I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  Anyway, I’m sure you remember what happened once we got to the funeral: I broke down sobbing next to the casket and you practically had to pick me up to get me to leave. It was embarrassing (probably for you, too). Later, when I’d calmed down, Dad gave me my inheritance from Grandma—her favorite coat, red-and-blue checked from the sixties and perfectly preserved. I’d always loved that coat.

  I wrapped myself up in the coat like a cocoon and slept for hours. When I woke up, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized the coat was hilariously huge on me—like, I was swimming in it. I looked like a kid playing dress-up in Mommy’s closet. For a moment, I felt devastated all over again. Like I couldn’t even have this small connection to Grandma.

  But then I stared at myself a little longer—and I got an idea.

  I’d already been teaching myself to sew because clothes never quite hung right on me—I’m so shrimpy that everything was always too long or fit right in one place but nowhere else. I’d gotten used to altering things. I knew enough to take the coat’s waist in so it had more of a fit-and-flare shape—then I altered it a little more, so the shape was even more dramatic. I asked Dad to drive me to the fabric store, where I got these little fur remnants and pretty pearl buttons. I added those to the coat and I had my very first Kimi Original.

  Wearing the coat made me feel like Grandma was still with me a bit, like I was bolstered by her bubbly chatterbox spirit and her intense desire for me to live my life to its fullest. But it also did something else, something I didn’t expect—it made me feel like the absolute best version of myself. Like I could take on the world and never be that sobbing girl by the casket ever again. Like I was Ultimate Kimi.

  I know you think the way I obsess over clothes is silly, a waste of time. And you’re probably right. But I wanted to give you a little bit of why I obsess over certain clothes and how I make them mean something to me.

  Love,

  Kimi

  p.s. I’ve been hearing some very interesting things from Ojiisan about cartoon tanukis.

  I search through my laptop and find a photo of me in the coat and attach it to the email. My index finger hovers over the “send” button. This is probably the most real I’ve ever been with my mom. It feels like opening up my chest cavity and letting her peer directly at my heart. That somewhat disgusting image makes me think of Akira and I can’t help but smile a little.

  My index finger is still hovering. With my other hand, I pet Meiko, hoping she’ll give me some kind of sign as to what I should do. Then I think of my grandfather, his sad face when he said it was too late for him and Mom to ever speak openly to each other, as father and daughter.

  I gather up every scrap of courage I have—and I hit “send.”

  In the wee hours of the next morning, I finally get ahold of Bex and Atsuko. It’s afternoon back in the States and they’re sprawled on Atsuko’s bed, having just come back from yet another spring break adventure.

  “Santa Monica boardwalk and the Ferris wheel,” Bex says, resting her head on her arms. “Absolutely magical and we ate so much ice cream. But too freakin’ hot.”

  “Also, they wouldn’t let me ride in my own Ferris wheel bucket,” Atsuko says, looking offended. “I wanted to soar through the sky like the strong, independent woman I am, and they told me single riders aren’t allowed. Can you believe that?”

  “What, why not?” I say, laughing. I feel like I’m sprawled out on the bed next to them, my skin overheated from the blazing seaside sun, my stomach slightly queasy from the combination of too much ice cream and carnival rides.

  “I guess it unbalances the bucket or something?” Atsuko says, shaking her head in frustration. “Seems very discriminatory to me. The ticket lady told me I could ‘find someone in line’ to ride with, but how weird would that be?”

  “Ugh, that’s totally the start of your meet-cute, you just refuse to see it,” Bex says, poking her. Atsuko sticks her tongue out and scoots farther away from Bex on the bed. “There was an extremely hot guy totally scoping you out in line and you straight up ignored him!”

  “I don’t think ‘no random carnival rides with strangers’ is a bad rule to abide by,” Atsuko says, rolling her eyes. “In fact, I’m going to put that in my next column: Ten Rules for Avoiding Hot Mess Meet-Cutes. Too bad you’re not here, Kimi, you could’ve balanced my bucket.”

  “Awww, sweet,” I say, reaching over to pat the screen—like I’m virtually patting her on the head. “So, you rode with Bex and Shelby?”

  “Yes, and it killed my whole kissing at the top of the Ferris wheel fantasy,” Bex says, side-eyeing Atsuko. “Since she spent the whole time complaining about how they wouldn’t let her ride by herself.”

  “How romantic,” I say, giggling.

  “Speaking of romance,” Atsuko says, raising an eyebrow. “How goes it with Akira of the Cute Dimple?”

  “He took me to a magical bamboo forest yesterday,” I say, my cheeks warming at the memory. “We talked for hours. And he made a … a declaration, I guess. To help me with my quest of self-discovery.”

  “Ohmygod, a declaration,” Bex says, bringing a fluttery hand to her forehead. “I’ve always wanted someone to make a declaration for me. Or is it to me?”

  “Maybe Shelby will make one,” I say encouragingly. “The next time you guys go on the Ferris wheel. Um, by yourselves.”

  “I’ll stay on the ground in the name of declarations,” Atsuko says, letting out an overly dramatic sigh. “But Kimi, I want to know what it was like spending time in real life with a guy you like. Because usually that’s something you run away from as fast as your tiny legs can carry you.”

  “First of all: rude, my legs are not that tiny,” I say, holding up an index finger. “Second of all: I’m trying to follow your Ask Atsuko directive. You know, just have fun. And I did.” A slow, dorky smile spreads across my face. “I really, really did. He’s so fun to talk to. You’re right, I can’t predict what he’s going to say next. And that means I can’t seem to conjure up a fantasy version of him. And that means I want to see him again. You know, in real life.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Atsuko says, giving me the smuggest smile I’ve ever seen. She looks like a cat who’s just eaten a thousand canaries. “Okay, so I’m going to give you your next Ask Atsuko directive.”

  “My next directive?” I squeak. “Why do I need another one? I’m seeing this one through so well.”

  “Exactly,” Atsuko says, waving a dismissive hand. “You were so successful with the first directive, you clearly need another one. You’ve got to next-level all this fun-having with Akira of the Cute Dimple—you’re only there for two weeks. Less than that now.”

  “I … I thought I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that part!” I exclaim, shaking my head. “Cause then I’ll start thinking about how I’m setting myself up to totally like someone I can never really be with.” Ugh. A little coil of dread winds itself through my stomach at the thought.

  “Atsy!” Bex gives Atsuko a little shove. “Don’t get her all freaked out about that. Let the romance flow.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Atsuko insists, shoving her back. “But it’s not gonna flow if I don’t give her a directive.” She straightens her shoulders and points at me. “Kimiko Nakamura, it is time to …” She lowers her voice dramatically. “Kiss him.”

  “Guh.” My face is suddenly on fire. “Atsuko. I’ve known him for, like, two days.”

  “And you already want to spend time with him endlessly,” Atsuko says, waving her index finger at me.

  “That is true,” Bex says. “And don’t forget the declaration. That’s already taking things in a super romantic direction.”

  “Yes,” Atsuko says, nodding emphatically. Then she hesitates, scrutinizing me. I shift uncomfortably. It’s weird how I’m a whole freakin’ continent away and Atsuko still seems able to pick up on my every thought. And through a computer screen, no less. “Kimi,” she continues, looking at me intently. “Are you w
orried about, you know …” She lowers her voice again. “Your first kiss?”

  “Shut up!” I yelp at the same time as Bex yelps, “What?!”

  “It’s not technically my first kiss,” I say, shooting Atsuko a look. “I kissed Kevin Yee at eighth grade grad night.”

  “You mean when you got hopped up on the bottomless ‘berry blast’ Slurpees, tried to plant one on him, and totally missed his mouth?” Atsuko hoots. “Your tongue was bright blue, Kimi—he probably thought Cookie Monster was trying to eat his face.”

  “How have I never heard this story?” Bex says, shaking her head in wonder.

  Bex didn’t get folded into our friend trio until freshman year, when she moved to LA from New Hampshire. Occasionally, there are embarrassing stories she’s missed out on. Atsuko, on the other hand, has known me my entire life. There’s pretty much nothing I can hide from her.

  “That was not exactly an ideal perfect first kiss moment,” I admit. “I’ve been waiting for another, way less humiliating opportunity—it just hasn’t come along yet.”

  “So, you can have your real first kiss in a beautiful, romantic spot in Japan with your perfect, declaration-making boyfriend,” Bex swoons. “That’s amazing.”

  “It would be amazing,” I say. “But … I mean, he’s definitely not my boyfriend. And I don’t know how to even … initiate that?” In my prior fantasies about perfect first kisses, I always imagined some over-the-top scenario out of a movie—like suddenly there’s a rainstorm and my date and I have to run for shelter and we end up darting into a shadowy but not at all creepy alley and we’re all breathless from running and we’re standing so close that there’s nothing to do but kiss. And then afterward we duck into some adorable thrift shop that magically has cute, perfectly fitting clothes for us to change into, so we don’t catch colds.

  “You’ll know when the moment is right,” Atsuko says firmly. “Although …” Her brow furrows. “Make sure you’re not all out in public, like on the street in full view of judgy Aunties or something. My mom told me PDA isn’t really a thing in Japan.”

  Hmm. Maybe my secluded, not-creepy alley would work just fine.

  “I’m not getting ahead of myself,” I say, shaking my head at Atsuko. “I will keep this Ask Atsuko directive in the back of my head—but no promises.”

  “Yes, promises!” Atsuko counters. “Kiss! Him! Kiss! Him!” She motions Bex to join in her chant and suddenly I feel like I’m the freaking football team, being egged on by two totally bananas cheerleaders.

  “Good-bye!” I say loudly, hitting “end call” on Skype.

  I push my laptop to the side and flop back against my pillows, laughing.

  “What do you think?” I ask Meiko, patting her fuzzy head. “Should I kiss him?”

  Her eyeless face stares back at me, providing no answers.

  But somehow, I can’t help but think she wants me to kiss him, too.

  It’s still early and my grandparents won’t be up for another half an hour—after staying with them a couple days, I know they usually get up at eight a.m. on the dot. So when I get up to pee and use the last scrap of toilet paper, I go into a mild panic.

  I have no idea where they keep the toilet paper and I don’t want them to think I’m the kind of rude person who just leaves an empty toilet paper roll sitting there. I look in the cabinet under the sink. In the cabinet over the sink. Nothing.

  I dart out into the hall to see if there’s maybe a handy closet I haven’t noticed yet right next to the bathroom? Nope.

  The shoji screens that lead to my bedroom (aka, Mom’s old bedroom) and my grandparents’ bedroom line the hallway, and … okay, actually, the door at the end of the hall could be a closet, maybe? It’s worth a shot.

  I tiptoe past my grandparents’ bedroom, doing my best not to cause any creaks or squeaks. Then I carefully open the mysterious door.

  It’s … wow, okay. It’s actually not a closet. Although it’s not that much bigger than one. It appears to be some kind of sewing room? There’s a rainbow of scraps and bolts of fabric crammed into a shelving unit on one wall. A sewing machine crammed into one corner—a Bernina 560, I notice. That’s a really excellent sewing machine. I move closer and run my fingers along the top of it reverently.

  Then I turn and notice what’s crammed into the opposite corner. It’s a very simple dress form with a garment on it—but that garment itself is far from simple. It’s one of the most beautiful, intricate yukata I’ve ever seen. It’s still in progress, though—the sleeves are unfinished, and many of the seams are raw. “Wow,” I say out loud, stepping toward it.

  “Kimiko-chan?” I whirl around to see my obaasan standing in the doorway, giving me an odd look. “What are you doing in here?” She doesn’t sound angry, merely puzzled.

  “I’m looking for toilet paper,” I blurt out, my cheeks flushing when I realize how ridiculous that sounds. “I mean … sorry. I was hoping this was a closet of some kind, but instead, well …” I gesture around. God. I’m pretty sure I’m only making this worse. I should’ve just left the empty toilet paper roll out and called it a day. She keeps staring at me with that confused look. “Um. Did you make this?” I say, gesturing to the yukata. “It’s so beautiful. It’s—”

  Dammit. There I go, trying to give her unwanted compliments again.

  “Yes,” she says, stepping more fully into the room. She frowns at the yukata on the dress form and her expression shifts a bit—suddenly, she seems to be a million miles away. “It will never be finished.”

  Now it’s my turn to look confused. “Oh, well, it looks like it’s getting there? I mean, I don’t know everything about constructing yukata and kimono, but I know a few things, I could help—”

  “No.” She shakes her head, her gaze still trained on the dress form. “It will never be finished,” she repeats—and I realize it sounds more like a firm statement than a lamentation.

  I decide not to pursue that further—at least for now. It really is beautiful, though, and it would be a shame if she never finished it.

  “Obaasan, do you like to sew—to make your own clothes?” I say, deciding to take things in a more general direction. “Because I do, too.”

  “Your coat,” she says, finally turning away from the dress form to face me. “The blue and red one. You made it?”

  “I altered it,” I say. “Customized it. But I’ve made tons of stuff since then—both from scratch and from existing garments.”

  “It is very nice,” my grandmother says. “I like the fur on the sleeves and collar.”

  “Yes, I did that!” I say, beaming. I realize belatedly that I’m not supposed to accept a compliment, either—that it’s like bragging. “That’s one of the ways I made it more …” I trail off, trying to think of the right words.

  “More like you,” my grandmother says. “More special. You are someone who likes to … eto, what do you say? Stand out in a crowd?” She looks at me appraisingly and I can’t tell whether this is a quality she admires or not.

  “In a way,” I say. “I mean, I don’t purposefully do things that are going to make a bunch of people look at me or cause a spectacle or something. But I love creating and wearing things that let me express myself. Does that make sense?”

  “Hai,” she says, offering no further elaboration. She’s studying me in that intense way she did at the train station. And even though it makes me squirm a bit, I prefer it to her avoiding looking at me at all costs because I remind her too much of Mom. “And to answer your first question, Kimiko-chan: Yes, I do like to make some of my own clothes. I have tried to make them for your grandfather as well, but he prefers things more simple.”

  “Did you make that black blouse with the ruffles on the front?” I say, hoping I’m not pressing too much. “The one you wore when you picked me up at the train station? Because I loved it. It was so different. So not what I was expecting you to wear.”

  “You expected me to show up in some kind of boring flowered house dr
ess, ne?” my grandmother says, cocking an eyebrow. “Some kind of old grandma clothes?”

  “Um …”

  My stomach drops as I realize I probably have pressed too much and offended her and ruined the nice moment we were just having. But then Grandma does the exact opposite of what I’m expecting. One side of her mouth lifts into an amused—I think it’s amused, anyway?!—half smile and she lets out a gruff snort that I believe is almost a laugh.

  “Kimiko-chan,” she says. “Would you like me to show you how to make a garment like that—the blouse I was wearing?”

  “Yes!” I say, jumping at the opportunity. “Yes, I would like that very much.”

  She gives me a little nod. “We can get to work after you get back from the tourist adventure you are having today. Come spend time with me instead of sneaking the candy with your grandfather.”

  “That sounds great.” I tentatively return her half smile.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she says, heading out of the room. “Toilet paper is in the kitchen cabinet above the stove. Do not ask me why. Your grandfather came up with that system of organization.”

  I’m smiling as I head back to my room. I can’t believe I’m on the verge of forging a connection with my grandmother. And I really can’t believe I may have found someone else in the family who likes making clothes as much as I do. The combination of these two things forms a warm, giddy bubble in my chest.