by Sarah Kuhn
We run and run and finally we reach a city street–like thing, wet concrete that doesn’t squish as much underneath my shoes but still feels dangerously slippery.
“Over here!” Akira calls out.
He makes a hard left and pulls me into a small alleyway between buildings that appears to have some sort of tarp over it.
It’s still cold, but at least we’re not getting drenched. I guess technically, we’re already drenched in pretty much every possible way.
“Oh, Kimi,” Akira says, his brow creasing with concern. “You’re soaked.”
He sets his backpack on the ground, shrugs off his cotton jacket, and wraps it around my shoulders.
“Oh, uh … your jacket is also wet,” I say, giggling.
“Guh.” He laughs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He smiles at me, flashing that dimple. He’s holding the lapels of the jacket he’s draped around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. Even though we’re both freezing, I suddenly feel very warm.
And then I realize we’re totally in the fantasy of my first kiss: the rain, the alley, the adorable boy who’s standing so close, there’s nothing for us to do but kiss.
Only there are all these things that weren’t in my fantasy that are somehow even better: the sound of water pattering against the buildings, the way he’s looking at me, the delicious scent of rain.
This is it. This is my perfect moment.
I don’t think about ruining everything or being bad at kissing or whatever I was worrying about before. I don’t even hear Bex and Atsuko chanting in my head. I just know. I part my lips slightly and lean in.
He needs to lean in the rest of the way. You know, meet me in the middle.
And he doesn’t.
We just keep looking at each other, our gazes locked, me leaning in like I’ve thrown my hand up for a high five and am getting nothing back. He’s still studying me in that intense, serious way. But he’s not moving. It’s as if we’re trapped in a weird staring contest.
“Uh …” He shakes his head, like he’s coming out of a trance.
Then he’s carefully removing his jacket from my shoulders, avoiding my gaze, and putting some distance between us.
Well. That is not how I saw that going.
“Sorry,” he says, giving me a tight smile. “I didn’t realize, eto … my jacket is soaking you even more. We need to get inside, maybe find a store with some cheap sweatshirts to change into, so we don’t catch colds.”
“Oh, uh, of course,” I say, my voice small.
He motions for me to follow him and I do. He doesn’t grab my hand this time.
How did my perfect moment go so wrong?
Dear Mom,
Yesterday I climbed through Buddha’s nostril.
It was an epic journey that forced me to push through a big barrier and it made me think of that time a couple years ago when we went to that tiny strip mall donut shop. I don’t remember the name of it; we stopped there because it was the only snack-like thing we could find near the office where you were meeting your client. It was one of those places where everyone who works there has probably worked there forever and there are old, faded posters on the wall advertising ten-cent coffee and the tabletops are covered in cheap vinyl that’s supposed to look like wood. And the people sitting there seem to come in every day, drinking the same cup of coffee for like twelve hours.
One of those people was this guy in the back—he had a big, bushy beard and bloodshot eyes and when he stood up, he was, like, ten feet tall. (Okay, probably not his actual height, but that’s how it seemed at the time.)
We were picking out donuts—I remember you giving me a look and being like, “Kimi-chan, why do you like that awful pink frosting, it’s full of chemicals” and I was like, “No, Mom, it’s cherry-flavored, FRUIT, definitely all natural”—and that ten-foot-tall guy came lumbering up to us.
I don’t remember the exact words he said. It was something about “our lumber” and “the Japanese” taking it. I do remember the way his face seemed to project these really pure feelings: anger, disgust. Hate. And those feelings were all for us.
You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him while he ranted—your eyes were like steel, your spine straight as a rod. You had moved your body just a little bit, so that it was in front of mine. I remember thinking that if I touched you, I would probably fall down from that intense pure strength you were radiating. When he got tired of ranting, he turned and shambled back to his seat.
You turned back to the lady behind the counter and told her that you’d like two pink frosted donuts—and also, you were never coming in here again. She just kind of laughed uneasily and murmured something about the ten-foot-tall dude being drunk as usual.
It was one of those situations where all these confusing feelings piled up in me at once and there was pretty much no outlet for them—until we got outside and I blurted out: “Asshole.”
I bit my lip, immediately worried you were going to punish me for swearing. But instead you said: “Yes.”
Then you took a bite of pink donut and said: “Hmm. Does kind of taste like cherry. Shall we go to the Goodwill?”
You’d never quite understood my obsession with Goodwill (probably because you used to shop there out of necessity rather than desire and didn’t get why I’d willingly pursue secondhand clothes with such zeal), so this was a huge treat.
As I zipped around the dollar bins, gathering various treasures, I remember thinking about how strong you were. Because I realized that you must have endured countless moments like that one with the dumbass drunk—and probably worse—when you first came to the States. And you met them like you meet every challenge, with that amazing steel. You pushed through that barrier like it was nothing, even though it probably chipped away at you every time it happened.
Later, I gathered all the treasures I’d gotten at Goodwill, cut them up, and pieced them together. A red, flared skirt chopped off an old figure skating costume. A long-sleeved sequined top liberated from an eighties ball gown. A few other glittery bits and bobs for extra flair. When I was done, I had a new Kimi Original: something that looked like a modern superheroine costume. Inspired by you and the superheroine you are.
Love,
Kimi
p.s.—Buddha’s nostril is not an actual nostril, it’s a hole cut in a big pillar.
p.p.s.—I kept waiting for the perfect moment to kiss the cutest boy ever and then I almost kissed him, but I don’t think he wants to kiss me back, but maybe he does, but I can’t tell and I’m really confused, how do you tell if
I stop typing and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until fireworks explode across my vision. Then I put my hands back on the laptop keyboard and make myself delete that last p.p.s. before I attach a photo of my modern superheroine outfit and hit “send.”
Mom never responded to my first email, but for some reason, I feel the need to write her another one. Telling her about my first Kimi Original has made me want to continue the story, to tell her how I went on from there.
I have emailed a bit with Dad, who seems to go out of his way to tell me about everything except Mom. In addition to asking about how I am, his latest email notes that the first bill for Liu Academy tuition has come due. How do I want him to proceed?
I don’t have an answer to that just yet.
I suppose I’m also writing this email to Mom so I won’t have to answer that question. And, oh yeah, one more reason—to distract myself. I still don’t understand what happened with Akira yesterday. After we slipped out of the alley, we found a souvenir shop and picked up cheap sweatshirts with NARA and cartoon deer printed on them. He was nothing but polite as we headed back to the train station and said good-bye. Polite, reserved, and most definitely not trying to kiss me. And he hasn’t texted me since then. I guess my fears about reading him incorrectly were right on the money: He doesn’t like me. Not that way.
But if that’s the case, why is he always bei
ng so cute and charming and, yes, flirtatious? He used a stuffed tanuki to get my phone number. I mean, come on. And he keeps taking me to these beautiful, romantic places and … and … the declaration!
So why didn’t he want to kiss me?
“Blaaaaaaaaaaah.” I push the laptop to the side and flop on the bed, moping.
“Kimiko-chan?” Grandma appears in the bedroom doorway, giving me a quizzical look. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Obaasan,” I say, sitting up straight. “Sorry, I was just, uh, thinking about something.”
“If you are not sightseeing today, I thought perhaps I could show you how to make that blouse you admired,” she says.
“Oh … yes!” I say. “Let’s do that.”
She gives me a nod. “Please get ready and meet me out in the living room so we can walk to the train station.”
“We have to go somewhere to make it?” I say, my brow crinkling. “I thought we could just do it in your sewing room—”
“Yes, Kimiko, that’s where we will construct the garment,” Grandma says, a hint of amusement creeping into her expression. “But we need to go somewhere for you to pick your materials. That is something you will enjoy, ne?”
“We’re going to a fabric store?!” I jump to my feet. “Oh yes. That is definitely something I enjoy.”
For a tiny moment, I forget my angst over Akira.
And for the first time, my obaasan and I exchange a look of understanding.
The fabric store is stuffed into one of the big shopping arcades in Kyoto—a long street covered by a tunnel-like structure. Light filters through the high, curved ceiling, illuminating the jumble of shops selling everything from cheerful rainbows of stationery to elaborately carved walking sticks to Buddha statues of every size imaginable (okay, not as large as the Buddha I saw yesterday, but I’m trying not to think about that, dammit).
I find myself nearly bumping into people as I attempt to maneuver my way through the dense mix of tourists and locals, my senses constantly overwhelmed by all the cool new things to see. I can’t help but imagine myself here with Bex and Atsuko—Bex ferreting out whimsically printed notebooks and hard-to-find manga and Atsuko complaining that her feet hurt and coming up with excuses for us to stop at every snack shop along the way.
My obaasan moves through with ease, zigzagging her way through the crush of people, on a mission to the fabric store. When we finally reach our destination, the space looks deceptively small and gray and nondescript from the outside. But a low table boasting a tiny basket of brightly colored remnants sitting at the entrance catches my eye and my heart starts to beat a little bit faster.
Once we cross the gray threshold, my eyeballs are overwhelmed by the color and pattern explosion—there are shelves and shelves of beautiful bolts of fabric. And I haven’t even gotten to the side displays of ribbon and yarn and buttons. My gaze darts everywhere, unsure of where to land. I’m practically drooling. Maybe this place keeps its exterior purposefully bland so the inside is more of a wow.
“I would suggest a lighter weight cotton,” my grandmother says, guiding me toward a particular section of the fabric shelves. “This style will work with a variety of materials, but I believe the cotton provides the right weight and movement for the ruffled details on the front.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too—a lighter cotton will hold the shape without being too stiff,” I say, studying the feast of fabrics in front of me. My fingertips brush over their soft textures. I love the possibilities contained in new fabric. It has the potential to be so many beautiful things.
My hand lingers on a bolt of bright pink with a pattern of white cherry blossoms and scattered gold threads. Something about it sparks immediate joy in my heart—it’s so cheery, like a happy little song in fabric form. The gold gives it a sense of drama. And seeing it sandwiched between the bright oranges and reds of the fabrics around it sets my brain spinning—I’m already thinking about what I could pair it with, what kinds of “clashing” combinations I could come up with. Inspiration laces its way through my heart and I feel like I did when I saw the girls in their beautiful yukata and obi in the bamboo forest.
But this particular fabric is probably too loud. I should go with basic black for this blouse, like what Grandma has. I already know that will look good; it’s less of a risk. Plus, I’ve noticed Grandma likes to wear mostly black and white and gray—so she’ll likely approve of that choice. I move my hand to a bolt of plain black cotton.
“This one,” I say.
“Are you sure?” my grandmother says.
I turn to look at her, surprised. I expected her to give me an approving nod and motion for the salesgirl to pull the bolt from the shelf.
“You don’t like it?” I say.
“It does not matter if I like it,” she says, tapping the black cotton. “It is your blouse. You should get something you like. Something you want. Something that will speak to your soul every time you wear it. That is the point of clothing, ne?”
A slow grin spreads over my face. Somewhere deep inside of me, that’s what I’ve always thought—but I’ve never been able to vocalize it quite so well.
“Yes,” I say, with a surprised chuckle. “That is the point of clothing. That’s why I love clothes. I mean, besides not being naked and stuff.”
Oh, jeez. Why did I say that? Why did I have to ruin a perfectly nice moment?
But one side of Grandma’s mouth quirks up and she lets out a little snort-laugh.
“Also a very good point,” she says. “So is that the one you want?” She nods at the black cotton I’m touching.
I turn back to the fabric shelves. The black is cool. The black will go with everything. The black is what Grandma has.
The black … does not speak to my soul. It’s not what I want.
I move my hand to the bright pink with little white flowers.
“I want this one,” I say.
Grandma smiles. “Good choice.”
When we exit the shop, I’m expecting we’ll head immediately to the train station, but my obaasan turns in the opposite direction and motions for me to follow.
“Would you like to see something else here, Kimiko-chan?” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“I’d like to see everything else here,” I say, my eyes scanning over all the cool-looking shops. “I could probably spend days here, in fact. Maybe I’ll just move in?”
My grandmother gives me a quizzical look and my cheeks flush—why do I always insist on ruining our prospective nice moments by saying something weird?
“I am thinking of one thing you might like to see,” she says. “It is a bit of a secret.”
And then she takes off, effortlessly making her way through the crowd again. I follow, silently lecturing myself to not get distracted by the many, many potentially awesome things around me.
Obaasan leads me on a maze-like journey, taking me through a tiny side street, into another shopping arcade, and down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that looks straight out of a horror movie. I’m just starting to entertain the notion that my grandmother is an undercover evil mastermind who’s leading me to my death (a notion I thankfully do not vocalize), when we emerge on the other side of the corridor and into a little courtyard shrouded in bonsai trees. A path of stones of all different shapes and sizes leads to a tiny red cottage with a huge front window that takes up most of its courtyard-facing wall.
I spend a moment just gawking. It’s like something out of an old-fashioned storybook, a tranquil oasis hidden from the chaos of the shopping arcades.
“What is it?” I say, my voice full of wonder.
My grandmother motions for me to keep following her. And as we enter the tiny red cottage, I go right back to gawking.
I thought nothing could top the fabric store, but what’s inside this cottage comes awfully close. The main attraction is a glass counter absolutely covered in different kinds of sewing needles, pins, pincushions—basically everything you need for sewing
. And all organized in meticulous, precisely arranged clumps. If the fabric store felt like a glorious jumble, this feels more like a minuscule museum dedicated to the art of making stuff.
“This is Misuyabari needle shop,” my grandmother says, nodding to the elderly Japanese man behind the counter. “It is four hundred years old—a true family business.”
I’m so excited, I can’t even form words. I approach the glass counter reverently, trying to take it all in. Pincushions are lined up in neat rows in a cute wooden box and tiny pins with colorful toppers pierce perfectly arranged squares of foam. I take a closer look at one of the clusters of pins and let out a squeak of delight. The tops are all little animals: a guileless-looking poodle with a bow on its head, a cranky frog with huge eyes. My eyes go to the next cluster, where the pinheads are all different kinds of flowers, like a tiny garden blooming right there on the countertop.
Something stirs in my chest and a lump rises in my throat. I can’t quite explain why this sight moves me so much. Maybe it’s because all of these sewing implements are displayed with such care and reverence—as if they’re sacred, important, precious. It feels like whoever did this gets as excited about sewing and making clothes as I do.
“Are you all right, Kimiko-chan?” my grandmother says, and I’m so caught up in my reverie, I nearly jump out of my skin. I blink a couple times, getting my burgeoning tears under control.
“Yes,” I manage. “This is amazing. Thank you for bringing me here, Obaasan.”
“I thought you would like it,” she says. “This is … eto …” She pauses, as if thinking it over. “This is a bit of what I think of as true Kyoto—a place for people who are passionate about making things.”
“Like you,” I say, turning to smile at her. I briefly wonder if this is skating too close to a compliment and decide to risk it. “You know, the way you like to grow things in your garden. And make clothes.”
