Because I’m no longer Rumi Seto, the girl who believed she’d conquer the world armed with a piano and her best friend at her side. I’ve turned into someone else—someone unstable. I’ve run out of reasons to wake up every morning. I’ve become a corrupted version of myself—a version everyone seems to think is on the brink of self-destruction.
So, knowing all that, why is Aunty Ani trying to get me out of bed so early?
I roll back the other way and pull the sheet up to my neck. “My sister is dead. My mom abandoned me. I’m allowed to sleep in if I want to.”
“I don’t think—” she starts, but something changes her mind. Maybe she thinks it’s too early to argue with me. “It’s three o’clock,” she says, except she pronounces it “tree,” and now I remember where I am.
I press my fingertips against my eyelids and try to imagine a time when I didn’t feel like I ran face-first into a wall of concrete. Aunty Ani moves to my window and pulls the blinds open before cracking the window a few inches. The warm afternoon breeze spills through the room, making everything smell like outside. Like flowers and fruit trees and freshly turned soil. It’s strange and foreign, and it makes me think of where Lea is buried, and that makes me sick.
No matter how much dirt and rock and earth there is for me to dig up, I’ll never be able to reach her. Not really. Because we don’t exist in the same world anymore. I don’t know how to hang on to someone who doesn’t exist in the same world as me. I’m not sure I understand what any of it means.
Aunty Ani looks into the laundry basket, probably realizing she’s completely unequipped to deal with someone like me. Maybe she thought being family would be enough, but family doesn’t mean the same thing to me as it did a month ago.
“I go make you something fo’ eat,” she says at last, hurrying back out of the room before I can object.
I try to go back to sleep, but then it’s too warm and I can smell the aroma of food sifting through the hallway like a scented lure. I’m sticky and hungry, and by three thirty it makes sense to get out of bed.
I find Aunty Ani in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot and adjusting the fire until the flame is barely visible.
She brings her eyes to me briefly and smiles like she’s holding back. “You like eat some saimin?”
I let myself fall into a chair, pressing my hand against my cheek to hold up the weight of me I can’t seem to shake. “For breakfast?” I grimace.
“Oh, you have to wake up breakfast time if you like fo’ eat breakfast.” Aunty Ani gives me a gentle smile and scoops a huge portion of noodles into a bowl and places it on the table. Half a hard-boiled egg and a few slices of bright pink and white fishcake float in the broth.
The food triggers a memory. It tugs my chest like something heavy and metal is pulling at my sternum. A queasiness rolls around my stomach, and I clench my fingers as tight as I can to try to steady myself, my fingers cutting crescent moons in my palms.
It happens a lot these days—the aggressive force of memories coming back to me—and I don’t know how to stop them. I wish I could, because my memories no longer feel like nostalgia. They’re either dreams or nightmares, and—if I’m being honest—most of them feel more like the latter.
But when a memory clicks into my brain like a gear being forced, I have no control over it. The scene just plays out, taking control of my consciousness, forcing me to remember things that are painful and beautiful and horrible all at once.
A memory
The pan sizzles, and a dollop of butter turns from pale yellow to a rich gold so quickly Lea jumps away from the stove, scared she might get burned.
“That’s way too much butter,” I say from the table. I do that a lot—comment from the background, the way people do when they’re watching one of those singing talent shows from their couch. “Not the best song choice,” “He’s so pitchy,” “What is with those dancers?” Lea hates it—no, scratch that, everyone hates it. But I can’t help myself. I’m a commentator.
Lea points the spatula at me. “Stop backseat-driving my breakfast.”
I shrug. “Fine, but I’ll make my own eggs.”
She rolls her eyes and pours the bowl of gooey egg and milk into the pan. “One day you’re going to miss my cooking.”
I snort, turning back to my notebook. The top line says “Flicker Stairs Statue.” With a heavy sigh, I say, “I think we made this one too hard. I feel like I’m writing a poem for Edgar Allan Poe.”
Lea giggles, stirring the eggs around with the tip of the spatula. She laughs the way Mom does—like they breathe in pixie dust and float on clouds. I don’t laugh like that, and I absolutely do not giggle. “I think it should be a love song,” she says.
“You think everything should be a love song. You’re the only person I know who actually thinks Valentine’s Day is a romantic holiday and not a giant marketing scam.”
She looks at me and shakes her head, like I’m the one who doesn’t know anything about anything. Maybe she’s right, or maybe I simply see the world differently than she does, like I’m looking from the outside in. I’m not the kind of person who falls for cheesy cards and bargain chocolate boxes. I’m not really the kind of person who falls in love with anything, if it isn’t my piano and a blank sheet of music.
Love at our age? Pointless.
I hum a melody off the top of my head, tapping my pen to the beat. Lea hums along too, scratching at the pan with the spatula, before letting her notes fall in perfect harmony to mine. A few minutes later, she scoops the eggs onto two plates and sets them on the table.
“Okay, stove is all yours,” she says.
I stand up just as Mom walks into the kitchen. Her hair is in a neat ponytail, and she’s wearing a red shirt with khaki pants. There’s a white name badge with a Target logo in the corner pinned on the left side of her chest that says “Mamo.”
I take a breath, feeling my heart break a little bit when Lea’s face lights up.
“Mom, I made you break—” she starts.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I’m already running late. Rumi, did you take my keys?” Mom is rummaging through her purse, her breathing rapid.
“They’re on the counter,” I say.
“I thought you were off today,” Lea says, her voice breaking at the end.
Mom forces a grateful smile toward me and swipes her keys from the counter. She tries to smile at Lea too, but her eyes are darting everywhere. “They cut my hours at the bar, so I need the extra shifts. I love you guys. Make sure you lock the door if you go anywhere. Oh, and please remember to turn off the lights before you go to bed. Our electric bill is going to be the death of me.” She blows two kisses into the air like she’s flinging them at us and zooms out the door like she’s on roller skates. We listen to the car engine start and the tires roll away.
Lea’s eyes fall to the floor, and she twists her mouth like she’s trying not to cry.
I tap my fingers against the back of the chair, looking at Lea and thinking about how much I hate seeing her so sad.
I sit back down at the table and pull one of the plates toward me, shoveling scrambled eggs into my mouth and staring off into space like it’s not a big deal at all.
A few seconds later, Lea sits down across from me and picks at the other plate with her fork, both of us chewing in silence.
When our eyes finally meet again, Lea’s smiling warily. “Do you still think there’s too much butter?”
I force myself to swallow. “I like your eyeshadow today. I feel like I’m eating neon-colored mucus. Thanks for cooking.” Sandwich method, tried and tested.
Lea laughs so hard she starts to cough, and I shake my head and keep eating, letting a smile grow on my face too.
“Thanks, Rumi,” she says after she calms down a little.
I nod, letting my fork fall against the edge of the plate. “She’ll remember, you know. Sometime today she’ll remember, and she’s going to feel horrible about it.”
“I don’t want her to feel h
orrible about it.”
“I know. But she will anyway.”
Lea chews the edge of her bottom lip, still fighting the tears she doesn’t want to come. Eventually she nods at me like she understands—like she has to understand, because not understanding would only make Mom’s life harder, and she works harder than anyone we know.
We finish eating, put our plates in the sink, and when we’re both standing near the doorway waiting for the other person to walk through first, I wrap my arm around Lea’s shoulder and press my head against hers.
“Happy birthday,” I say.
She blinks away her tears and smiles back instead.
Mom did a lot of things she felt bad about later, but none of them were ever on purpose. None of them were intentional.
Leaving me in Hawaii to grieve alone? Because she needed time to herself? Time without me?
That’s not an accident.
But I know Mom, and one day she’s going to feel bad about it. She’s going to regret leaving me alone when my heart is broken and I’m missing my sister. And the truth is, I want her to feel bad about it. It shouldn’t be as easy as apologizing and moving on.
Because it’s not easy for me.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to forgive her.
I watch the steam rising from the broth for a long time, swirling the noodles around with chopsticks I’m out of practice with. Eventually I slide the bowl a few inches away from me like it’s something foul and rotten.
Standing up more aggressively than I mean to, I say, “I’m going for a walk.” I slide my shoes on and throw myself out the front door before Aunty Ani has time to object. The screen door rattles shut behind me, the noise echoing through the small cul-de-sac.
I take a quick look around. Hawaii is different in the daylight. Brighter, but softer somehow too. And none of the houses are gray at all—Aunty Ani’s is more of an olive green, and the other two are painted a deep cream and surrounded by vegetation.
The only thing that’s dull and gray and dark in Hawaii is me. There’s no color left in my soul, just like there’s no music left in there either. How am I supposed to finish writing a song for Lea when I feel like my heart has been carved out of my chest and the empty, hollow space is all that’s left?
What if music doesn’t belong to me anymore, the way Lea doesn’t belong to this world?
My stomach churns. No—I have to give Lea her wish. I can’t let her down. Not again.
When I turn to my left, I notice the old man from last night standing in his front yard. His thumb is pressed to the end of a hose pipe, and a spray of water covers the row of flowering plants in front of him. His eyes, heavy with time, watch me the way someone watches a fly trapped between blinds and a windowpane—like he knows the struggle ahead of me, even if I don’t see it myself.
“You goin’ break da screen door you slam ’em around li’dat,” he says suddenly, his accent much heavier than Aunty Ani’s and his thumb never leaving the hose. There’s a small black dog at his heels, yapping at the sky and the ground and everything in between.
I feel my entire body recoil, and the man watches me like he’s watching a chessboard. He notices too much. I don’t like it.
“It’s a door,” I reply tersely.
“Not your door,” he replies with just enough grit in his voice. The yapping continues, but he doesn’t seem fazed.
“Mind your own business,” I say, heart racing.
“You da one stay outside my house—yelling, slamming da door, and acting all lolo. Huh!” He snorts. “If you no like talk to me, den stop making all kine humbug fo’ everybody.”
My eyes dart back and forth. I know I shouldn’t engage. Not even Lea would need to point that out. There is no version of this scenario where getting into an argument with an elderly man is a good idea.
But Lea is dead. So who am I to do any kind of rational decision making?
I don’t even bother with the sandwich method. “If you care so much about keeping the neighborhood quiet, then try shutting your annoying dog up,” I spit angrily, balling my fists like I’m trying to crush his glare within my fingers.
He watches me, twisting his mouth like he’s chewing on tobacco. And then—without the least bit of warning—he turns the hose on me.
I let out a sharp yelp as the cold water collides with my body. I raise my hands to protect my face, but it’s already too late. My hair is stuck to the sides of my temples, my clothes feel like they weigh an extra twenty pounds, and there’s a giant puddle beneath my feet. I’m completely soaked.
“What the hell?” I sputter when he finally aims the water back toward his plants.
My voice startles the small dog, causing the yapping to temporarily stop. The black mutt retreats behind its owner and lowers its head cautiously. Because I’m no longer a stranger—I’m the girl who just became archenemies with an eighty-year-old.
“Dat’s to cool off,” he says with a straight, emotionless face.
“You realize you just committed assault,” I growl, angrily wiping the water away from my eyes. I don’t know if it’s my blood boiling at one thousand degrees or the sun, but even though I’ve just been hosed down like a pair of muddy boots, my skin feels like it’s on fire.
He turns away, waving the green hose back and forth over his small garden.
“I could call the cops,” I try again.
He looks at me, nostrils flared, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What, now you’re going to ignore me?” The racing inside my chest grows. I feel like the veins in the side of my head are going to explode. “After you ruined my clothes? Because I slammed a door?”
“You, you too much noise,” he says stiffly.
“You have issues!” I shout, spinning around and marching back into my aunt’s house like I have a plan.
I don’t. I barely know where I am.
I slam the door—again—and find Aunty Ani with her arms crossed near the window. She eyes me from head to toe and tilts her head slightly, her gaze disapproving.
“Please no make humbug with the neighbor. He no care fo’ teenagers,” she says.
“Are you kidding me?” My mouth hangs open, and I motion toward my clothes. “Look at this. He tried to drown me. I’m not humbugging anyone.” My shoulders start shaking. It’s probably because I’m wet and cold, but I don’t really feel it. Maybe when you have too much emotion raging inside of you, you feel hot all the time.
“Mr. Watanabe is your elder,” she says calmly, like she’s talking to a small child. “You have to talk to him with respect.”
The fire swirls inside me. “I don’t care how old he is. I don’t need to respect anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Aunty Ani sighs like a balloon slowly releasing air. I don’t think she’s irritated with me—she doesn’t know what to do with me.
I’m not her daughter. We’re only family by blood. And I just lost my best friend—my sister—who is never coming back no matter how many doors I slam. Neither one of us was trained to deal with a situation like this.
Aunty Ani’s eyes fall to the fresh puddle appearing on the wooden floor. “Go change clothes. We can talk after, yeah?”
I look down. I’m wearing a T-shirt from a One Direction concert and a ripped pair of white jeans. They’re Lea’s. I stopped wearing my own clothes weeks ago.
I shake my head, the drenched strands of my hair flopping against my cheeks. “I don’t want to change, and I don’t want to talk. I’ll dry off outside.”
I find a chair at the back of the house, lean back so the sun lands on every inch of my face, and force myself back to sleep so I don’t have to spend another minute awake.
CHAPTER FIVE
I think the people who invented smartphones never bothered to think about what it would be like for people in mourning. Or maybe they did know, and they didn’t care.
The first few weeks after Lea died, my phone was constantly buzzing. You know those epic battle scenes in mo
vies when entire armies rush at the screen like a stampede of amped-up adrenaline? That’s what my phone was like, but in the form of notifications. Text messages, phone calls, e-mails, social media. A never-ending slew of “I’m sorry” and “Are you okay?” and “My condolences.”
Except the battle eventually came to an end. The stampede passed. And it didn’t end in a trickle either, the way I thought it would—it just stopped, maybe a week or two after it happened. Like Lea’s death didn’t matter anymore. Like it was old news.
There was so much noise, and then there was silence. But both of them were constant reminders that Lea was gone.
A few of my friends tried to keep in contact. Alice tried the hardest, which was both surprising and completely expected. Surprising because Alice stopped caring about my feelings around the same time she hooked up with Caleb, and completely expected because, well, it’s Alice, who feeds off melodrama and gossip, and what could be more gossipy than knowing someone who recently died?
Other people tried to reach out too—maybe to make sure I was still alive—but I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say to people anymore. I’m not okay, and I probably never will be. I don’t want to die, but I want to be in the same place she is. I’m not sure where to go from here.
It’s too heavy for normal people. It’s even too heavy for me, not that I’m really all that normal.
I look down at my phone. No missed calls. No text messages. No notifications. And not a single word from Mom.
What’s the point of even having a phone?
I march to the bathroom, lift the toilet seat, and drop the cell phone into the water like it’s a penny in a mall fountain.
It doesn’t make me feel better, but at least I don’t have to be reminded anymore.
An engine rumbles outside the bathroom window. I peer through the blinds and see the boy from next door lifting a cooler onto the back of a pickup truck.
Normally I wouldn’t care. Boys and trucks and coolers are about as foreign to me as people who think the best music is the stuff on the radio.
But I can hear it, somewhere between the laughing and the engine. I can hear the song.
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