by Sarah Kuhn
“Oh, well, I just sort of wanted to … look around,” I say. Ugh. This is already getting too real. I’m never this awkward in my fantasies. “I’m staying with my grandparents, not far from here. And actually, I should probably be getting back soon.”
“May I walk you to the train station?” Akira says. “There is a nice scenic route through the park. I could show you some of the best spots to see the cherry blossoms. And you could advise me on further design improvements that might be made to the mochi costume.”
“Well …”
Okay, so I am still kind of lost. I don’t exactly know my way back to the train station. And one short walk won’t completely destroy all the fantasy potential, right? After that, I never have to see him again.
And you really, really don’t want to stop talking to him, a little voice pipes up in the back of my head. His voice is so nice and deep and also you would basically murder someone just to get a look at that dimple again.
Dammit. This little voice is starting to sound way too much like an unholy mix of Bex’s dreamy romanticism and Atsuko’s no-bullshit truth detector and I do not like it one bit.
“All right,” I say.
He nods and grins, then gestures to his costume. “Let me go change,” he says. “And I will meet you over by that bench where you were laughing at me.”
“Oh, so you’re not going to walk around wearing that?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Cause, you know, that might help you attract even more customers within an even greater radius.”
“No way,” he says, his grin deepening into dimple territory yet again. “I don’t need to give you any more reasons to laugh at me.” Then he turns and heads back to his uncle’s stand.
I walk back over to the bench and tilt my head up to look at the cherry blossoms again. I could still leave. Get out of here while he’s changing. I’m sure I could find my way back to my grandparents’ place on my own.
But as I stand there gazing up at the cherry blossoms, I realize the simple truth of the matter. That little voice in my head, the unholy mash-up of Bex/Atsuko, is right. I don’t want to. I want to keep talking to him.
And yes, I would murder to see that dimple again.
Akira emerges from the mochi stand wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt with an abstract pattern of red and orange intersecting lines, and bright orange sneakers. It’s a cool yet unfussy outfit and I try not to linger too long on the way the thin cotton hugs his arms—which, freed from his silly mochi costume, are very, very nice. I don’t recall ever wanting to flat-out stare at someone so much. Even Theater Guy Justin, who was plenty cute and had reasonably stare-worthy arms, only provoked a few lingering glances. There were other things diverting my attention and I was fine being diverted.
Now … not so much.
“Hey,” Akira says, giving me a little nod.
“Hey,” I say. “I like your arm—shoes. Your shoes are very cool.”
“Thanks,” he says. “My parents think they are a bit, how do you say it …” He makes a gesture with his hands that seems designed to simulate a big movie-type explosion. “But I told them they will never have to worry about losing me in a crowd.”
“Ah.” I laugh—my loud, explosive giggle spilling out of me yet again. “My mom’s an artist, so she understands my need to wear stuff that’s on the dramatic side. Or sometimes on the just plain weird side.”
“Which side is this on?” he says, gesturing to my ensemble.
“It’s on the side that makes me confident enough to navigate international travel,” I say. “Though I haven’t been doing super well with that so far.”
I instantly regret saying that. Akira is still a stranger, after all—no matter how cute his dimple is or how nice his arms are—and he really doesn’t need to know the depth of the angst I was allowing myself to get all tied up in before I sat down and started sketching. I’m preparing about a zillion quippy remarks that will somehow brush aside what I just said, but he just cocks an amused, slightly intrigued eyebrow and holds something out to me.
“For you,” he says. “It’s our most popular item with tourists.”
I peer down at the item in his hand. It’s a perfect piece of green mochi—matcha-flavored, most likely—with a perfect strawberry perched on top.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, taking it from him. I take a small bite, suddenly self-conscious because he’s watching me, trying to gauge my enjoyment. I guess now the staring shoe is on the other foot. Or maybe … the other eyeball?
In any case, my self-consciousness melts away as soon as the mochi hits my tongue. That irresistible chewiness, that delicate sweetness, contrasts wonderfully with the firm, bold burst of strawberry. “Wow,” I say, my eyes widening. “That is an absolutely perfect bite.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says, smiling. “Now would you like to walk through the park? You need to go to the train station, ne?”
“Yes,” I say, remembering the supposed purpose of our little jaunt. “Which is …” I try to subtly turn my body in what I think is the right direction. Akira gives me a funny look.
“In the other direction?” he says, turning to face the exact opposite way I’m standing.
“Right, of course,” I say. I hastily pop the rest of the strawberry-mochi concoction in my mouth, marveling again at the flavors bursting on my tongue. “Like I said, I haven’t been doing too well with all the navigating.”
God, shut up, Kimi.
“I can navigate for both of us,” Akira says. “This way.”
We stroll under a canopy of cherry blossoms and I can’t help but stare up at them—I love the way the branches intersect through all the pink and white fluff, threads of darkness that make the overall beauty more complex. I’m already picturing adding that element to the dress I was sketching, perhaps by giving some structure to the bodice—
“Oi, watch out, Kimi from America!” Akira exclaims. My head jerks down and I realize we’re stepping onto a small stone bridge that arches over a little pond. It’s just a baby step up, but I’m so preoccupied by the cherry blossoms above me that I miss it and trip. Akira grabs my elbow, supporting me. “I’ve got you!” he says, helping me navigate the last of the nefarious step.
“Whoa, sorry! I mean, thank you,” I say, giving him a grateful smile. The warmth from his hand on my elbow lingers, even as he lets me go. My gaze lands on our surroundings—the stone of the bridge has an aged look to it, old water stains coupled with moss growing up its sides. Its graceful arched shape is punctuated by squat columns topped off with peaked domes that look a bit like cupcakes or maybe mushroom caps. The water below reflects so many trees, it looks green. And it’s all so peaceful, tranquil—the direct opposite of the bustling market we walked from. “Wow,” I say, stopping at the edge of the bridge to peer down into the water. “This is so … untouched. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
“You don’t have ponds in America?” Akira says, his voice laced with light teasing.
“We do,” I say, giving him an eye roll. “But where I live—Culver City, which is sorta kinda part of LA—things are always a little … louder.”
“Los Angeles,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Do you know any movie stars?”
“No,” I say, and now it’s my turn to be amused. “I mean, that’s a common misconception, but—”
“I’m joking,” he says.
“Oh,” I manage, my face flushing. Wow, my turn was over so quickly.
“Do you want to sit for a minute?” he says, gesturing to a nearby bench. “Spend a moment in the not-loud place?”
“Okay.” Somewhere in between gazing up at the cherry blossoms and tripping and almost falling on my face, I seem to have stopped trying to get to the train station—and to end this ill-advised encounter—as quickly as possible. I must be really compelled by the Power of the Dimple.
We step off the bridge and sit down on the bench, which is shaded by yet another beautiful canopy of cherry blossoms.
“Oh, well, I’m …” Dangit. Before I would have said: I’m an artist. It would have fallen off my tongue as easily as I’m a human. But now I don’t feel like I can lay claim to that—and I chose not to, didn’t I? Blew up my life because I didn’t want to paint anymore but couldn’t seem to figure out what was next. “I’m … working on it.”
“Hmm. A mystery. And you want me to crack the case, I see.” Akira nods thoughtfully. “I will figure this out, Kimi from America—I have picked up many excellent detective skills from American mystery shows. My mom loves the one with the really handsome guy who wears a trench coat and lives on a boat or something?”
“That … could actually be a few of them,” I say. “But I’m not trying to hide anything, I’m just in the process of figuring myself out.”
“Ah,” he says. “So you are a mystery even to yourself. Very interesting. Well, what do you enjoy? Drawing?” He taps my bag. “The mochi costume you drew for me was very good.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Yes, I suppose I enjoy drawing. Though lately I haven’t been drawing much of anything. Except clothes.”
His brow furrows. “Clothes are something, ne? Or are you saying clothes are not a thing that exist in the world?”
“No, clothes … exist. Of course they do,” I say. “But I mean, drawing clothes is just a silly thing I do, for fun. It’s not important.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and regards me keenly. There’s that intensity flashing through his eyes again. He holds my gaze and I can’t look away.
“If it’s not important, why do you do it?”
“Well, not everything we do in life is important, right?” I say, twisting my hands together. “Some things are just …” I make a hand-wavey gesture, which just makes his brow furrow further. “I mean, is dressing up as a giant piece of mochi and dancing around in front of your ojisan’s stand important?” I try to make my tone light.
His expression softens a bit. “Yes, it is,” he says, his mouth quirking into a half smile. “I’m helping Ojisan grow his mochi empire, one customer at a time. Who knows how many people I’ve tempted over with my moves.” He does a little hip wiggle on the bench and I giggle. Then he taps my bag again. “Can I see some of these completely unimportant drawings?”
“Well … if you insist,” I say, pulling out my sketchbook. I have the sudden, bizarre need to show him just how inconsequential my fashion scribbles are. If he sees them, maybe he’ll get that they’re a mere distraction, diverting me from the journey of self-discovery I’m supposed to be on.
I flip the sketchbook open to the page I was drawing earlier, the fluffy cherry blossom dress and chunky necklace made out of mochi shapes.
“I was getting inspiration from our surroundings,” I say, gesturing upward to the cherry blossoms. “And I like to contrast shapes and materials. So this dress would be very light—almost like clouds, floating around your body—and the necklace would be heavy and solid. Maybe made out of some kind of polished stone.”
“Ah, like this?” Akira says, tapping the rock ring I’m wearing on my index finger.
“Exactly,” I say. “Only bigger. Bolder. But the point is, that contrast between light and heavy, soft and hard, makes for an interesting overall look. Just like the contrast between mochi and strawberry makes for an interesting bite.”
“I see,” Akira says. “And where would you wear this?”
“A party,” I say immediately. “But not just any party—a special, fancy-but-not-too-snooty party. I imagine something like … I don’t know, my friend Atsuko is being honored for her achievements as an advice columnist. Maybe we’re a little older and she’s working at some fancy magazine and they’re throwing her this party …” I close my eyes, picturing it. “The desserts are all cute and tiny. Like little bite-sized ice cream sandwiches in a rainbow of pastel colors. There are these sort of chiffon streamers draped everywhere and twinkle lights strung across the ceiling so it looks like we’re in a fantasy wonderland. Like a freakin’ unicorn could come galloping through at any moment.”
“And you are wearing this dress,” Akira says.
I open my eyes and beam at him. “Yes. I’m wearing this dress and maybe I’ve designed dresses along a similar theme for Atsuko and Bex—that’s our other best friend—and everyone’s having a great time and I’m just so proud of Atsuko. It’s a perfect moment.”
“Hmm.” Akira studies my drawing again. “And you think all of this is somehow … unimportant?”
“Not exactly,” I say, running my fingertips over the sketch of the dress. “But …” I flash back to my argument with my mother. “Drawing endless outfits and having endless fantasies about them isn’t exactly something I can build a career on. So I’m trying to figure out what I can build a career on. I need to figure out where my future lies.”
I meet his eyes. This is the first time I’ve vocalized what I’m actually doing here in Japan—you know, outside of my own head. And it feels unexpectedly good to say those words out loud, like I’m unzipping a too-tight dress after a night of not quite being able to breathe.
I expect him to ask more questions, but he’s studying me intently again, like he’s trying to figure something out. I shift uncomfortably.
“What about you?” I say, breaking the awkward silence. “What do you like to do? Besides perform as anthropomorphized food.”
“I like eating,” he says, grinning. “Playing video games. Exploring new places. And I’m hoping to become a doctor one day. I will be starting my studies in the fall, after I graduate high school.”
“What, really?!” I exclaim, another giggle spilling out of me.
“Laughing at me again?” he says, looking perplexed.
“No, I’m sorry—again,” I say. “It’s just … most Asian American kids’ parents dream of them becoming doctors. And most of us run away from that as fast as we can. I remember Atsuko telling me I was lucky that my mom ‘only’ expected me to become a world-famous artist who’s a credit to Asian Americans everywhere. So to hear someone say that’s what they want to do …” I shake my head in wonder. “Did your parents pressure you at all?”
“No,” he says, still perplexed. “I’ve always been—how do you say it?—attracted to the very odd science of how the body works. When I was younger, I discovered this old set of medical texts at a secondhand shop. I didn’t understand any of the words, really, but there were some … well, honestly, pretty disgusting diagrams relating to all the things that can go horribly wrong inside of us.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I was fascinated.”
“That’s so cool,” I say, grinning back at him. “And, you know, being a doctor is like the most important profession there is. Your future is set.”
“I suppose,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “But I don’t think it’s necessarily more important than anything else.”
“Saving lives and stuff? Oh, it is. It definitely is,” I say, hopping to my feet. “You’ll be a credit to your family, your country, your generation—pretty much everything somebody can be a credit to.”
Something about this exchange is making me itchy and I can’t put my finger on what it is. On the other hand, it’s not necessarily a bad itch, an unwelcome itch … ugh, what am I thinking? What the hell would constitute a “good” itch?! “I should be getting back,” I say. “So … the train station?”
“Yes,” he says, getting to his feet. “This way.”
We walk through even more impossibly beautiful nature, Akira pointing out various mini-sights and points of interest as we go. Something about him puts me on edge and makes me at ease at the same time. I guess that’s what I mean by a “good itch.” I simultaneously want to run away and continue talking to him for as long as possible.
It makes no sense.
“Ah, and here we have perhaps the most important sight in
all of Maruyama Park,” Akira says, making an expansive gesture.
“The tree?” I say, my brow furrowing. “But there are tons of trees. What makes this one special?”
“Look below the tree,” he says.
And I do. That’s when I see what he must be talking about: an odd little stuffed creature wearing a purple-and-white haori, staring out at the world in semi-indignant fashion. He’s not quite cuddly enough to be a legit stuffed animal and not quite creepy enough to be taxidermy. He’s been placed there in the grass so he blends in with the park—if you were in a hurry, you’d probably mistake him for an actual critter and bustle right by.
“Is that a raccoon?!” I exclaim, laughing a little. “He’s so freakin’ cute!”
“A tanuki,” Akira says. “Which is sort of like a Japanese raccoon dog.”
“Who put that there?” I say, moving closer to get a better look.
“No one knows,” Akira says. “He just appeared one day. All part of his charm.”
“Adorable. I love how he looks like he has such an attitude—like he’s totally offended by our presence or something.”
“If you pay him proper tribute, he will give you advice about your future.”
“What, really?!” I squawk. “I need advice about my future! How do I pay proper tribute?”
“Close your eyes,” Akira says. “And clear your mind of all thoughts. Except the tanuki. Think only of the tanuki …”
“Got it.” I squeeze my eyes shut and allow the stuffed tanuki’s indignant furry face to fill my brain.
“Focus on him,” Akira says, his voice deathly serious. “Focus on his greatness. His wisdom. The tanuki knows all.”
“The tanuki knows all,” I murmur.
“I think he’s sending you a message,” Akira says. “I’m getting it loud and clear.”
“Really? Why is he sending it to you and not me—”
“He has a very clear view of your future, if you just do this one thing—”
“What is it?! Tell me!”
“The tanuki absolutely, one hundred percent thinks you should—”
