I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  The thing is, the perfection of my parents’ relationship, the fact that they’ve been through so much together and can still look at each other like that, makes me feel like I have to get love exactly right on the first try. Like they did. I know they want something like what they have for me, just like my mom wants me to be able to achieve all my dreams as an artist.

  What are you so afraid of, Kimi? Atsuko’s voice says in my head.

  I brush the thought away and refocus on my parents.

  “So, what actually came in the mail?” I say. “Apparently my guessing game is off today.”

  My dad grins at me, but I sense a note of something underneath—a hint of nerves, maybe? At the same time, my mom clears her throat and looks down at her food. Before I have time to fully parse their reactions, my dad slides an envelope across the table to me. It’s delicate, tissue-thin stationery and my name is carefully printed on the front in small, precise handwriting. I recognize the handwriting, I realize—this is from my grandfather. Mom’s dad. Who still lives in Japan.

  Now I understand my parents’ weird reactions. Mom’s relationship with her parents is still basically nonexistent, even after all this time—they haven’t spoken in years. In addition to not loving the fact that Mom and Dad were super young when they got married, Mom’s parents also disapproved of her marrying a fourth-generation Japanese American dude rather than a more traditional Japanese man. (Mom pointed out she could have gone for a white guy, like Atsuko’s mom did, but they didn’t see her choice as being much better.)

  Mom has never quite forgiven them—every phone conversation I’ve ever heard her have with my grandmother has mostly involved a lot of yelling. And, for their part, I think my grandparents still don’t understand her life choices—they had always hoped she’d return to them and their farm just outside of Kyoto. I get birthday cards from them every year but have never met them. They’re like fairy-tale characters to me—the evil king and queen from a far-off land who tried to forbid their princess from marrying her true love. Only, you know, not totally evil because they still send me the birthday cards.

  “Well, open it,” Mom says, her voice a bit tight. “See what they want.”

  I slit the envelope open and take out the letter inside—more of my grandfather’s small, neat writing.

  “They … they want me to visit,” I say, my eyebrows quirking upward. “They want me to come stay with them in Kyoto. For spring break.”

  “Spring break is in a week,” my mother huffs. “That’s not nearly enough time to plan travel, not to mention—”

  “They included a ticket,” I say, still not quite processing what’s happening. “Um, sorry for interrupting, Mom. But yeah, they included a ticket, and it’s refundable if I decide not to go.”

  “I still don’t think you need to be going anywhere for spring break,” Mom says, stabbing at her potato salad, determined not to let her parents get the best of her. “You should be spending that time working on your paintings, getting ready for the Academy. An international trip is a big distraction you don’t need right now.”

  “I don’t know,” my dad says.

  Mom’s head and my head swivel in near unison to look at him. Because part of my parents’ perfect love involves Dad pretty much never disagreeing with Mom—at least not in front of me. “I can never say no to your mother,” he’ll say, smiling fondly as she goes on about why I need extra art lessons or why we simply must go see the Magritte exhibit at LACMA.

  But now he’s saying something different. “It might be good for Kimi to have an adventure on her spring break—it is her last one before we release her into the wilds of college,” he says. He’s being very careful with his words, very mild with his tone. Even so, my mom is frowning, a crater-sized crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “And …” He hesitates, giving both of us a soft, wistful smile. “You might enjoy the chance to meet your grandparents, explore your Japanese heritage. I wish I’d done more of that when I was younger.”

  “Meh. You are as Japanese as I am,” Mom says to Dad, waving a dismissive hand. “Just—”

  “—in a different way. I know,” he says, giving her that smile again and covering his hand with hers. I know this line is something Mom said to her parents repeatedly when they kept telling her not to marry my dad. “But I think this should be Kimi’s decision. Yes?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose,” Mom says, still huffy. “But I’m sure she doesn’t want to go, either. She’s dedicated to her painting. Right, Kimi-chan?”

  “Of course, Mom,” I say, smiling at her.

  With that settled, we all go back to our food and Dad tries to make Mom laugh by telling her about some of the more colorful customers who came into the restaurant today, like the guy who asked if he could have his chicken katsu sandwich served “skinless and without the bread.”

  “ ‘Like, Paleo-friendly, my dude,’ ” Dad says, imitating the customer’s flat surfer drawl.

  I tune in and out, scraping up the last, precious few bits of panko with my fork and mixing them into my potato salad. As we finish up the main course and my dad brings out a plate of his peanut butter–chocolate–filled mochi for dessert, my gaze can’t help but drift back to the letter. I can’t go—I mean, Bex and Atsuko and I have been planning our spring break for months. We’re going to ride the Santa Monica Ferris wheel and climb the Temescal Canyon hiking trail and explore the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Bex even made us a color-coded chart detailing each day’s plans and maybe now she’ll invite Shelby along and Atsuko and I will get to tease them for being all flirty and cute. Plus, I’m scheduled to work extra shifts at the thrift store where I have a part-time job and they always have an amazing spring break sale. Plus-plus, my mom will be mad if I go—even though she’ll say she’s not. (Moms being mad when they keep insisting they’re not is definitely an equation in Atsuko’s Asian Mom Math. Truly one of the most complex and terrifying equations.)

  But even as I remind myself of all this, my ever-helpful brain reminds me of something else: After every day of spring break fun time, I’ll have to come back home to that stupid blank canvas. I’ll have to be reminded of all the ways I’m failing. My dark pit of unspiration will be right there waiting to pull me back in. I pop a whole piece of mochi into my mouth and chew, trying to get the magical combo of flavors and textures to soothe me. It’s delicious, but it can’t distract me.

  The idea of escaping to a whole other country fills me with a strange feeling of lightness. Of relief.

  De-ni-al, Atsuko says in my head.

  I brush the thought away.

  I’m not going. I mean, it’s tempting, but I can’t.

  But, for the rest of dessert, as my dad teases my mom and my mom tries not to laugh and they exist in the bubble of their perfect love, I fantasize about escaping to a corner of the world where none of my uncertainties about life, the future, and everything else exist. Where I’m not thinking constantly about how I’ll ruin everything if I don’t get it perfect on the first try.

  I imagine myself in my Battle Kimi getup, charging my way across the ocean, sword in hand, gleeful expression overtaking my face. Traveling to a place where the dragons can’t get me.

  “So, she brought me a candy bouquet. Like, instead of flowers, it was a bunch of lollipops and candy bars tied together with a ribbon. Because of the candy wrapper dress. Isn’t that the cutest?” Bex twirls around like a tornado on our little patch of grass behind the library. Her arms are outstretched and she’s holding her water bottle in one hand and I’m kind of worried she’s going to drop it and spill everywhere, but she’s so happy, I don’t want to say anything. Apparently, her date with Shelby last night went extremely, extremely well.

  “And she pulled all of that together in an afternoon?” Atsuko looks up from her phone, where she’s composing yet another advice column, and nods approvingly. “That means she’s already putting a lot of thought into your needs. Into making you feel like a priority.”

  “
Annnnnnd … it’s just freaking romantic,” Bex says, flopping down next to us and rolling her eyes. “Feel the swoon! Feel it, Atsy!” She grabs Atsuko by the shoulder and shakes her pseudo-dramatically.

  “Hey!” Atsuko starts laughing and bats at Bex’s hand, nearly dropping her phone in the process. “Okay, okay, I’m swooning up a storm over here. Kimi, are you swooning?”

  “Totally swooning,” I say, giving them a game smile. But my heart’s not quite in it. It’s not that I’m not happy for Bex—I am. I just can’t seem to muster the level of outward enthusiasm I’d normally have because my brain feels like it’s caught in a never-ending hamster wheel loop and I can’t make it stop. The loop kept me up all night, spinning and spinning and spinning, and when my alarm went off this morning, I felt like I’d only just fallen asleep.

  Japan. Escape from the battlefield of the blank canvas. No more pretending you’ve got it all together around Mom. All your worries about the future an entire ocean away …

  But! You don’t even know your grandparents! They might be mean to you. Or just weird. Not to mention the fact that you’ve never been to another country before, except Canada and that barely counts. And you’ll miss out on spring break fun times with Bex and Atsuko. And … And …

  “Kimi?” Bex’s voice jolts me from my mental hamster wheel. I picture myself as a tiny, hapless hamster, falling off its wheel and stumbling around its cage.

  “Sorry,” I say. I force a bright smile. “That all sounds great, Bex! Especially the candy bouquet. Maybe that will become a thing with you guys, like a different candy bouquet for every anniversary or something. And I could totally make you more dresses out of the wrappers and then you’d have, like, a whole candy wrapper wardrobe and you can dye your hair to match and it will be so cute, so … so …”

  I’m babbling and my voice is too loud and my words are too fast. My friends are looking at me strangely, heads cocked to the side, brows furrowed.

  “Um,” Bex says. “That’s awesome, Kimi, but I was actually just asking if it’s cool if Shelby joins us for our spring break plans? I mean, not all of them, I know some of it is stuff the three of us have wanted to do forever, but she really loves hiking and old Hollywood lore, so I was thinking—”

  “Of course!” I say, my voice still way too loud. “Shelby should definitely come with us. This spring break is going to be the best ever.”

  Even though you were just thinking of flaking on all your plans with your two best friends to flit off halfway around the world …

  “Hey, Kimi,” Atsuko says, poking me in the arm. “Your phone’s buzzing.”

  My head swivels to find my phone, lying in the grass. It is, in fact, buzzing. I’ve been babbling and hamster wheeling too much to notice. I snatch it up and scrutinize the screen. A long series of texts from my mother stares back at me, every single one punctuated by an emoji.

  Where are you? Confused, thinking face emoji.

  I’m at your art class. Girl shrugging emoji.

  The teacher says you dropped out?! Surprised emoji.

  What is going on? Angry cat emoji.

  Get over here right now. Three running girl emojis. And an eggplant. (Atsuko and I might have lied a little and told my mom using the eggplant “is like adding an extra exclamation point.”)

  “Oh, shit,” Atsuko says, peering over my shoulder.

  “She can’t be too mad, she’s using emojis,” Bex says, trying to sound reassuring.

  “Please,” Atsuko says. “In Asian Mom speak, emojis mean death.”

  I swallow hard, trying to rein in the roller coaster of emotions crashing through me. Mom knows. She knows everything. The lie I’ve been telling her the last few months has finally unraveled and come back to bite me on the ass. A weird sense of relief mixes in with the panic coursing through my blood, like at least I don’t have to tell her now …

  “Her next emoji will show how she’s gonna kill you,” Atsuko says, and then the panic takes over fully, smothering any relief.

  “I … I guess I should go over there. To art class,” I say, my voice high and thin.

  “We’ll come with you,” Bex says, squeezing my shoulder. I barely hear her, but manage a small nod.

  I get to my feet and start walking. I feel like I’m on a weird kind of autopilot, like my feet are carrying me to my doom and I can’t do anything to stop them. I hear Bex and Atsuko behind me, gathering the stuff I’ve left behind on the grass and following me into the school, down the hall, and to the art room.

  It’s the tail end of lunch hour—Advanced Fine Art starts right after, so there are a few early birds milling around, along with the teacher, Ms. Koch. And my mom.

  She’s standing at the front of the art room, hands on her hips. And even though she’s a full head shorter than Ms. Koch, my former art teacher looks terrified.

  Well. She should be.

  Mom’s got her glower on and as I enter the room, she turns the full force of it away from Ms. Koch and onto me.

  “Kimiko,” my mom says, her tone like ice.

  “Oh nooooo,” Atsuko breathes at the sound of my full name.

  “I came here with exciting news,” Mom says. “It was so exciting, I couldn’t wait, and I had to share it with you immediately. I spoke to the organizers of the Voices of Asian America show and they agreed that you should have a spot in it. Alongside me.”

  “Oh, that’s … that’s really cool,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper.

  “But Ms. Koch says you dropped out of class—how can this be?” Mom barrels on. “I told her she must be mistaken.” Some hopefulness mixes in with her glower. Like I’m going to clear all of this up and, surprise, I’ve been in art class the whole time after all and now everything can go back to normal. But as I stand there in front of her and the growing number of students filtering into class, I have the sinking sensation that nothing will ever be normal again.

  “No, she’s right, Mom—I dropped the class,” I say. For a brief, shining moment, it feels good to say the truth out loud. That feeling is quickly dashed by the look on my mother’s face—now, confusion and hurt are lacing their way through the glower.

  “Did you feel you needed to work more independently?” my mother says, grasping for an explanation. “That the formal nature of the class was stifling your creativity?”

  “No,” I say. She’s giving me an opening to lie my way out of this, but now that I’ve started telling the truth, I just can’t stop. “I haven’t painted in months. I … I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” My mother shakes her head, as if this is an impossibility. To her, it probably is. She’s had to overcome too much in her life for there to be any “can’t” getting in her way. So how could it get in mine? “Well, what have you been doing with all your time, then?”

  “Other things, Mom,” I say. “I made costumes for the school play. I’ve been designing a bunch of my own outfits. And I made Bex a candy wrapper dress.”

  “It’s really beautiful,” Bex murmurs.

  “So you’ve just been goofing around?” My mother shakes her head again. All of this is too much for her to comprehend. “Kimi-chan. These are distractions. And senior year is not the time for distractions. You’re supposed to be preparing for your future, for your time at the academy. Finding your voice, finding—”

  “—my artistic point of view, I know,” I blurt out. My voice is getting louder and my face is getting hotter and I feel the weight of everyone looking at my mother and me, facing off in the middle of the art room. But the words are just spilling out now and I can’t stop them. “But … but I don’t even know what that means, Mom. Every time I stare at my blank canvas, I just freeze up, I can’t figure out what to do next. I … I don’t think I love painting anymore.” And as I say that, a funny little thought worms its way through my brain: did I ever love—like, really love—painting? Or did I just think I loved it because I’d been doing it so long, it seemed like the thing I was supposed to keep doing forever? Because it
made my mom so proud, so happy? Because she wants so badly for me to achieve a dream she had to leave behind?

  “Why didn’t you ask me for help with this block?” Mom says. “I could have talked to you about it—”

  “Because I didn’t want to disappoint you!” I exclaim. Now my face feels like it’s on fire and my voice is getting dangerously shaky, a sure sign that I’m about to cry. I swallow hard, trying to tamp down on the frustration exploding in my chest. How can I get her to understand? Especially when I feel like I’m having all these realizations now, in this moment?

  “I … I think painting … no, not just painting, all of it: painting and the academy and the art shows and … and being the next great Asian American artist is what you want for me. Not what I want.”

  “Well, what do you want?” Mom crosses her arms and frowns at me. That canyon-sized crease has appeared between her eyebrows again. “Because all these years, you’ve painted. And you always had that same joy about it that I did. Were you pretending the whole time?”

  “N-no, Mom,” I say. “Of course not. I just … I liked it. But lately I haven’t felt the same way and I didn’t know how to admit that to you … or … or even to myself.”

  “Art is not always fun,” my mother says. “Creating is hard work, too. You have to be prepared for that, be ready to work through the blocks—and I thought you were. You’ve always put in so much extra time, taken so many extra classes …”

  “But I don’t know if painting is what … what fuels me. Drives me. Lights me up inside, the way it does with you.”

  That canyon between her eyebrows just keeps getting deeper.

  “Then what does?” she says, her voice urgent—like maybe she really does want to understand.

  “I … I don’t know,” I say. Now the tears are in my eyes and I can’t stop them. My voice cracks and I feel like such a baby. And of course, the entire Advanced Fine Art class is witnessing this. I feel the weight of their combined gaze boring into me, burning through my skin. The thing is, I really don’t know. I wish I did. But in all my tunnel-visioned pursuit of painting, I’ve never stopped to think about what else could fuel me. I mean, I like all the goofing off–type stuff I’ve been doing this semester. I like the little spark I get when I’m dreaming up a new outfit or the way the world melts away when I’m trying to solve problems like stitching a bunch of candy wrappers together. But all of that feels silly and inconsequential and I don’t even know how to begin to express it.