I Love You So Mochi

by Sarah Kuhn

  “He means Mom’s parents,” I say, nudging her in the arm. “Can you believe that?”

  Just thinking about it makes me smile. After I revealed my dress creation, Mom and I had a long, tearful catch-up (and she pried as many details about Akira out of me as she could), and then I presented her with Grandpa’s letters and Meiko. I told her all about my time in Japan, how I’d connected with Grandma and Grandpa—with Obaachan and Ojiichan. How being there and talking to them and learning about her life made me feel like I was finding little bits of myself I didn’t know were missing. I desperately want her to feel that way, too; she’s denied what seems like an essential piece of herself for so long.

  I mentioned I thought maybe they could leave all those things that were said in the past behind and move forward. And I told her about how Grandma had been so sure of the bond between Mom and me—that it wasn’t something that could be easily broken. Hadn’t she been right about that?

  Mom didn’t say much. Just took the letters from me and turned them over in her hands, considering. Then patted Meiko on the head, a slight smile playing over her lips.

  A couple days later, I happened to be walking past the kitchen when I heard short bursts of Japanese being spoken on the other side of the door. I poked my head in, thinking maybe Mom was watching a show. She wasn’t. Her laptop was propped up on the island in the center of the room and Mom was staring with laser-like focus at the screen—at my grandmother.

  “Ahhhhhhh,” Mom said, shaking her head in frustration. “No.” She spat out another long stream of Japanese.

  Obaachan frowned, looking off into the distance, and poked at something just offscreen—her keyboard, maybe?

  Oh.

  I realized then that Mom was trying to teach Obaachan to use Skype.

  I ducked out of the kitchen quickly so they wouldn’t hear me giggle.

  After that, they started talking more regularly—and even my dad got in on it, emailing my grandparents various photos of our daily activities. Whatever’s happening still feels new and awkward and delicate—but at least it’s a start. Mom’s even making noises about going to Japan next year.

  “It inspired Kimi so much on her artist’s journey,” she mused the other day. “Perhaps returning would inspire me as well.”

  Maybe Obaachan will have the yukata done by then.

  “Hey, guys!” I snap out of my reverie to see Bex running up to Atsuko and me, dragging Shelby behind her. “Oh my god, Kimi! This is amazing. And your dress …” She waves her hand around. “Double amazing!”

  “It’s cool,” Shelby says, nodding. Shelby is a woman of few words.

  “The guy at the front said this package came for you,” Bex says, handing me a small box wrapped in delicate pink paper. My name is written in calligraphy on a card affixed to the top. “We said we would be more than happy to deliver it to the arrrr-teest.”

  “Thank you,” I say, laughing.

  I open the box first, carefully removing the wrapping and popping the top off to reveal … mochi. Six perfect pieces. I scrutinize it. Wait. I could swear this is from …

  “Open the card,” Atsuko urges, taking the box from me.

  I slit the envelope and pull the small card out.

  So. This is from your dad’s restaurant.

  I laugh. That’s what I thought.

  I needed same-day service and no amount of international shipping could get Ojisan’s mochi to you. But I figured your dad’s is the best you can get in America.

  Congratulations on your big night and on being accepted to fashion school. You are going to do great things.

  I am still in awe of you.

  Love,

  Akira

  “OoooOOOoooooooh!” Atsuko and Bex hoot over my shoulder.

  “Hey!” I say, clutching the note to my chest. “That’s private!”

  “Go call your boyfriend!” Atsuko bellows. “And thank him for his adorable gift!”

  I’m pretty sure my face is bright red, but I stick my tongue out at her and scurry outside to the little courtyard area. It’s deserted and the night is bright and clear. I take a deep breath, enjoying the quiet away from the bustle of the party.

  I pull my phone from the small, jeweled clutch I’m carrying and do the math in my head. Eight p.m. here means lunchtime in Kyoto? Not bad.

  I pull up Skype and dial Akira. He answers immediately.

  “Kimi!” he says, his face lighting up. “You got my present?”

  “Yes—thank you, I love it,” I say. I peer at his surroundings. “Are you … at the pug café?”

  “I am,” he says, laughing. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There is no one here again, so I can talk on my computer.” He reaches down to pick something up, then brings it into frame—the tiny pug. “Look how he misses you—so sad!” Akira pulls a face.

  “I miss … him, too,” I say. “Very much.”

  He grins at me. “You should go back and enjoy your party. I am sure it is very exciting, ne?”

  “It is,” I say. “And I will. But I can talk to you for a minute.”

  We talk about everything and nothing and even though we’re an ocean away, I feel like I’m sitting right there with him, my heart lighting up whenever he flashes me that irresistible dimple.

  I go back to the party and see Mom standing in front of her painting, gesturing expansively and talking very seriously to a cluster of enraptured people. Dad running around and snapping pictures, trying to capture everything. Atsuko and Bex goofing off while Shelby looks on, smiling indulgently.

  My heart is so full.

  In the past, I might have been scared to jump back into the party fray—to make things real by actually living my life instead of just fantasizing about it. I was always so afraid I’d ruin everything.

  Now, I don’t hesitate.

  I run back to Atsuko and Bex and twirl around in my beautiful dress and then Atsuko makes some dopey joke and we laugh until we can’t breathe.

  “Oh, look, your dad posted that picture of you and your mom,” Atsuko says, waving her phone around. She frowns at the screen. “He really should have let me take it.”

  I take her phone and study the photo. My mouth is open and I’m laughing at my dad’s dumb joke. Mom looks vaguely annoyed at how long he’s taking. It is, as I predicted, astounding levels of unflattering. But that’s not what stands out.

  No, the thing that really sticks with me about this photo is how I feel seeing Mom and me standing next to each other, wearing our coordinating art piece outfits. Caught in a perfect, spontaneous moment of celebration, surrounded by so many people I love.

  “Kimi-chan, what is this?” Mom says, coming up behind me. She peers at the photo, her nose wrinkling.

  I watch her as she studies it. I think about how I don’t know exactly what the future holds. I don’t know if I’ll always make the right choice or if Akira and I will experience more sadness than joy at being so far apart or if I’ll become the greatest fashion designer who ever lived or something else entirely.

  But I do know this: There are so many amazing experiences in my future. So many more moments like this. They extend in front of me like the beautiful scarlet tunnel of torii gates. Endless, boundless, unlimited. And I’m going to enjoy every single one of them.

  “Ahhh, this photo,” Mom says, shaking her head and tapping the phone screen. “Not very good, hmm?”

  I rest my head on her shoulder. “I think it’s perfect.”

  Thank you to all my favorite superhero teams: my beautiful Girl Gangs, my brilliant Shamers, and my amazing Asian American LA arts community. You are all incredible, and I’m honored to be in your company.

  Thank you to my editor, Jeffrey West, for your boundless enthusiasm and for loving tanukis, pugs, and Kimi as much as I do. Thank you to my agent, Diana Fox, for being your usual badass self, and to everyone at Scholastic for believing in this book.

  Thank you to everyone who chatted with me for hours on end about
everything from specific locations in Japan to nuance in familial relations and slang that somehow crosses language barriers: Keiko Agena, Shin Kawasaki, Ally Maki, Naomi Hirahara, Adam Douglas, Eri, and the Okamoto family—Scott, Geri, Ethan, Audrey, and Owen. You all provided invaluable conversation and support and helped me make this book the absolute best it could be. I would totally dress up in a mochi costume for you any day!

  Thank you to Jenn Fujikawa and Mary Yogi (Food Librarian!) for their excellent documentation of all things mochi. Your work is both informative and delicious!

  Thank you to Fern Choonet for all your beautiful, swoon-worthy artwork and to Shivana Sookdeo for making this book the cutest thing ever.

  Thank you to Diya Mishra for being an awesome first reader, to Patrice Caldwell for playing matchmaker extraordinaire, and to Rebekah Weatherspoon for being the best deadline buddy ever.

  Thank you to The Ripped Bodice and its proprietors—Bea and Leah Koch and Fitzwilliam Waffles—for creating the most wonderful space and letting me write there.

  Thank you to Jenn Fujikawa (Again!), Tom Wong, Andrea Letamendi, Christine Dinh, Amy Ratcliffe, Christy Black, Mel Caylo, Amber Benson, and Jenny Yang for pep talks and support and basically being the best ever.

  Thank you to my family for being my family: Kuhns, Yoneyamas, Chens, Coffeys, and everyone in between.

  Thank you to Jeff Chen for absolutely everything.

  And thank you, all these years later, to my mother for giving me a red kimono, an orange obi, and the heart of this book. I wish you could have read this one.

  Sarah Kuhn is on a quest to eat every kind of mochi in the greater Los Angeles area. She is the author of the Heroine Complex series and has penned a variety of comics and short fiction about geeks, aliens, romance, and Barbie (yes, that Barbie). Additionally, Sarah is a finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. In her spare time, she thinks way too much about one day adopting a pug and the lasting legacy of Claudia Kishi. A third-generation Japanese American, she lives in LA with her husband and an overflowing closet of vintage treasures. You can find her online at heroinecomplex.com.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Kuhn

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, June 2019

  Jacket photo © 2019 by Toni Hukkannen

  Jacket art © 2019 by Fern Choonet

  Jacket design by Shivana Sookdeo

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-30289-9

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.