldn’t quite place his accent. He didn’t smile, just fixed me in a hazel-eyed stare. Suddenly I felt like my exclamation had been impossibly stupid.

  “Oh, sure,” I said, trying to sound less enthused and more chill. “I used to go with my family. I grew up in Tokyo and—” I stopped, horrified. Something about Vibe made it easy to forget that the less people knew about me, the better off I was.You’re just being paranoid, Heaven, I told myself, but for a second I was frozen. I didn’t know how much to say.

  “And…?” DJ Slavo said, raising his eyebrows. He looked like he didn’t believe me.

  “And…w-well, nothing,” I stammered, trying to recover.Stupid Heaven! “London’s a great city, but I never really got a chance to go to any clubs there.”

  “I only recently moved there myself,” DJ Slavo said, still looking at me like I was some sort of alien. “I’m from Senegal originally.” His voice was mesmerizing—so distinctive. I smiled tentatively at him, blushing. He probably thought I was a huge dork.

  I perched awkwardly on a stool and sat quietly as A. J. and DJ Slavo continued their conversation, afraid I’d blurt out something else inane if I tried to chime in. They mentioned people I’d never heard of, with names like Fab Five Freddy and Afrika Bambaataa. It was fascinating just listening to them, really. It made me think about how starved I’d been for any kind of learning—back in Tokyo, learning was my full-time job. I studied all day with tutors and alone, learning all the things my father thought fitting for the daughter of a proud samurai family. Back then, I’d hated him for making me work so hard, but now that I wasn’t doing it anymore, I kind of missed it.

  “Did you ever check out the hip-hop scene in Tokyo?” A. J. asked. His brown eyes twinkled as he lit a row of candles along the bar. He looked a little bit out of place at Vibe, too, which made me feel better. He was tall and thin, with a thick thatch of golden brown hair that stuck out wildly in all directions. If I’d seen him on the street, I’d never have pegged him as a hip-hop kind of guy. But that’s what was so great about Vibe—there was no onetype.

  “Not really,” I answered, “but I know there were a lot of hip-hop clubs in the Shibuya district. Japanese rap is a little funny—over there, if you like hip-hop, you totally embrace the styles, the music—but something’s missing.”

  “Blackness?” DJ Slavo offered, and laughed.

  “Maybe,” I said, smiling. “It is pretty funny when you hear a bunch of Asian kids trying to be all ‘down.’ ”

  A. J. sighed. “It’s so weird how that happens—people are always trying to be the ‘other.’ ”

  “Yeah,” DJ Slavo said, “but there’s actually some interesting stuff coming out of Tokyo right now. You’ve obviously heard ‘Heaven’s Gone,’ right?”

  My stomach dropped. “What?”

  “You know, that Funkitout song—about a girl named Heaven?” DJ Slavo looked skeptical again. Did he think I was lying?

  I shook my head. This wasreally bad news.

  “Oh—I just assumed you’d heard it—maybe even took the name ‘Heaven’ from it.” DJ Slavo studied my face as he gulped at his beer.

  “Heaven’s my real name,” I said quietly, feeling the blood rush from my face. I could only hope that the song wasn’t actually about me. But back when I was in all the papers after the plane crash, people had made up songs about my story…

  “I have a bootleg of it. I can burn a copy for you if you want.”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “I’d like to hear it.” What else could this day throw at me? I wondered.

  “But you have to promise to translate it for us, too,” A. J. said. “I’ve heard it a few times and I’m dying to know what the lyrics mean.”

  “No problem,” I said, hoping it wouldn’t be.

  “Well, I’d better get ready.” DJ Slavo headed back to the corner of the club where his tables were set up. A. J. looked at his watch.

  “Oh God—it’s almost eleven. Where’s Nina?”

  “Nina?”

  “She’s one of the other bartenders.”

  As if on cue, Nina came running down the steps. She was the model type I’d seen behind the bar the night before.

  “Sorry, A. J., sorry!” Nina gasped, throwing her leather jacket off to reveal a minuscule halter top that hung perfectly off her graceful frame. PureVogue.

  “Nina—you’ve been late every night this week!”

  I stared at Nina as she and A. J. spatted over her start time. She had to be atleast six feet tall in her heels, and with her dark skin and shaved head she was beyond runway—she was supermodel. Huge hoops dangled from her ears, and a necklace made of dark red shiny beads nestled on her collarbone.

  “Who’s this?” Nina asked, looking me up and down. I stood up from the stool.

  “I’m Heaven,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Nina offered me a limp hand, then jerked it away with barely a touch. My palmswere a little sweaty, but it was still kind of rude, I thought.

  “Heaven’s gonna be the new shot girl,” A. J. said.

  Nina stared at me. “Just remember—ifI’m making the shots,you’re splittin’ the tips.”

  I looked at A. J. He rolled his eyes.

  “I’ll be making Heaven’s shots until she learns how to do it, Nina. Don’t worry. And she’ll be keeping her tips.”

  “Whatever you say,” Nina huffed. “I’ve got to go fix my face.” She flounced off to the bathroom.

  “She’s amazing looking,” I said, feeling suddenly young and exceedingly unglamorous.

  “Maybe a littletoo amazing looking.” A. J. sighed. “She’s got some modeling stuff going on, so she’s kind of chronically late. Not to mention that she’s a total pain-in-the-ass diva.”

  “Oh.” I’d never met a real live model, though I was anything but surprised. I felt like shrinking another inch or two. With Nina around, why did they needme?

  “Anyway,” A. J. continued, “she draws the guys in. They love her. Don’t let anything she says get to you. Listen—if you’re late, by the way, just give a call and let me know. That’s one of the only rules around here.”

  “Cool. What can I do?” Might as well make myself useful.

  “Well, first I need to show you how to make some shots. We’ve got a few minutes before Matt opens the doors, and no one really starts showing up until midnight, anyway. I’ll teach you to make a couple of kinds, but you won’t have to make them for yourself until things get busy around one. Before that, just bring your tray over and I’ll hand you a fresh one.”

  A. J. pulled bottles down onto the bar and lined up glasses on a tray. Now that I had something to do, I started to loosen up and enjoy myself. Pouring the liquor into the tiny shot glasses was almost like chemistry or something.

  “Here, taste this,” A. J. said, holding out a purple concoction.

  I sniffed it suspiciously.

  “Go on.”

  I gulped it. Delicious. “It tastes like grape,” I said happily.

  “It’s called a ‘purple haze.’ Very popular,” said A. J., smiling.
He pulled out some lemons from behind the bar and went back to work like a mad professor over his test tubes. “And this is a ‘lemon drop.’ Vodka, lemon juice, and sugar. Simple, yet delicious.”

  I picked up one glass and A. J. another.

  “Cheers,” he said, and we drank.

  “Ooh.” I squinted, making a face. “Sweet and sour.” I laughed. DJ Slavo was spinning now, and I was starting to think this job might actually turn out to be as fun as I’d imagined. A. J. filled up the remaining glasses and handed me a wad of cash.

  “All right, killer,” A. J. joked, “get out there and do your thing.”

  I took a deep breath and grabbed the tray, surprised to find that I was so tense, my knees were shaking. I felt obvious with only a few people in the bar. It seemed so daunting to have to go talk to all these strangers, and I hardly knew what to say. I tried to think of how the waiters had acted at all the parties my father had thrown or the engagement parties I’d had to attend with the Yukemuras before I left Japan. They never really said much, although in retrospect I guess they did look a little scared. I adjusted my face into what I hoped was a pleasant, competent look and approached a table of three guys. They were deep in conversation, and I wasn’t sure if I should interrupt.

  “Would you like a shot?” I squeaked. They kept talking. I cleared my throat and repeated the question, but it came out way too loud. The guys looked at me strangely.

  “What?” said the one in the center of the booth. He seemed like their leader somehow.

  “Shot?” I repeated, wanting to sink through the floor.

  “What kind are they?”

  “Ummm…lemon drops,” I blurted. “Or purple haze.”

  “What’s in the purple haze?”

  My mind went blank. “They taste like grape,” I said, kicking myself mentally. What had A. J. said? “Grape shnopes,” I said.

  “You mean schnapps?” one of the guys said, looking at his friends and grinning.

  “Scnappes, that’s right.” I wanted to sink into the floor. “They’re really good,” I added pathetically.