I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  “Great,” I say, my voice loud and bright—a little too loud and bright. It doesn’t sound like me. “I’ll have—ooh!” I point to one of the bins. “Is that black sesame? I love black sesame frozen anything.”

  “You have black sesame–flavored things in the States?” Akira says.

  “Of course,” I say. “Whole lotta Asians in the States, you know.” I poke him in the arm and finally, his smile reaches his eyes.

  “Cone or cup?” he says.

  “Cone. Always.”

  Akira orders for us, getting a black sesame for me and a matcha for him, and we sit down on a nearby bench with our cones. We eat in silence and it feels like that nice, crackly kind of silence again. I am momentarily soothed. The sofuto kurimu is delicious—light and sweet and somehow better than any soft serve I’ve ever had.

  “You got home okay the other day from Nara? Sorry. Of course you did. I mean—sorry.” Akira shakes his head. “I meant to check up on you later.”

  “My grandparents did wonder if all my fashion sense had deserted me when they saw the souvenir sweatshirt,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “But otherwise, yes, I was fine.”

  This is the perfect opening. We’re talking about the other day, when we had that almost kiss moment. I can ease us into the topic and then tell him.

  “Speaking of the other day,” I say—and my voice suddenly has that too loud, too bright quality again. Also, the goddamn hard-partying butterflies are back. “Um. The rainstorm.”

  “That was quite the rainstorm,” he says, nodding. “I was surprised. It does rain heavily in Nara, but not usually in the spring.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, caught off guard. Why is he trying to go in-depth on the weather? “Anyway, so after we ran through the rainstorm—”

  “I apologize,” he says. “I did not mean to … pull you. Through the rain. In that manner. I was trying to find cover.”

  “Right, I got that,” I say, frowning. He’s acting all twitchy again, toying with what’s left of his cone and looking at the ground. I’m trying to get my declaration out, dammit. “I didn’t feel … pulled. I guess what I’m trying to say is—”

  “And the deer,” he interrupts. “They were so aggressive. I’m sorry about that, too, I should have remembered—”

  “They were mostly aggressive to you,” I say, exasperated. Why does he keep interrupting me and apologizing for random things? “Akira—”

  “I have to go,” he says abruptly. He stands, crumpling his cone wrapper in his hand. “It’s almost time for my shift. I will see you later, Kimi.”

  Then he turns and takes off.

  I sit there, dumbfounded, watching him hurry through the crowd, his shaggy hair bobbing with purpose.

  What was that?

  I pop the rest of my cone in my mouth, trying to process what just happened. Honestly, I can’t make heads or tails of it. But as he disappears from view, annoyance bubbles through my gut, finally overtaking the stupid butterflies.

  Why is he acting so weird? And why did he keep trying to talk about random bits of minutiae? And for the love of god, why did he keep stopping me from saying the thing I came here to say?

  “Oh, no, Akira Okamoto,” I mutter under my breath, my eyes narrowing. “I came here to make my declaration, and I’m not leaving until I make it.”

  I stand and toss my cone wrapper in the trash. Then I take off toward the mochi stand.

  I half expect to see him out front, already doing his ridiculous dance. But the area around the stand is fairly empty; all I see is a man behind the counter who I guess must be Akira’s uncle.

  “Excuse me,” I say to him. “Is Akira here?”

  “Around back,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me. “Getting ready for work.”

  “Arigato.”

  I stomp around to the back side of the stand. It’s a tiny, sectioned-off area hidden from public view. And there’s Akira, already dressed as a giant piece of pink mochi.

  He looks so cute and ridiculous, I almost forget I’m kind of mad at him.

  “Kimi,” he says, his eyes widening with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  I put my hands on my hips and glare at him.

  “Why won’t you let me tell you I like you?!” I blurt out.

  His eyes widen even further. “Wh-what?”

  “Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to straighten my spine like my mother always does. “That’s right: I like you. Not in a friend way. In a romantic way. And this was not at all how I was planning to say it, but I am going to say it and you are going to listen and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, but I needed to tell you. So. Now I’ve told you. It’s a declaration. What do you think of that?”

  It all comes out in a rush. My cheeks are hot and adrenaline’s blazing through my veins and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  “Kimi.” He takes a step toward me and I see that familiar intensity flashing through his eyes—that look I find so irresistible. “Of course I feel the same way.”

  His voice is so serious. Like this is the most important thing he’s ever said. My heart lights up in about a million different ways all at once.

  “Th-then why didn’t you kiss me?” I sputter, falling out of my indignant pose. “After we ran through the rain and you put your jacket around me and … and it was so perfect! I mean, I leaned in!”

  “I did not think you wanted me to,” he says, taking another step toward me. His gaze is locked with mine and … god. I could just drown in those eyes. “Earlier in the day, there were several times when we got … close. And I always felt you pulling away.”

  “I was waiting for the perfect moment—so we could have our perfect first kiss.” I take a step that closes the last bit of distance between us.

  “I thought I imagined you leaning forward in the alley,” he says. “After you seemed to pull away so many times that day, I did not want to make a mistake.”

  “You liked me that whole time?” I blurt out, shaking my head. I poke him in the chest—or where I think his chest is under that giant, squishy costume. “You wanted to kiss me that whole time?”

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you every time we’ve been together,” he corrects, covering my hand with his. “The bamboo grove. Nara. Even that first day, when we sat on the bench in this park. And when it seemed you did not feel the same way, I thought it would be best if I did not see you as much.”

  “Akira …” My voice trembles as he reaches over and strokes his thumb down my cheek. “We are both so … KY.”

  He laughs, surprised. “So KY,” he murmurs. I see that tenderness lighting his eyes now—the tenderness I thought I had imagined. My heart lifts.

  “What do you think, Kimi?” he says softly. “Is it finally the perfect moment?”

  I respond by rising on my tiptoes and leaning in—and this time I’m not waiting for him to meet me in the middle. I brush my lips against his.

  His arms go around my waist and he pulls me close. I don’t think about how totally ridiculous we must look: a girl in a bright red dress kissing a giant piece of mochi. I don’t even think about how this is a perfect moment, soft and sweet and wonderful.

  I don’t think about anything, because I’m too busy kissing him.

  Kissing is awesome.

  Seriously, I can’t get enough of it. It’s been two days since my declaration at the market. Akira and I have spent almost every minute together and a lot of those minutes have been devoted to kissing.

  At the moment, we’re sitting very close to each other at a table in the corner of a cozy café in Kyoto. It’s the middle of the day and Akira has to work at the mochi stand later, so we agreed to meet here. We’re supposed to be trying to finally crack the case of “What is Kimi’s Future?” but we keep getting … distracted. Especially since there’s no one else in the café and the one server on duty keeps disappearing into the back and our corner table is secluded enough to give us plenty of privacy. We are very
nicely hidden from public view.

  I’ve been trying to remain super mindful of not engaging in tons of PDA since, as Atsuko noted, that doesn’t seem to be a thing in Japan. But Akira agrees that being all by ourselves in an adorable café is pretty private.

  Although this adorable café boasts an extra feature that means we’re never totally by ourselves.

  “A pug café?” I squealed when we arrived. “I’ve heard of cat cafés and even owl cafés, but this is a whole new level of cute.”

  There are about a half-dozen pugs on duty today, wandering around the café premises wearing little numbered jerseys, like they’re part of a sports team. You can order treats to give them and of course there’s a ton of pug-branded memorabilia available for purchase, as well as Polaroids of the various pugs in residence plastered all over the walls. Rather than music, the café soundtrack is a medley of doggy snorts, whuffles, and snores.

  “Akira.” I giggle between kisses. “I think we’re bothering him.”

  I gesture to an especially tiny pug who’s sitting in front of our table, head cocked to the side, staring at us in what I can’t help but think is a disapproving manner.

  “Are we?” Akira raises an eyebrow, picks up my sketchbook, and holds it in front of our faces. “There. Problem solved.” He kisses me again.

  I let myself sink into it. Every touch from him makes me tingly all over.

  “Gah … !” He breaks the kiss suddenly, looking down. I realize the tiny disapproving pug has jumped into his lap. “I am sorry,” he says, patting its head. “Were we disturbing you?” He smiles slightly, dimple on full display, and I get a little flutter in my chest.

  Cute Boy is distracting enough by himself. Cute Boy + Cute Dog? Forget about it.

  “This pug is right—we should probably get back to work,” I say, taking my sketchbook from him.

  Since sketching always seems to relax me, Akira suggested I try doing some stream of consciousness sketching to see if it leads me any closer to figuring out what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.

  I haven’t gotten very far. Because of all the distractions …

  “All right,” Akira says, going back to his stack of papers. He’s brought in some printouts of articles from recent medical journals—a lot of it is available digitally, but he prints it out because it gives him that same feeling he had when he was a kid, poring over those secondhand textbooks. These are nothing he actually needs to study for school. He says he reads them “for fun.”

  I find this mind-blowingly hot.

  Akira looks down at the pug. “We will work for twenty minutes, ne? See what Kimi comes up with in her sketchbook. Is this acceptable to you?”

  The pug snorts, flicks an ear, and makes himself more comfortable in Akira’s lap, perhaps indicating approval.

  I set my pencil on the paper and allow my mind to wander. I’m not supposed to think about what I’m drawing, just let the sketching flow. See where my pencil takes me.

  These last couple days have been amazing. I’ve started working on my blouse with Grandma, snuck a few more limited-edition Snickers with Grandpa, and squeed endlessly with Bex and Atsuko over Skype. I’ve walked around Kyoto some more, taking in beautiful sight after beautiful sight. I’ve returned to the fabric store to pick up a few more textiles that inspired me. I never imagined I’d be having so much fun.

  True, I still haven’t heard back from Mom. I’ve taken to sending her an email every night, explaining the origin of yet another Kimi Original. I don’t know if she’s reading them, but I like writing them. In a weird way, writing out the memories associated with every outfit I’ve made makes me feel like I’m getting to know myself better, too. That sounds so dorky and I’m sure Atsuko would have a field day analyzing what it means for my overall psyche. But it’s true.

  I’ve Skyped a few times with Dad, but we still always manage to avoid the topic of Mom and what’s going on with her. He’s been trying to gently prod me on what to do about Liu Academy. So far, I’ve managed to avoid giving him an actual answer. Somewhere deep inside, I know I’m not going back to painting. But actually saying I want to cancel my attendance, my spot in the academy, and the future I thought I was going to have for so long …

  It still feels wrong, somehow. Like a big, scary, amorphous blob of a thing I really can’t stand to make real.

  Besides, I haven’t found that awesome, perfect thing that’s going to replace it yet.

  “Time’s up!” Akira exclaims, pushing his papers to the side. He scratches the pug behind its ears and nods at my sketchbook. “What did you come up with?”

  I look down at what I’ve been doodling for the last twenty minutes. My brain appears to have gotten stuck on my last trip to the fabric store and I’ve drawn a series of outfits made out of the delicious purple silk I picked up the other day.

  “Oh no, more clothes,” I say, laughing. “Sorry, looks like my brain wandered over to its distraction place. Let me try again. Another twenty minutes?” I glance down at the pug in his lap, looking for approval. But the pug has fallen asleep and offers only snoring.

  “Hold on,” Akira says, studying my doodles. His brow furrows and he gets that ultra-serious look I find so appealing. He taps one of my sketches, a skirt with a dramatic, exaggerated tulip shape. “Why do you always call this a distraction?”

  I shrug. “That’s what it is. Clothes have distracted me all semester. They distracted me from painting. They distracted me from figuring out what else I want to do with my life. Even now, they’re distracting me when I try to sketch my way to enlightenment.” I frown at the sketchbook. “Maybe I need to crawl through Buddha’s nostril again. Save up some extra enlightenment for the next life.”

  Akira uses his index finger to trace the bold, swooping lines I’ve scratched onto paper. “There’s so much in these lines,” he says thoughtfully. “So much thought. So much, eto … happy.” He gives me a slight smile. “Like I can tell you are happy when you’re drawing them.” His expression sobers again, and his eyes search my face. “And so much passion.”

  My cheeks warm. What is he trying to say?

  “That first day we met, when we talked in the park,” he continues. “You had that same passion when you were talking about where you would wear that dress you sketched. It reminded me of how excited I get whenever someone asks me to explain the alimentary canal.”

  “Do people ask you to explain that often?” I murmur, trying not to fixate on how he makes even the most clinical of terms sound sexy.

  “The point is: Why won’t you take this seriously? Because anything that inspires this deep a passion”—he taps my sketchbook again—“should be taken seriously.”

  “It’s a hobby, not a career,” I say automatically, parroting my mother. “Not something that will take me through life in a meaningful way. It’s not important.”

  He sits back and studies me. “If it is important to you, then it’s important,” he says. “Simple as that.”

  “Not so simple,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “I can’t get a job as a, like, clothes appreciator. At least, I don’t think that’s a thing that exists.”

  “There is nothing wrong with appreciating, but you don’t just appreciate, you create,” Akira says, paging through my sketchbook. “You make clothes, ne? From these drawings you have come up with. Like your grandmother’s friend with the shop—Yoneyama-san.”

  “I make clothes for fun,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Why does that have to be all?” He looks up from the sketchbook. “Just because something is fun doesn’t mean it’s nothing more than that. And anyway, fun is a great and wonderful thing that should be valued rather than—what do you say? Minimized?” He cocks a teasing eyebrow. “I thought you Americans were supposed to love fun the most.”

  “I’m Asian American,” I say, giggling. “My love of fun is complicated by parental expectations and a burning need to not disappoint anyone.”

  “And I understand this
as well,” Akira says. “But don’t you think finding joy in life is still important? We are having fun right now, ne?” He gently lifts the puppy in his lap, waving its paws back and forth. “See? The puppy agrees with me.”

  “The puppy does not agree with you,” I say, giggling in spite of myself. “The puppy is currently giving you the most put-out look of all time because you woke him up from his nap.”

  Akira grins and sets the puppy back in his lap. It makes an irritated little whuffle-y sound and goes back to sleep.

  “All I’m saying is that you may already have the clues you need to crack this case, Kimi from America,” he says, tapping my sketchbook.

  I glance down at what I’ve drawn, all those beautiful exaggerated shapes, and feel that familiar pinprick of excitement I always get whenever I come up with new designs. I’m already imagining how I’d pattern them out, how they’d look as I cut and sew them together, how I’d feel when I eventually wear them somewhere. Now it seems like there’s something else they’re trying to tell me, but I can’t quite grab on to it.

  Akira’s phone buzzes, startling me out of my thoughts. The tiny pug raises its head inquisitively.

  “Ah,” Akira says, looking at his phone. “Ojisan needs my assistance earlier than I thought. We are doing the demonstration today.”

  “The demonstration?” I say.

  “That’s right, you have not seen this yet,” he says. “Would you like to come watch? I think you will enjoy it.”

  “I would,” I say, snapping my sketchbook closed. “Even though I have no idea what this ‘demonstration’ entails. But I’m a little disappointed our time together is getting cut short.”

  “We still have a few minutes,” he says. He glances around at the café to make sure it’s still deserted, then leans in, giving me a devilish grin. “I am sorry,” he murmurs to the tiny pug in his lap, playfully covering its eyes. “We are going to have to disturb you again.”