I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  “And perhaps you, too?” she says, cocking an eyebrow at me.

  “I’m trying to figure that out,” I say, flashing to my failed painting career and trying not to wince. “But none of my craftsman abilities are on par with this.” I gesture to the adorable displays of pins.

  “It is good not to have a big head,” my grandmother says. “But …” She regards me shrewdly. “Do not be so fast to dismiss yourself.”

  “I don’t think I’m meant to be an artist,” I say, turning back to the pins and focusing on a bright scarlet ladybug. “Not like Mom.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I have time to think about them—or the fact that bringing up my mother to my obaasan is probably one of the worst ideas ever, no matter what Grandpa says. An awkward silence settles over us like a prickly blanket.

  “Your mother had many steps on her journey,” my grandmother finally says, her voice neutral. “I still remember how she struggled before she left for the America. She was not sure what it would be like when she got there and she was so afraid her English would not be good enough.”

  “She talks sometimes about how she had a hard time at first,” I say, my voice soft. We’re in uncharted territory, but I don’t want to scare Grandma off from this line of conversation. “She’d mix up words all the time.”

  “That was a mistake she always made,” my grandmother says. Maybe it’s my imagination, but her voice sounds almost affectionate? “Back when we were taking our English lessons together.”

  “You took English lessons together?” I exclaim. This is a part of the story I’ve never heard before.

  “Your mother, your grandfather, and I,” my grandmother says. “It was something we did together, as a family. We always thought this would be useful—your grandfather and I hoped to save up enough to go to the America and attend her college graduation.”

  I can fill in the part of the story that goes unsaid: After my mom met my dad, after things deteriorated between my grandparents and my mother, this trip never happened. My grandparents have never been to the States. And my mom has never been back here.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever thought about how severe the break between them was, if I ever comprehended how much has been lost. I can’t help but wonder if Mom ever feels cut off from an essential piece of herself, all those long ago memories that formed the person she is today.

  “We have kept up the lessons—your grandfather and I,” my grandmother says. “Our English is very good, ne?”

  “Very good,” I agree, surprised that she’s sort of paying herself a compliment. Definitely not going to point that out, though. “And …” I cast a sidelong glance at her. Her tone is neutral again and so is her expression—she’s studying the little set of animal pins, absently tapping each of them on the head with her index finger. “Maybe you can still come to the States one day.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, but I notice her finger pauses on the tiny poodle pin. She hesitates, then gives it an extra little tap.

  “Maybe,” she finally says.

  As we walk back through the shopping arcade, my phone lights up with messages from Bex and Atsuko—I haven’t told them anything about my day with Akira and I guess they got tired of waiting for me to check in.

  I really don’t want to tell them what a non-event our non-kiss was. Just thinking about it brings down my mood.

  “What’s wrong, Kimiko-chan?” Obaasan says.

  “Nothing,” I say automatically. “I mean, uh, do I look like something’s wrong?”

  “You were swinging those bags around like you just won the biggest prize,” she says, gesturing to my shopping bags—one containing my beloved pink fabric, the other containing a set of the bright flower pins I just couldn’t resist. “Then you looked at your phone and stopped.”

  “I’m just thinking about something,” I say, my gaze wandering to the ground.

  “That is what you said earlier,” she says, her brow furrowing. “When you were making that odd sound in your bedroom.”

  I keep my gaze trained on the ground. Can I talk to her about this? It seems like kind of a leap to go from tentatively bonding over fabric and sewing tools to talking out my boy problems. I mean, she just started being able to look me in the eye for more than two seconds—she seems to be slowly getting used to me, not being put off by the fact that I look so much like Mom.

  And anyway, what is there to this story beyond, I thought this boy liked me, but now I think maybe he doesn’t?

  I look up from the ground, my eyes wandering the street—and suddenly they land on something very interesting.

  “Whoa, what’s that?” I say, stepping forward to get a better look.

  It’s a little shop with the brightest, most beautiful garments in the window—they’re interesting, modern shapes with kimono-inspired flourishes, like full, flowing sleeves. And they’re all made out of rich-looking fabric in bold prints. They speak to my soul in an immediate, visceral way.

  “Would you like to go in?” Grandma says, sidling up to me. “This is my friend’s shop.”

  “Wh-what?” is about all I can get out as I follow her inside. My obaasan is just full of surprises today.

  The shop owner greets my grandmother enthusiastically, bowing and talking to her in Japanese. She appears to be a little younger than Grandma and her black hair is swept up into a high bun, revealing dramatic streaks of white at her temples. She’s wearing a garment like the ones displayed in the window—a bright red dress with an abstract pattern of blue streaks. The red matches her fiery lipstick.

  She is quite possibly the coolest person I’ve ever seen.

  “Sa-chan, this is my granddaughter, Kimiko,” my grandmother says. “Kimiko, this is my dear friend Sakae Yoneyama. She makes all of these clothes.”

  “Yoneyama-san,” I say, bowing. “You make all of this and you own this boutique? That’s amazing.”

  “Arigato,” Sakae says, beaming at me. Apparently she has no problem with compliments. “Would you like to try something on?”

  “Uhhhh, maybe a few somethings,” I say, my gaze scanning the wealth of beautiful clothes on display. “If that’s all right with you, Obaasan.”

  “Hai,” my grandmother says. “I would like to try on a few things myself.”

  Sakae laughs and says something in Japanese. My grandmother does her little snort-laugh.

  “She said she has some things in black she put aside just for me,” Grandma says, raising an eyebrow.

  Sakae bustles into the back of the store and emerges with a pile of black dresses, which she hands to my grandmother. Then she turns to me.

  “Hmm,” she says, studying me intently. “Something brighter for you. Maybe this red?” She gestures to her own dress. “And shorter cut, ne?”

  She goes over to the window and takes a dress I was admiring—red with dramatic sleeves—off the mannequin. Then she hands it to me and motions toward the curtained-off dressing rooms on the other side of the store.

  “Go,” she commands. “Try on.”

  I emerge from the dressing room a few minutes later to see my grandmother already in front of the mirror, scrutinizing her black-clad form.

  “Wow, that looks awesome, Grandma,” I say, sidling up next to her.

  “Arigato,” she says. “You look very nice as well.”

  I smooth the skirt of my own dress—it flows around my hips beautifully and oh, god, the sleeves on this thing. They make me feel like some combination of fairy princess and superhero. And it fits perfectly. I’m so used to having to alter things for my shrimpy frame, but the hang on this dress is just right. I glance around, looking for Sakae, and see that she’s on the other side of the store, helping another customer.

  “How do you know Yoneyama-san?” I say.

  “We were in school together,” Grandma says. “We both loved sewing.” She smiles at the memories. “Sa-chan’s parents wanted her to get married and settle down, but she refused. So they cut her off. Stopped
talking to her. She struck out on her own and worked as a server in a teahouse and sewed her garments whenever she was not working. Built up a small private clientele and eventually saved enough money to quit the teahouse and open up her shop.”

  “Seems to have worked out pretty well, hasn’t it?” I murmur.

  “Sou desu ne,” my grandmother agrees.

  I gaze at our dapper reflections in the mirror. We’re wearing spins on the same design and look adorably coordinated—like we go together. I feel a sudden rush of warmth in my chest.

  “Grandma, I like a boy,” I blurt out.

  She turns to me. “Oh?” She’s cocking her head to the side and there’s no judgment in her expression, just curiosity.

  “I like a boy and I can’t tell if he likes me,” I forge on. “I thought he did. But then he acted weird and now I’m not so sure. How do you tell? Is there a way to tell? How could you tell with Ojiisan?”

  “Kimiko-chan.” My grandmother shakes her head, looking a touch exasperated. “You use so many words.” She hesitates, studying me. “Did your mother ever tell you about the first time I made dinner for your ojiisan?”

  “No,” I say.

  “He came to my family’s home,” my grandmother says. “I cooked fish in a special sauce, a recipe I was very proud of knowing how to make—because it was the only thing I knew how to make.” She smiles slightly. “He ate so much of it. I was so happy. And our conversation was wonderful. My heart was—what do you say? Eto … full of butterflies. The only sour note was my father’s dog, Yoshi, who kept hovering around the table, wanting to be fed. I kept trying to shoo him away.” Her smile turns wry. “The dog was mostly staying around your grandfather, but toward the end of the meal, he came around the table to me. And proceeded to vomit a very large serving of fish right in my lap.”

  “What!” I exclaim. That’s definitely not how I was expecting this romantic story to end. “Wait. Was Grandpa feeding the dog his fish all night?!”

  “Yes,” my grandmother says, her smile widening. “As it turns out, your grandfather hates fish. But he didn’t want to tell me because I was so excited to make it for him.”

  Okay. That’s pretty romantic.

  “We had fish the other night,” I say. “Is he still only pretending to like it?”

  “He has learned to like it over the years. It has—what is the expression? Grown on him.”

  “So I should make fish and serve it to Akira and see if he feeds it to a dog?” I say, my brow crinkling.

  “No,” Grandma says. “I am saying: There are two ways to tell someone something. One is to not tell them, the way your grandfather did—he didn’t tell me he hated fish and he didn’t tell me he cared for me. But he did tell me both of those things with actions rather than words. The other is to just come out and tell them.” She turns back to face the mirror. “Personally, I prefer the second way. Less dog vomit.”

  “But how do I get him to tell me if he likes me—one way or the other?” I say, laughing.

  “You don’t,” my grandmother says. “You tell him. After all, you just told me: ‘I like a boy.’ Why are you trying so hard to figure out what he wants when you already know what you want? If you want something, you have to say it out loud and to the correct person.”

  “It sounds so easy when you say it that way,” I murmur. “But it might be hard to say in person.”

  “You are smart, ne?” my obaasan says briskly. “You will figure it out. Now. Do you want this dress?”

  I smile at our reflections in the mirror. “Yes,” I say. “I definitely want it.”

  Funny how that wasn’t hard to say at all.

  There aren’t just butterflies in my stomach. There are butterflies having the freakin’ party of the year in my stomach.

  But after my talk with Obaasan, I realized I have to do this. I have to tell Akira I like him. Out loud and to his face.

  It was kind of awesome to be so certain about something. When we got back to my grandparents’ house, I texted Akira and asked if he wanted to meet up the next day. Then I waited for him to text back. Then I texted Bex and Atsuko and giddily explained what I was going to do. Then finally Akira texted back and said he had to work the next day—but maybe we could meet up at the market for ice cream?

  I tried to parse the tone of his text, but it was pretty basic, not giving me much to work with.

  My friends, of course, demanded a pre-meetup Skype session.

  “You’re doing it today!” Atsuko bellows, dancing across my laptop screen. “You’re gonna tell him you like him!”

  “That is sooooo awesome!” Bex chimes in. “Go, Kimi, go!”

  I laugh and flash them a thumbs-up. They’re trying to do some routine they’ve choreographed in my honor. They’re dressed in pieced-together, mismatched cheerleader outfits they assembled from whatever they could find at Goodwill and Bex has constructed makeshift pom-poms out of strips of crepe paper. (How they had time to do all this, I don’t know, but never underestimate Atsuko’s pigheadedness paired with Bex’s die-hard romantic nature.)

  “Go, Kimi, go!” Bex repeats, waving her droopy pom-pom. She stops to swoon for a moment. “And now you’re making the declaration. So romantic.”

  “Yeeeaaaaaah!” Atsuko bellows, flopping on the floor and trying to do the splits. She’s not quite successful, so she just splays her legs out as far as they’ll go and waves her pom-pom in time with Bex’s.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say, giggling.

  “Kimi,” Atsuko says, pulling herself out of her awkward not-quite-the-splits position. “Are you okay if … I mean, you know it’s not guaranteed he’s going to respond in the exact perfect way when you tell him, right?”

  “I know,” I say—even though the very thought makes the butterflies in my gut start partying up a storm. “Believe me, I know. But if he doesn’t feel the same way, well …” I shrug. The butterflies dance harder. “At least I’ll know. And anyway, he’s not the only reason I’m having fun in Japan. My grandma and I had such a great time together yesterday.”

  I briefly relate the tale of our adventures in the fabric store, the pins and needles shop, and Sakae’s wonderful boutique. After we got home, and I’d managed to make a date with Akira, I spent hours sketching, drawing all sorts of new outfits inspired by the beautiful rainbow of fabrics I’d seen. I’m actually thinking of going back and getting more of that bright pink cotton. There’s so much I can see doing with it. Maybe I’ll pick up a few yards of a gorgeous purple silk that also caught my eye.

  “Kimi!” Atsuko exclaims, laughing. “Did you hear what you just said? You’re doing it! You’re having fun in Japan!”

  “Yeah, I am,” I say, a slow smile spreading over my face as I realize it’s true.

  “Excellent,” Atsuko says, nodding sagely. “Your next Ask Atsuko directive—”

  “Wait a minute, I totally failed in kissing Akira—” I protest.

  “Or you just haven’t succeeded yet,” Bex chimes in.

  “Why am I getting another directive?!” I continue.

  “Think of it more like a thing to consider, then,” Atsuko says, her eyes turning thoughtful. “Try not to fantasize about all the different things that might happen when you tell Akira you like him. Because there’s no way of knowing what he’s actually going to say. And I know that’s what you’re going to want to do when you’re on your way over to the market. Unless …” Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’ve already been doing that.”

  “No,” I say. “Actually, I haven’t.”

  Wait a minute. I cock my head to the side. I haven’t done that, have I? And Atsuko’s right—usually that’s exactly what I’d do. Fantasize about all the possible perfect outcomes that might occur once I say those words to him.

  But the truth is, I keep thinking about the way I felt when I touched that bright pink fabric. Proclaimed out loud that I wanted it instead of trying to hide my true feelings under a bolt of plain black cotton.

  Akira is, o
f course, much more important than any piece of fabric. But I don’t want to hide my true feelings from him, either.

  Even if it makes things real in a painful way.

  Even if it ruins everything.

  I take the train to Kyoto—and this time, I actually know where I’m going and don’t get distracted. I stride with purpose toward Maruyama Park. Toward the mochi stand and the tanuki and Akira.

  The market is just as bustling as it was the first time I happened upon it, but I spot the boy I like immediately. Akira is by the ice cream stand where he suggested we meet, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet around. He looks on edge. Unsure. Or maybe I’m imagining that, projecting that onto him? I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s going to tell me he doesn’t want to hang out anymore? A brand-new batch of butterflies parties its way through my stomach. God, calm down, butterflies.

  I take a deep breath. Okay. Here we go.

  I try to walk with purpose toward the ice cream stand. I decided to wear my new red dress, the one I got from Sakae’s boutique, which makes my stride a little more confident.

  “Kimi,” Akira says, looking up. “Hi.”

  Once again, I have no idea what he’s thinking. The look he’s giving me isn’t exactly happy, but it’s not unhappy.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  And then we just stand there. This silence is totally awkward, not at all like the nice silence we had going before. What shifted so dramatically between us in that rainstorm?

  I’m all prepared to blurt out my declaration, but then he has to go and break the awkward silence with, “So. Ice cream?”

  Hmm. Guess what, Akira, I really like you is probably not an appropriate response to that.

  So instead I say: “Sure.”

  He seems to relax a little as we turn to the ice cream stand and scan the offerings—maybe because now we have something concrete to do. A task.

  “This is sofuto kurimu,” he says. “Soft cream. It’s supposed to be like your American soft serve.” He gives me a half smile and I relax a little, feeling like we’re in more familiar territory. But I notice the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.