by Sarah Kuhn
My face has gotten increasingly hot as I talk. This is why Atsuko is such a good advice columnist: She always cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Her fans love it. I … only love it sometimes. Like when it’s directed at someone else.
“It was a rock like the ones on those weird rings you’re always wearing, therefore not a strange gift at all,” Atsuko says, unable to let it go. “Actually a very thoughtful gift. Some might even say sweet. Beyond the realm of ‘let’s be friends’ and edging into ‘let’s go on dates and make out and stuff.’ ”
“Well. I don’t know about that,” I say.
The truth is, it was a really thoughtful gift. And yes, I might have spent a night or two crafting elaborate fantasies about Justin’s and my first date, which would somehow involve a scavenger hunt where we searched for different kinds of rocks to turn into all sorts of whimsical jewelry. But then he started texting me and trying to make plans and I just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t move beyond the perfect fantasy I’d made up in my head.
I focus on Bex across the quad. She’s made it all the way over to Shelby Perkiss and they appear to be chatting. Shelby laughs at something Bex says and brushes her long swoop of platinum blonde hair out of her eyes, revealing her multi-pierced ears with their dangly feather earrings. All of this looks flirty, at least from far away. I cross my fingers, hoping it’s going well.
Bex turns and heads back toward us and she looks happy, but I can’t tell if it’s happy like she’s trying to keep from bursting with joy or happy like she’s trying to put on a brave face and not cry after being rejected.
“De-ni-al,” Atsuko says, sounding out each syllable. “Man. What’s the weather like on your lovely continent this time of year?”
“Shut it,” I say.
“What are you so afraid of, Kimi?” she murmurs.
I don’t have the chance to respond, because suddenly Bex is there and her smile is spreading over her face and we can tell she’s happy like the ready-to-burst-with-joy kind.
“She said yeeeesssssss!” Bex sings out, sweeping us into a big group hug. “Ohmygod, you guys, she said yes. We’re going to the movies tonight!”
The candy wrapper dress crinkles against us and then we’re all screaming and I feel like my heart is going to explode. Bex is getting this big, awesome thing she’s wanted for so long and the sheer triumph of that sweeps aside the weird conversation I was just having with Atsuko, overwhelming me with joy.
“Kimi!” Bex pulls out of the hug and grasps me by the shoulders, beaming. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou! The dress did it. It really does make me feel like Ultimate Bex.”
I smile back at her. The sheer force of her happiness is so fully encompassing, like she’s projecting some of her superheroine-ness onto me. Like I helped her get this big, awesome thing she’s wanted for so long. And just for a moment, I feel like Ultimate Kimi.
I practically float home after school. Well, technically I sit in the passenger seat of Atsuko’s old beat-up Mustang and we put the top down and drive through McDonald’s to get french fries and sing along when one of our favorite songs comes on the radio. I feel light as a cloud, nourished by So-Cal sunshine and greasy, salty goodness. And Atsuko, thankfully, doesn’t try to give me advice about anything.
I’m still humming the chorus of the song as I shimmy through the doorway of my house. Which is maybe why I don’t notice Mom until she’s right in front of me.
“Kimi!” she cries, at approximately the same time as I go, “Aggghhh!”
“Sorry, Mom, you startled me,” I say, slipping off my shoes and dumping my messenger bag next to the couch.
“Oh, Kimi-chan, I have incredible news.” Her short, angular bob swings as she gestures. She’s wearing her “outside clothes”—an emerald green silk blouse paired with a black pencil skirt and chunky gold jewelry. Mom’s a freelance graphic designer with an impressive roster of regular clients, so she mostly works from home and keeps to a wardrobe of baggy tunics and patterned leggings. Outside clothes mean she must have had official in-person business today. “I had a meeting at the Eckford Gallery,” Mom says. “The one over on Washington? And …” She clasps her hands together and smiles at me. “I am—what’s the word? In. I have a spot in their Voices of Asian America gallery show next month, which is spotlighting the best and brightest up-and-coming Asian and Asian American artists in the greater Los Angeles area.”
She says it like she’s memorized the promotional catalog blurb—and she probably has.
“Oh, that’s awesome, Mom!” I say, happy for her. My mom is a total artistic badass. Her paintings are wild and bold, splashes of gorgeous abstract color forming all kinds of impossible shapes. Sometimes she’ll stay up all night painting in her studio—a converted garage attached to our house—and bustle into the kitchen the next morning chanting, “Coffee, coffee, coffee,” just waiting for my dad to smile indulgently and hand her a cup. But it’s taken her a while to get to this point.
Mom always wanted to be an artist—going back to when she was a kid growing up in a small town just outside of Kyoto in Japan. But she’s had to put that dream on hold so many times over the years. When her parents disapproved of some of her life choices, for example. And when she had me—all her time and energy had to go into making sure I had food and clothes and could eventually be whatever I wanted in life.
And yes, sometimes I feel guilty about it. More than sometimes.
But recently she’s gotten back to it and started to win spots in gallery shows and I couldn’t be more proud.
“It is a big honor,” my mom is saying. “And …” She takes my hand in hers, squeezing tight. Then she pulls me over to the couch, sitting down and taking me with her. “It’s made me even more excited for your future, Kimi-chan. You will have so many opportunities like this one.” She squeezes my hand again. Her eyes have gotten all bright and shiny and—oh, crap. My mom, who never cries, is tearing up. I find myself getting a little misty in response. “Especially with Liu Academy to your name,” Mom continues. “You’re so young—your whole life is in front of you and you don’t have to put your dreams on hold. You can just go for it. You’re going to do so much.”
My eyes are suddenly very dry and I feel all the triumphs of the day melting away in an instant. Because it doesn’t matter that I made a beautiful outfit for my friend or that it helped her get a date or that Atsuko and I got the freshest, crispiest fries straight out of the fryer after school. No, what matters is that I haven’t completed a single painting this entire semester, I have nothing to show when I start Liu Academy in the fall, and I’m about to be the biggest disappointment ever to my mother, who sacrificed her dreams so I can have mine.
I am awash in guilt—a heavy, oppressive force that wipes the smile from my lips and makes my shoulders slump, settling over me like an unwanted blanket on a hot day.
“What have you been working on?” Mom says, jiggling my hand. “Can you show me yet?”
“N-no,” I say quickly, snatching my hand away and bolting to my feet. “I’m still—um—working on things. Finding my unique point of view and voice and all that. And also, my room’s a total mess right now. No one should have to witness the chaos except me.”
“Chaos can be part of the process,” my mother says. “You know, if you got rid of some of your clothes—”
“I’d have more space and less clutter. I know,” I say, plastering on a smile. “But for now, I’m gonna go paint for a bit before dinner.”
“All right,” Mom says with an approving nod. She reaches over to the side table, grabs a small white box, and hands it to me. “Here, take this with you for a snack—new mochi samples from your father. I stopped by the restaurant while I was out and he wanted you to try these when you got home from school.”
“Okaythanksbye!” I say, my voice high-pitched like a cartoon chipmunk.
I grab the box and my bag and zip down the hall and into my room before she can ask any more questions. My room is a mess—sketc
hes and clothes and bits of fabric everywhere, candy wrapper remnants from Bex’s dress project. But what I really don’t want my mom to see is the thing that’s haunted me the last few months, the thing that’s remained exactly the same even as the chaos around it has changed: the blank canvas propped up on my easel in the corner. White, pristine. My brushes and paints are stacked neatly next to it, the only bit of order in the whole room. Because I haven’t touched them in months.
But surely now is the time to start, right? Surely the fresh guilt I’m feeling over seeing my mom’s excited smile and teary eyes will be enough to get me going. To make inspiration strike. I make myself toss aside the remnants of crimson velvet dotting the chair in front of my easel. I acquired these scraps from the local fabric store, which I haunt regularly for the stuff they’d throw out otherwise. Then I take a deep breath and sit down.
Okay. This isn’t so bad. I’m sitting. I’m comfortable. Inspiration is just moments away, obviously. I stare at the canvas, willing it to talk to me. It’s not saying much, so I open the box of mochi samples from my dad, take one out, and take a bite.
“Holy crap!” I say out loud, my eyes widening. Dang. That is good. Different kinds of homemade mochi are a dessert staple at my dad’s restaurant and he’s always experimenting with different flavors. He usually whips up at least two new variations for my parents’ big Oshogatsu party at New Year’s. This one is filled with a smooth combination of peanut butter and chocolate, which is delectable. But of course the real treat is the mochi surrounding it, the wonderful rice cake that is somehow smooth and soft and chewy and ever so slightly gelatinous at the same time. My dad knows how to make it so it has just the right texture, practically melting in your mouth.
The longer I stare at the blank canvas, the more an all-too-familiar feeling builds in my gut. It’s like a weight, pulling me downward into the pit of total … unspiration. Is that even a word? It’s the opposite of inspiration. It’s like a combination of guilt and the pressure I feel whenever I think about the future. Mom’s voice keeps floating through my head: You’re going to do so much.
How can that be true if I can’t even get started?
It didn’t used to be this hard. As a kid, I would doodle all the time. On pieces of scrap paper, in the margins of coloring books (because, Mom likes to claim, my toddler artistic vision was simply too vast to be contained in restrictive lines). And, during one infamous afternoon, all over the bathroom wall of the tiny one-bedroom apartment where we lived before Dad’s restaurant took off. I can still remember my mom practically hyperventilating when she realized I’d created this astounding mural using permanent marker and she was going to have to explain it to the landlord. Luckily, Atsuko’s mom had some handy solution involving vinegar, milk, and lemon juice, and the crisis had been narrowly averted.
I can’t explain the utter dread I’ve felt since getting the acceptance letter from Liu Academy. Painting instantly morphed from something I generally enjoyed doing to something that means everything, something that signifies my entire future.
That’s all I can think about when I face the canvas.
Whatever you paint next has to be absolutely perfect.
You can’t be a great Asian American artist unless it’s perfect.
You’re going to mess it up.
I stand up from my chair in a huff, glaring at the stupid blank canvas. It feels like a battlefield. And I, intrepid warrior Kimi, cannot seem to traverse it. Or even start traversing it. Or … or … do whatever the step before that is. The Ultimate Kimi who helped Bex is nowhere to be found. I fling myself onto my bed and grab my trusty sketchbook and a pencil. Sketching always feels more freeing to me. Sketching is less permanent than paint on a canvas. Soft pencil lines that look like they could evaporate into nothing. They don’t have to be perfect. They can just be.
I drum my pencil on the sketchbook and gnaw on my lip.
Inspiration … inspiration … where are you? Where’s that amazing “voice” and “point of view” I’m supposed to have?
My own work is abstract, like my mother’s. I like playing with exaggerated shapes and contrasting textures—sharp angles against soft swirls. And I love experimenting with bold colors, pairing bright hues that some might consider “clashing.” I think fire engine red and flaming orange look absolutely beautiful together, for example. I try to think about all that, but I find my mind drifting back to the blank canvas, to the idea of it being a battlefield. I sketch a loose figure, giving her my shoulder-length, choppy cut black hair and bangs. I give her a fierce scowl.
She’s a version of Ultimate Kimi. Battle Kimi, maybe?
She will not be defeated by the canvas! She will triumph over artist’s block! She will … she will … um, make lots of brilliant paintings and stuff! Rawr!
My brain clicks into a nice groove as I sketch, the lines flowing from my pencil, from my hand. I start imagining what Battle Kimi would wear. Full set of armor for the actual battlefield, of course, but what about her everyday look, like when she has to take a Comparative Lit pop quiz before going to vanquish a bunch of dragons after school or whatever? I love thinking about the things we put on our bodies for different situations, how we use clothes to express ourselves. Even Atsuko, with her slouchy athleisure wear, is saying something.
My brow furrows as I draw a crimson dress with a full skirt that tears away to reveal practical-but-stylish trousers, a high neckline, and a dramatic armor breastplate that fits over it. I get stuck wondering about the exact mechanics of Battle Kimi’s skirt/pants combo, and before I know it, I’m roughing out a pattern that fits my measurements, and then I’m at my sewing machine, stitching those crimson velvet remnants together.
When I finally have something semi-complete, I hold it up in front of me, scrutinizing it. It’s not bad—but the skirt isn’t falling exactly how I’d like and the whole thing is a little too bulky, especially if the pants are supposed to fit under actual armor. Maybe if I change the way the waistband is gathered, I can—
“Kimi!” Mom’s voice shatters my train of thought. “Dinner!”
I blink at the garment in front of me, still startled, then glance at the clock. Holy crap. Four hours have passed, and I barely noticed. But all the sketching and sewing and battlefield flights of fancy have made me feel calmer inside. Soothed. Even though I haven’t actually solved any of my problems.
“Kimi!” Mom calls again, her voice more insistent.
I hang the crimson velvet garment over my canvas, enjoying the bright splash of color against all that whiteness. At least for the moment, my dark pit of unspiration has been pushed to the very back recesses of my mind, fought off by Battle Kimi and her not-quite-perfect skirt/pants combo.
“Kimi, guess what came in the mail?” My dad waggles his eyebrows in that goofy way he has and takes a big bite of dinner. He’s brought home chicken katsu sandwiches and potato salad with carrots, cucumbers, Kewpie mayonnaise, and a dash of hot mustard. Both specialties at Dad’s restaurant, Yonsei, which he always says features “the best of Japanese, American, and Japanese American comfort food.” And it is comforting—there’s nothing like the crunch of panko bread crumbs surrounding a juicy chicken cutlet, and when the whole thing is pressed between the soft sweetness of a Hawaiian roll? Heaven.
I don’t even know where to begin with the guessing, but this is one of Dad’s favorite games. He likes to give the most minimal of hints and then see how outrageous your guess can get. Mom hates this game because she doesn’t see the point in “dwelling on made-up possibilities” when Dad could just, you know, tell us what the answer is. But it makes his face light up so much, I can never resist.
“Hmm,” I say, pretending to think about it as I wipe excess panko from my lips. “Is it a dragon? Like, my own pet dragon?” My brain is still on the adventures of Battle Kimi, I guess.
“No way,” my dad says. “I’d never get you a mail-order dragon. Only the best for my daughter.”
My mom groans but does
n’t say anything. She’s humoring my dad, I can tell. She must still be in a good mood from her art show news.
“Is it … a bag of rocks?” I say.
“Are you kidding? That would cost zillions of dollars in postage,” my dad says. “You need a rock, just go outside and get one. Plenty of decent, home-grown Culver City rocks round these parts.”
I can’t help but giggle. “Clothes?” I say, running out of creative guessing juice. “Aw, Daddy, did you order me Anna Sui’s new collection? Because she has some lace detail work this season that is just beyond.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean,” Dad says.
“You don’t need more clothes,” Mom interjects. “And you know, Kimi-chan, you might want to consider editing your wardrobe in a more polished direction. For when you start at Liu Academy.”
“Says the woman who mostly lives in ‘inside clothes,’ ” my dad says, raising a playful eyebrow at my mom and her wild patterned leggings.
“Well,” Mom says, clearly trying to save face, “that’s different. I mostly live inside. You know, with my paintings. It’s a happy inside life.”
Then they exchange one of those gentle, knowing smiles that only two people who have been together for twenty years and are still disgustingly mushy can share. Atsuko always says that given my parents’ relationship, I shouldn’t have a problem imagining that level of gross in-love-ness for myself one day. It’s harder for someone like her, whose parents are divorced and still have loud, shouty fights on speakerphone about who’s supposed to pick her and her sister up from where on what day and if she should get a “proper” after-school job to build character. Atsuko says she gives love advice because she wants to save people from themselves … but she doesn’t understand why I need any since I have such a perfect example of love sitting right in front of me.
