I’m early, but several other students have beat me here. All boys. They’re flipping through a packet of papers, and they stare when I enter.
“Miss, this is Comparative Politics.”
The professor stands at the chalkboard, drawing some sort of diagram. He has curly gray hair, round glasses, and a stern expression.
There’s a part of me that wants to pretend I’m lost. To turn and walk away.
I swallow down my fear. “Yes, I know.”
His mouth sets in a line that’s unreadable. Does he disapprove of me being in his class? Am I just paranoid? “Ah. The syllabus is on the desk.”
“Thank you.” I feel as though the entire room watches me cross to the desk. I tell my hand not to tremble as I reach for the top packet. My red thumbnail glints in the overhead light.
“What is your name?”
I freeze and look up. The professor stands a few feet away, one hand holding chalk and the other resting on the edge of the desk.
“Evalina.” For some reason my throat clenches tight, and it takes me a moment to get out my last name. “Cassano.”
“Mmm. Italian.”
My face feels as though he just struck a match and threw it at me. “Yes.” I try for a lighthearted tone. “That’s right.”
His gaze skims over me in a cool, calculating kind of way. “I expect you’ll bring a different slant to our discussions in here, Miss Cassano.”
I manage a weak smile and a murmured thank you—though he didn’t sound particularly pleased—before turning and finding a seat. I feel as though there’s a spotlight on me, and a flashing sign reading that I don’t belong. That no one in my family has ever gone to college. That I don’t know what I’m doing.
So much for blending in. And so much for this being the start of the life I choose. The ghost of my heritage has already arrived, and my first class hasn’t even begun.
I watch the party from the edge of the hallway, trying to not glance at the clock too many times. After surviving my first week away at college, my first week of living with someone besides my parents, all I really want is to be curled up in bed, tackling my mountain of reading and essays, and speaking to no one. But when Diego asked me to his farewell party tonight, I couldn’t say no.
I allow myself to look at the clock. I need to stay at least fifteen more minutes, and then I’ll excuse myself so I can get back to the train before dark.
Diego materializes with bottles of Coca-Cola in each hand. He passes one to me with a grin. “You’re allowed in the room with the rest of the party guests, you know.”
I return his cheeky smile. “Thanks. How generous of you.”
“Tai hates parties too. If he could, he would be holding up this wall with you.”
“Yeah.” I try to ignore the slice of pain his name causes.
“I’ll have to do it for him.” Diego makes a show of planting his hand against the wall, then relaxes. “Speaking of Tai, I had a letter from him today.”
The pain cuts even deeper. “Really? What’d he say?”
“All stuff you already know, I’m sure. He’s playing lots of baseball, working in the mess hall, that kind of thing. I think it’s funny they call everything by military names.”
I look at my shoes. “Yeah, it is.”
“You okay?”
“Of course. It’s just sad to think about him.”
“I know. For me too. I sure wish I could visit him. I know your visit really lifted his spirits.”
The party chatter is too loud for Diego to hear my snort.
“How is school?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Mostly good. My roommate is really quiet. I have a teacher, Professor Blake, who seems to hate me already.”
“Hate you?” Diego raises his eyebrows. “How is that possible?”
“Diego,” Mr. Medina blessedly interrupts. “Abuela is going home. Come say goodnight.”
“Yes, sir.” Diego straightens. He clinks the neck of his bottle against mine. “I’ll come back, and we can finish this conversation.”
I loiter at the wall a bit longer and then attempt conversing with a wife of one of the field-workers, whom I’ve met at the market before. Her minimal English and my abysmal Spanish make for very little that can be said. Diego has been pulled into a group of some high school chums, and I’m not particularly eager to conclude our talk about Professor Blake, so I thank Mrs. Medina for her hospitality and tell her I need to get back to campus.
“Diego can drive you,” Mrs. Medina says. “No need to ride bicycle.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Medina, but it really is—”
“Diego,” Mrs. Medina calls above the volume of the party. “Miss Cassano must go. You can drive her to train station?”
Diego’s gaze connects with mine. “Yes, of course. Let me get the keys.”
“It’s really not necessary. I don’t want you to leave your own party.”
Diego waves away these concerns as he leaves in search of the keys. He returns a moment later, jingling them from his fingers, and I have little choice but to follow him out the door and into the air that’s losing its warmth as the sun sinks.
“This is very nice, thank you.”
“I’m happy to.” Diego grabs hold of my bicycle, which I’d rested against their fence post, and loads it in the back of the truck. “It was nice of you to come.”
Once we’re onourway, we immediately pass the Hamasakis’ house, looking dark and lonely.
I avert my eyes. “What time do you leave tomorrow?”
“O-700.” Diego winks at me. “That’s sailor-talk for seven a.m.”
“I’ll be thinking of you and your family at that time.” In an attempt at humor, I add, “If I’m awake, that is.”
“Very kind of you, Evalina.”
The silence that follows leaves me fidgety and fearful of what Diego might say next. I had been shocked when we spoke a few weeks ago and I realized he didn’t know Taichi had broken up with me. I took it as a hopeful sign. A sign that Taichi was as uncommitted to the break up as I thought, but nothing has changed.
Diego clears his throat. “I’m sorry for how I used to act around you.”
I startle. “It’s fine.”
“It was just that Tai liked you so much, and I was worried about him getting his heart broken.” Diego casts a glance at me, looking worried about my response.
“Diego, you’ve already apologized. I told you, it’s fine.”
His laugh sounds tighter than normal. “I think also . . .” Diego shifts in his seat. “I think I was a bit jealous. I mean, Tai tried to play it cool, but he was so enamored with you. I had never seen him like that before.”
I look out the window when I feel a familiar prickle in my eyes. He’s not so enamored with me now. Not if he can stand to not write to me.
“I’m sorry, am I upsetting you? I’m not good at serious stuff. I was just trying to apologize for how I acted for a while when you and Tai were dating. I know there were times that I wasn’t as friendly to you as I should’ve been.” His laugh is tight. “I guess when a man is heading off to war, he wants to go with a clean conscience.”
The statement sends a zap of fear through me, and when I try to smile, tears come out instead.
Diego groans. “I was not trying to make you cry.”
I dig through my handbag for a handkerchief. “It’s not your fault. I cry easily these days. Especially since Taichi left.”
Diego shifts more than normal in his seat and clears his throat. “I know everything that’s happened with Tai has been really hard on you. I’m amazed you made a way to visit him. I know he really appreciated it.”
I have to settle for wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater. Diego is too blurry for me to read his expression. “You said that earlier. Did he tell you that?”
“That he appreciated you visiting?”
“Yes. Did he say those words?”
“He didn’t have to. I just know he did. Oh, Evalina .
. .”
I’m bawling. I can’t seem to make myself stop. Of course he didn’t tell Diego that he appreciated my visit, because he didn’t! The break-up letter he had sent to me was postmarked within days; obviously my visit was a huge mistake.
The truck stops, and I find we’re at the station already. Diego peers at me from the driver’s side, his back against the door as if wanting as much space between us as possible.
His expression is full of caution. “Evalina, what’s wrong? Really?”
I dab at my eyes. My sleeve is black from mascara. “I don’t think our visit went very well.”
“But when you wrote to me at training, you said it did.”
“I know.” I wring my hands in my lap. “When I wrote to you, I hadn’t come home yet. So I thought it had . . .”
“What happened?”
I look up at Diego and make myself admit the truth. “Taichi broke up with me.”
“No,” Diego says flatly, as though I’ve just said something highly inappropriate. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“He did. When I came home from vacation, there was a letter waiting. He said it wasn’t fair to either of us to stay together.” Tears press against my eyes again, but I manage to keep them away. “And that was the last letter he sent me.”
Diego’s skepticism is all over his face. As if I would make this up.
“He hasn’t said a word of that to me in his letters.”
“He’s probably embarrassed or something.” I wipe under my eyes, hoping to clear away any flakes of eye makeup. I don’t want to get on the train looking like a racoon. “You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“Evalina.” Diego’s voice has gone soft, consoling. “I have to think Tai is just stressed about the evacuation, and is trying to do what he thinks is best for you. He loves you, I know it.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” I say to my soiled sleeve. “But I send him letters every few days, same as always, and he never writes back.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Diego, no—”
“Yes. I think he’s just trying to protect you, but he needs to be told that he’s acting like an idiot. That’s my job as his best friend.” Diego looks down the track and grimaces. “I think your train will be here soon.”
We get out, and he lifts my bicycle out of the back of the truck.
“Don’t give up on him,” Diego says. “Please.”
“Never.” I fix my hands on my handlebars. “Good luck, Diego.”
His smile hangs crooked. “I’m leaving to fight for our country, and I don’t even get a handshake?”
I roll my eyes, rest my bicycle against the truck, and hug him. I shouldn’t have told him about Taichi’s letter, because now he’s going to write to him about it, and their friendship will be strained at a time when they both need each other, and . . .
“Evalina.” Diego squeezes me tightly. “It’s going to be okay.”
That’s when I realize I’m crying hard enough for Diego to feel my shoulders shaking against him. “Maybe it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is. You and Tai are going to get through this, and a few years from now when we’re old and married, our kids will play together, and we’ll tell them stories about what it was like when it seemed like the whole world had gone mad. Okay?” Diego holds me at arm’s length, his grasp strong on my shoulders. “That’s what I’m holding onto. Can you hold onto that too?”
I nod.
“I need a verbal response, soldier.”
A smile sneaks out. “I can hold onto that.”
The commuter train approaches on the tracks. I push up on my toes and press a swift kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, Diego. I’ll pray for your safety.”
“Thank you.” His face flickers, and I catch a glimpse of his fear before he tucks it away. “I’ll need it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Taichi
Wednesday, September 16, 1942
As I wipe off a lunch table, I see Ted and Lillian Kamei in what looks like an intense conversation with Aunt Chiyu. Lillian’s hands rest on her bubble of a pregnant stomach.
As I approach the table, Lillian stops speaking and smiles at me. “Hello, Taichi. How are you?”
“I’m well. How are you?”
“Good, thank you.” But her face is wan. I know from Ted that the pregnancy has taken a toll on her.
Aunt Chiyu looks from me back to the Kameis. “It’s fine to discuss this in front of Taichi.” To me she adds, “Have a seat. I was telling them about the letter from Fuji. That we think he’ll be here next Monday.”
Ted’s gaze seems to be purposefully focused out the window. Lillian’s smile shows strain that maybe isn’t about pregnancy, as I’d first thought.
Despite having work to finish, I sit. “Is there something about Uncle Fuji being released that’s upsetting?”
Aunt Chiyu twists at the band on her finger. “Because he’s being released earlier than other prisoners, Mr. and Mrs. Kamei are concerned this might cause distrust among those whose husbands and fathers are still away.”
I look to Ted. “I don’t understand why.”
Ted folds his hands together on the table. “Because the others might suspect he made some sort of deal with the government or turned someone in to the FBI.”
I laugh a single, dry huff. “But he’s innocent, just like the other men being held. Why shouldn’t he be released?”
Ted’s smile holds sympathy. “You know I agree, but I don’t think all at Manzanar will see the situation the same way.”
The meeting I stumbled into a few weeks ago flares to the front of my memory. “But Uncle Fuji is an Issei. Won’t that count for something?”
Ted holds my gaze for a moment. “I hope so.”
“What can we do?” Aunt Chiyu’s meek voice is full of worry.
Ted regards her for a moment before admitting, “I don’t know. Some men in the camp won’t listen no matter what we do. Unless you fully agree with their perspective, it doesn’t matter what you say, or what generation you are.”
Lillian turns her gaze from Ted to my aunt and me. “Ted was invited to speak at one of the meetings, but when they realized he believed in cooperating with the administration, they booed him off the stage. Raymond Yamishi had that group whipped into such a frenzy, they wouldn’t listen to a word Ted said. And Joe Kurihara doesn’t help.”
That’s easy for me to imagine.
Ted shrugs. “Joe cares a lot about the residents here, and he’s doing what he thinks is best. Besides, as a veteran of the Great War I don’t blame him for being bitter.” Ted’s gaze sweeps around the room. “I don’t blame anyone who’s bitter about being here.”
“That doesn’t make it okay for him to disregard every other point of view,” Lillian says with a huff. “The things they were saying about Ted, that he’s a stool pigeon. Grown men yelling at him to shut up and get out of there. Why must disagreement so often reduce us to childish behaviors?”
Ted’s smile holds affection. “Imagine if you’d fought for your country during a nasty, ugly war. And then twenty-five years later, because of your race and your race alone, your country forces you into a prison camp and treats you like an enemy. Don’t you think you might be prone to strong rhetoric now and again?”
Lillian gives Ted a flat, unimpressed look, then turns to Aunt Chiyu and me. “Ted will take the opposing side in any discussion. If I had been the one to say that Joe has a right to his bitterness, Ted would say Joe is being as intolerant of other viewpoints as the men he’s angry with.”
Ted grins at his wife. “I can’t resist a good discussion, you’re right.”
Lillian looks about the emptying mess hall. “I suppose we should let Taichi do his job, shouldn’t we?” She smiles at me as she stands. “We’ll be at your game today. I’m hoping the wind lets up long enough for me to stay the whole time.”
“My game is certainly not worth you having to go back into the hospita
l. I’ll see you guys there.”
On my way back to the kitchen, I nearly trip over young Tommy Yoneda, who gives me a bashful smile before scuttling away. He’s such a unique blend of his two parents, with his round eyes and Japanese coloring. I wish I could take his photograph and send it to Evalina.
As I wipe off the newly vacated table, my mind drifts to the one time we dared to talk about our potential children. Evalina had twisted a curl around her finger and confessed, “Everybody I know is just one thing. Just Italian, or just Greek, or whatever. Do you think . . . ? Do you think they would fit in anywhere?”
I squeezed her hand. “Of course.”
It had been the first lie I ever told her.
“Is George still here?”
I startle at the Japanese words and look up into the face of an Issei man. I glance toward the kitchen where our block’s cook normally is at this time. My Japanese sounds rusty as I say, “I think George already left, but you are welcome to check.”
The man buzzes toward the kitchen without another word. I’ve just finished wiping down the last table when he comes back, clearly agitated. “He isn’t here. Has he spoken of your sugar?”
I’m still translating his question into English, when he says, “Your sugar. Do you normally have more sugar?”
“I don’t know. I don’t do . . .” What’s Japanese for inventory? Hopefully he knows the word in English, “Inventory.”
“When you see George, tell him Harry Ueno from twenty-two came and that I want to know if he’s missing a bag of sugar. Because we certainly are.” His gaze flicks over me, as if wondering how much of that I caught. He points to himself. “Harry Ueno. Block twenty-two. Missing sugar.”
I nod to show I understand, and Mr. Ueno turns on his heel and disappears out the door before I have a chance to reply.
Not until a few minutes later, when I’m scribbling a note for George, do I remember why Harry’s name sounded familiar. I’ve seen the children flocking around him because he’s known for deep-frying rice, rolling it in sugar, and setting it out as a snack for the children. Ted has also mentioned him and his friendship with Joe Kurihara.
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