First Uncle’s smile faded as he turned to Grandfather. First Uncle bowed deeply, holding the bow until Grandfather touched his shoulder. When First Uncle straightened, he looked sad. Sad—and sorry for something. But what?
The sounds of the crowd seemed to pause as Hiroshi waited for Grandfather to speak. Grandfather opened his mouth, closed it again, and breathed in. And then he spoke: “I have allowed a misunderstanding to come between us. It is time we let it go.”
With those words, First Uncle’s real smile returned.
The airport sounds came flooding back, and Hiroshi shared his own real smile with Father.
“You must be Hiroshi, of course.” First Uncle started to bow, and Hiroshi rushed to complete his bow first.
“It is an honor to meet you, First Uncle.” First Uncle laughed, and Hiroshi couldn’t help thinking how American he looked—that laugh exposed all his teeth, clear back to the molars.
“You look exactly like your father did at your age, Hiro-chan. And you sound just like him, too.” Hiroshi didn’t know if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, but he thanked First Uncle, just in case.
“Are we all ready?” First Uncle asked. “Cathy and Sorano are looking forward to meeting you.”
Cathy? Trying to pronounce that one would take some practice. Luckily Hiroshi could just call her Aunt. He had practiced saying it in English and hoped she would be pleased. At least Sorano had a Japanese name.
Leaving the airport, the first thing Hiroshi noticed was the sky—scattered shreds of soggy, gray winter clouds mixed with patches of blue. Hiroshi trailed his suitcase behind him, wheeling it over the curb. The wind gusted, giving Hiroshi a push, and then scurried away. It was as if this American wind were introducing itself, showing off its strength.
“Good kite-flying wind, Hiroshi.” Grandfather placed his hand on Hiroshi’s shoulder. Father, Mother, and First Uncle walked ahead, lost in conversation.
Hiroshi nodded. “I guess.” He thought of the box wrapped in brown paper he and Grandfather had packed with care back in Japan. Inside that box, the dragon kite slumbered. Where is the box now? Has it already arrived in America, ahead of us? What will happen when the dragon wakes? Will it know its way around an American sky?
They arrived at First Uncle’s car. No—it was bigger than a car. It was more like a van, but wider and longer than minivans in Japan. Hiroshi figured First Uncle must have a lot of money—not only to have a car this size, but also to afford a place to park it.
Hiroshi helped Father and First Uncle with the suitcases. Grandfather went to lift a suitcase into the back, but Mother rested her hand on his arm.
“It has been a long trip. You will do me a favor if you wait here with me.” Mother always knew how to turn things around so that helping Grandfather made it seem like he was really helping her.
First Uncle held open the driver’s door for Grandfather. “Father, please. This seat is for you.”
Grandfather frowned and crossed his hands in an X, tapping one hand against the other twice. “It would be best if you would drive, Issei.”
First Uncle looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “Father, this is the passenger side.”
Hiroshi peered in the window and saw that the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car. But First Uncle’s car was a Ford—an American car, so it made sense. A glance at the other cars in the parking lot told Hiroshi that the other cars were all the same—even the Japanese cars had the steering wheel on the left.
As First Uncle pulled out of the parking lot, Grandfather turned to Hiroshi and raised his arms. “Look—no hands!” Hiroshi laughed; it did seem like Grandfather was in the driver’s seat without a steering wheel.
First Uncle pulled through a booth and handed a ticket to a lady sitting behind a window. She said something to First Uncle, and a sign in the window flashed $4.50. Was that a lot of money? Four and a half yen was close to nothing, but he knew American dollars were different. First Uncle said something in English to the lady, and they pulled away.
Grandfather looked at First Uncle with a mixture of pride and confusion. “So that is English?” First Uncle nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Then you are a good English speaker,” Grandfather said, like this was an undisputable fact.
First Uncle laughed. “I still make mistakes, after all these years.”
Mother nudged Hiroshi. “You will learn English just like First Uncle. You will study hard.” The hum of the motor was enough to lull Hiroshi to sleep, and he fought to keep his eyes open. Learning English was the last thing he wanted to think about.
“How far away are the monuments? And the White House?” Grandfather asked, looking out the window.
“We are actually far from the city, Father—about thirty miles.”
Hiroshi tried to remember how to convert miles to kilometers, but the numbers were jumbled in his head. “So why is the airport called Dulles? Is that a town?”
Grandfather looked back and nodded—he must have thought it was a good question, too.
First Uncle looked perplexed. “You know, Hiro-chan, I’m not sure. I think it may be named after someone, but I’m not sure who.” Hiroshi didn’t dare look at his parents. He had just asked a question that First Uncle didn’t know the answer to. Hiroshi hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. But First Uncle laughed. “We’ll have to Google that one when we get home.”
Google? Apparently, America did have some Japanese things.
Hiroshi must have nodded off, because Father had to nudge him awake as they pulled into First Uncle’s neighborhood. Hiroshi blinked. How long had he been asleep? He looked at the houses parading outside his window. They looked just like the American houses in the movies, three or four styles that repeated like a pattern. Each was surrounded by its own park—grass, flowers, bushes, and trees.
The adults had all fallen quiet. Hiroshi was sure Grandfather and his parents were as tired as he was. First Uncle looked like he was concentrating. On what, Hiroshi wasn’t sure.
They pulled into the driveway of a brick house. The park in front looked even fancier than the other houses’ parks—a stone path led to the front door, and bushes no higher than Hiroshi’s ankles lined the path. It was too early for flowers, but Hiroshi recognized the cherry tree that would bloom in the next month or two. In fact, every plant looked as if it had come from the garden outside Grandfather’s workshop in Japan.
When Grandfather got out of the car, he stopped and stared. Hiroshi stood next to him, remembering their garden and wondering who would water it when the spring sun came. Grandfather’s eyes seemed full of remembering, too.
The front door swung open, and the spell was broken. A woman wearing a nervous smile stepped out. She looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands—folding her hands one second, brushing her straw-colored hair back the next. She finally bent somewhere between a nod and a bow, like she couldn’t decide which one to do.
“Hello. Irrasshaimase.“
The Japanese word for “welcome” sounded out of place coming from this American face. First Uncle skipped up the step and stood next to her.
Grandfather bowed and said that it was nice to meet Aunt Cathy. Hiroshi wondered if she’d understood him, but she bowed anyway and said she was happy to meet him, too, in careful Japanese.
“Hello.” Father stepped forward, bowed, then held out his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Tsuki.” It was strange to hear English come from Father’s lips and see him shake hands like an American.
Aunt Cathy seemed relieved. She shook Father’s hand like she didn’t want to let go. “Please, call me Cathy.”
Mother was next. She had been practicing English for the last month and looked like she was about to take an exam. She made it through, “It is nice to meet you.” Then she looked back at Hiroshi, beckoning him to the front.
Hiroshi knew Americans didn’t bow, so he offered his hand, as Father had done. “It is nice to meet you, Aunt.”
&n
bsp; Aunt Cathy smiled and said in rehearsed-sounding Japanese: “Please. It would be an honor if you would call me Oba-chan.“
Hiroshi was surprised that she preferred the Japanese word for aunt, but he smiled back. “Yes, Oba-chan. Okay.”
She led them into the house and said something about Sorano, her daughter. First Uncle translated: “Sorano will be down in a moment. She arrived from soccer practice not long ago, and she is upstairs changing.”
Hiroshi helped First Uncle and Father with the suitcases, which they left at the bottom of the stairs.
“Come,” First Uncle said. “Please have something to eat, and then I will show you to your rooms. You must be tired.” Hiroshi wasn’t even sure what time it was supposed to be. It had to be afternoon, but he felt like he could lie down and sleep all the way through to the next day.
As Aunt Cathy headed toward the kitchen, Mother whispered, “Hiroshi, go and get the gifts from my red carry-on bag. They are in the main compartment.” Hiroshi headed back to the pile of luggage near the stairs. He rummaged around in Mother’s bag, found the gifts, then stood. He turned and crashed right into something hard. The gifts went flying, and Hiroshi staggered back, falling onto a suitcase. When he recovered, a girl stood over him, face red, hand extended.
“Sorry,” she said. “Are you okay?”
So this was his American cousin.
7
Skye
How was Skye supposed to know that Hiroshi would whirl around just as she was jumping down the last step to say hello?
“Gomen nasai,” she managed, thankful she had remembered how to say “I’m sorry” in Japanese. She offered her hand to help him up, but he scrambled to his feet on his own. They bent to retrieve the scattered gifts at the same time and almost bumped heads.
“Gomen nasai,” they said in unison.
Skye laughed. She couldn’t help it. Luckily, Hiroshi laughed, too.
“You are Sorano?”
So he speaks English! Now she wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with the right words in Japanese.
“Yes, my name is Sorano, but all my friends call me Skye. I mean, you’re my cousin, so I guess you can call me Sorano. But I like Skye better.”
Hiroshi stared at her, eyebrows raised.
Uh-oh. Calling herself Skye had probably confused him. Or maybe she’d been talking too fast.
“Sorano?” He looked unsure.
Skye shrugged. “Either one. Sorano, Skye.” He nodded, but she could tell he was still confused. “Um, Sorano is fine.” They gathered the gifts, and Skye shook a few, praying she wouldn’t hear the rattle of broken glass. So far, so good. “I’ll help you carry these, okay?”
He held out his free hand. “Arigato gozaimasu. I can take them in,” he continued in Japanese. “I think my mother wants to present them to you and your parents.”
“Oh! Of course.” Skye handed over the gifts.
When they entered the kitchen, the adults stopped talking and turned. Her dad came forward and put his arm around her. “I see you’ve met your cousin.” He spoke in Japanese.
Skye nodded. “Hai.” Her dad waited, like she was supposed to say more than just “yes.” Her aunt, uncle, and grandfather waited, smiling, like they expected her to break into song—maybe the Japanese national anthem, whatever that was.
Her dad spoke to her in English out of the side of his mouth: “Don’t forget what we practiced.”
How could she forget? She’d memorized all the right things to say, and she’d even practiced bowing. Hands at her sides. Bend at the waist. Bow lower than the adults. Bow lowest for the grandfather. Good grief, it’d been like living in bowing boot camp for the last month.
With a nudge from her dad, she stepped forward. “I am Sk—Sorano.” Now the relatives looked confused—probably thought her name was Sksorano. Better start again. “I am Sorano. Welcome to our home. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Now for the bow—but should she do a general bow, or bow to each person one at a time? She glanced at her dad for some kind of sign, but he obviously wasn’t picking up her distress signal. Luckily Hiroshi’s parents stepped forward and were still smiling, so that had to be good. Although her dad had said that Japanese people always smile in public, even if they’re sad or embarrassed.
“Sorano, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Hiroshi’s mother said with a smile. She had spoken slowly, like she was afraid Skye wouldn’t understand her Japanese. When her aunt bowed, Skye bowed back. But how was she supposed to know right in the middle of bowing if her bow was lower than her aunt’s? Skye ended up bowing with her head raised. Then she repeated the same thing all over again with Hiroshi’s father.
When Skye glanced at Hiroshi, he had a grin on his face, but it didn’t seem like a happy grin. Or an impressed grin at how well his American cousin was doing with his parents. No, Skye decided he was amused. There was probably a no-peeking-when-bowing rule.
Next came the grandfather. He looked younger than she’d imagined. Sure, he was wrinkly, and his hair was as white as milk. Only his eyebrows had traces of the black his hair must have been. But he didn’t stoop, like lots of old people do, and he was tall, like Hiroshi’s dad. His eyes were the youngest thing about him—bright and smiling. She was so busy studying his face that she forgot to bow at first. And she’d completely forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to stare an adult right in the face.
“You are just as lovely as your mother, and your grandmother before you.”
Lovely? No one had ever described her that way, except maybe her parents after they made her dress up for something. She wasn’t pretty like the Ambers of the world, or even pretty like the Chinese American Lucy Lius of the world. Skye was somewhere in the middle—not Asian, not white. Caucasian applied perfectly to her—“Asian” hiding in a word meaning “white.”
“Arigato goziamasu,” Skye said, thanking him for the compliment. “It is an honor to meet you.” Now she remembered to bow, and this time she didn’t look up. She had to hope that her bow was lower than her grandfather’s.
“Please, come and have something to eat.” Skye’s dad pointed them toward the table.
They all murmured about how good the food looked and smelled. It should, since her mom had picked it up from Taka-hashi’s Take-Out over on Little River Avenue. They always had the best Japanese food. Not that Skye liked most Japanese food, but she spied miso soup on the table, her favorite. At least she could use a spoon with the soup—she’d always been a little shaky when it came to chopsticks, like her mom.
“Why don’t you sit next to Hiroshi?” her mom said.
“Excellent idea,” her dad added in Japanese. “I’m sure Hiroshi will have many questions about school.”
Skye only hoped she could answer his questions in Japanese without sounding like an idiot. Maybe he knew enough English so she wouldn’t have to resort to Japanese. Although she was supposed to be practicing so she could pass the stupid exams.
As the plates were passed around, she tried to think of the Japanese words she’d need to answer Hiroshi’s questions about school. She decided to start with the basics. “We’ll be in the same class,” she told him.
“For which subject?” He added some soba noodles into his bowl.
“All of them.” Hiroshi looked surprised, so Skye tried to explain. “We have a different teacher for music, art—” What did they call P.E.
in Japan?—“and sports.” Hiroshi nodded. “Oh, and computers.” Luckily computer was the same word in Japanese.
Hiroshi set his chopsticks down. “You have the same teacher for everything else?”
Skye nodded. “Mrs. Garcia. She’s nice. She knows you’re coming, and she told me you’ll have another teacher for English.”
“Mrs. Garcia doesn’t teach English?”
“Sure, she does. Kind of.” This was turning out to be more complicated than Skye had thought. “It’s more like she teaches everything in English—reading, writing, math, science, history
.” Skye picked up her spoon. “But you’ll go to another teacher for help with the basics in English.”
Speaking of basics, Skye decided that this conversation was exhausting. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d uttered such a long string of words in Japanese.
Hiroshi looked disappointed. He switched to English: “I speak little English. I learn in school.”
Skye hadn’t meant to insult him when she said he needed the basics. Even though he did. Big time. “I’m still working on Japanese,” Skye said. “I go to classes on Saturdays. I still make lots of mistakes.”
When Hiroshi didn’t argue with that, Skye wondered how many mistakes she’d already made in the last five minutes. She figured now would be a good time to stop talking and eat the soup.
Hiroshi seemed lost in his thoughts throughout the rest of the meal, and Skye was relieved she didn’t have to come up with any more Japanese words.
Finally her dad said, “Cathy and Sorano have prepared the rooms upstairs for you. I’ll help you get settled in.” Skye’s aunt, uncle, and grandfather thanked Skye’s mom for the meal. If only they knew they should have been thanking Mr. Takahashi and his Take-Out.
As they filed out of the kitchen, Skye stayed back to help her mom clear the table. Once she was sure the others were out of earshot, she whispered, “What are you going to do for lunch and dinner tomorrow? And the next day?”
Her mom sighed, and Skye realized how tiring the whole meal conversation must have been for her, too. “Good question. We can still order out a few more times, I suppose. The house they’re renting over on Kemp Lane is ready for them to move in. But I’m sure they’ll want a few days to get over jet lag before they get settled.”
Skye pushed the takeout boxes further down into the trash. “I could help you smuggle the food into the house.”
Her mom laughed and pulled Skye into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “I was so proud of you today. And I’m sure Hiroshi appreciated the effort you made to talk with him.”
Flying the Dragon Page 3
