Love & Other Natural Disasters

by Misa Sugiura

  Willow. That’s what I would wish for.

  Don’t judge. It’s perfect. It’s earnest, full of longing, the kind of wish that would benefit from the extra blessing of a purifying fire and a star princess. And isn’t the whole point of the Tanabata story about being with your true love?

  I reach out for the list of wishes and leaf through it. “An end to world hunger,” I read out loud from the top of page three. Oof. Okay, maybe wishing for a girlfriend was a bit frivolous. Dela, however, groans dramatically.

  “What?” I say, feeling suddenly defensive.

  “Oh, come on. World hunger?” she says. “It’s so obvious. Like, of course, world hunger. Who doesn’t want to end world hunger?”

  “Dela,” says Cliff, his voice full of reproach, but she ignores him and stares at the table, tracing patterns on the dark wood veneer.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wishing for an end to world hunger,” I protest. “It’s a kind, unselfish thing to wish for. Why do you always have to shit on everything?”

  Dela looks shocked, and frankly, I’m a little shocked myself. But I’m not taking it back. How can she make fun of wishing for an end to world hunger? I’m glad she doesn’t know my wish because she’d really shit on that.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and she seems sincere. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Dela heaves a sigh, and says, “Okay, so here’s the thing. Ending hunger? Like, it’s a nice sentiment and everything, but we all know it’s never going to happen.”

  “It might. If enough people cared. And didn’t make fun of it.” I frown at her pointedly, and she looks a little ashamed—as well you should, I think.

  But she doesn’t back down. “Okay, but what’s that person going to do to end world hunger beyond typing their wish into an online form? Probably nothing.”

  “How do you know? What if they run a food bank? What if it’s their life’s passion?” I counter hotly. “What if someone reads the wish and decides to volunteer at a soup kitchen?”

  Finally, she seems to take it in. She sighs and says, “Fine. You’re right.”

  “How about this one?” I show it to her. It says, I wish Tamara would be my best friend forever. “It’s so sweet.”

  “But unlikely.”

  “You’re doing it again! What is wrong with you?” I ask, exasperated.

  Dela winces, then says with an ironic grin, “It’s in my nature?”

  “Seriously, though,” I persist. “Why?”

  Dela shrugs, and for a moment, I think I see something besides hostility, something ineffably sad. But then she looks at me and her face slams shut. “Right now, I think it’s that certain people don’t know how to mind their own business.”

  “Well! I guess I’ll leave you to it, then,” Cliff says—I’d almost forgotten he was here. And I can’t believe he’s leaving me here with this crabby gorgon like we’re getting along beautifully. He ambles out of the room, miraculously surviving the knife-sharp glare that Dela directs at his back, and then she and I are alone in the storeroom. “Here,” she says, breaking the awkward silence that’s descended on us. She shoves a stack of brightly colored origami at me. “I’ve already written a bunch of them down.”

  “Um. I actually don’t know how to make these.” I gesture at the delicate origami figures that are sitting on the table as models. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that Dela would have to help me before I could help her. Oops.

  With a groan, Dela takes a sheet off the top and motions for me to do the same. “Fold it in half this way,” she begins, and folds the square into a triangle. I copy her.

  “No! Not like that,” she says, even though I could swear I’ve done exactly what she just did.

  “It’s a triangle, isn’t it?”

  She heaves the sigh of a prisoner who knows the only path to freedom lies through a long, dark, treacherous tunnel. You and me both, I want to say.

  “Here,” she says finally. “Like this.” She shows me how to match the corners (“I said carefully! As in, with care!”) and hold them down with one finger while I do the creases with my other hand. Then she leads me through about fifteen more steps, and I can feel her not-sighing every time I screw up, which is a lot.

  “This is going to take forever,” I mutter, disheartened.

  “And now you know why I was so upset,” she says without lifting her eyes from her work. Ouch. Though it is a fair hit.

  “Can’t you just buy some prefolded ones? Or skip writing the wishes on some of them? No one’s going to read them, right? They can all be fake and no one has to know.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that ruins the entire point. People write their sincere wishes down and share them, and other people make an effort to turn those wishes into something that goes up to heaven. If you don’t give every person who’s shared their wish a real chance to participate, it’s not fair.”

  Dela starts transcribing a wish from the printout onto the wishing paper, leaving me sitting in stunned silence. How is this the same girl who wrote off a child’s wish to remain best frends forever, who scoffed at a desire to end world hunger? I have so many questions. But it’s clear that she is Done Talking, so I have no choice but to go back to folding.

  15

  ONE EXCRUCIATING, PAINFULLY SILENT HOUR later, I’ve folded only seventeen cranes. I’ve also tested and rejected a hundred intel-gathering conversation openers in my head:

  So! Tell me about your new girlfriend! (Too gossipy.)

  So! Willow tells me you’re dating her ex! (Makes Willow look like a jealous stalker. Which maybe she is, but there’s no need to let anyone know.)

  So! Are you dating anyone? (What if she thinks I’m hitting on her?)

  So! I’m totally not hitting on you, but are you dating anyone? (Ugh, even worse.)

  And those were the good ones.

  I survey my work: a tiny, tiny pile. Only 473 more to go, I think, and my heart sinks. I’ve accomplished nothing. My neck and shoulders are already stiff, and I think I might scream from the stress of sitting in this room and not speaking to the only other person in it, except in my head. Dela hasn’t looked at her phone even once, and I’m afraid to check mine for fear that she’ll bite my head off. I need to take a break.

  “Hey, I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce.

  “Have fun,” she says drily.

  I roll my eyes, which is lost on her because she doesn’t look up, and leave.

  Ah, freedom! I pee, wash my hands, and take a few minutes to watch a Willow-recommended YouTube makeup tutorial on how to do a smoky-eye look on Asian eyes. I try out the tip with some new eye shadow, then wash it off so that Dela won’t know that I’ve spent my bathroom break playing with makeup. I try a braid crown like the one Willow had the first day we met, take it out because it’s a mess, and try it again.

  Okay. So maybe I’m stalling. But think of what I have to go back to! Consider it self-care.

  Finally, I run out of things to do. Come on, I tell myself. Twenty-three more cranes. If I focus, I can get them done. I’ll listen to music or something. I swipe my badge and open the staff room door, steeling myself for another hour of Silent Origami With Dela, and stop cold.

  Arden is sitting in my seat—my seat!—and kissing Dela.

  “Oh!” The sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it, and Dela practically leaps away from Arden.

  Arden recovers immediately and gives me a warm smile and says, “Oh, hi!” but Dela is red-faced and shifty-eyed.

  “Uh . . . hiii,” I say timidly.

  Dammit! I had the element of surprise, but now I’m letting Arden have the upper hand. How did Willow manage to be so icy calm and cutting that last time? What would she say right now? I summon my courage and channel Willow and say, “I’m so sorry, am I interrupting something?”

  It was meant to sound cool and ironic, but it comes out solicitous and apologetic, and I cri
nge inwardly. Come on. Be like Willow.

  Arden smirks at me. “I mean. Kind of?” Her voice is low and measured, and it perfectly matches her face, which is one of those faces with heavy lids and long eyelashes that make her look perpetually chill. Or maybe it’s her makeup, which is as good as anything I’ve seen on Willow’s face.

  The nerve.

  Wait. This is good. The more Arden likes Dela, the better my chances are with Willow.

  The question is, how much does Arden like Dela?

  “So!” I say. I put on a wide-eyed, innocent smile: I am a secret agent posing as a disinterested third party, exhibiting a casual, friendly, disinterested curiosity in my fellow humans. “Are the two of you like, you know, like, in love, or . . . ?”

  Oh shit, I think as Arden’s perfectly arched eyebrow twitches. Too far. Quick, course correct. “Curious minds want to know!” I add, and extend a pretend microphone. Oh god.

  “I’m feeling pretty good about it so far,” Arden says, and it’s like she’s winking at me with her voice—it’s got the self-assured mock-coyness you hear in the voices of movie stars on late-night talk shows when the host asks them about their rumored relationships. Ugh. Does anything rattle this girl? “I don’t know if I’m ready to call it love, but . . . well. Who knows what the future will bring?” She casts a lovey-dovey gaze at Dela, who looks a bit startled.

  Interesting. Though not particularly helpful. And I am kind of enjoying seeing Dela knocked off balance, if you want to know the truth.

  “But how about you and Willow? That must be new,” I hear Arden saying. “When did you two become a thing?” Crap. How long have you been a thing was going to be my next question for her. Her mouth is still smiling, her tone is still playful, but I detect a sharp glint in her eye, like a cat waiting to pounce, and that undoes me. I forget everything except the fact that Willow and I are supposed to be a couple.

  “Right, well, we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, Willow and me. A lot of time,” I gabble. How long have we been a thing, though (and what is a thing, anyway)? It dawns on me that I haven’t ever told this story from start to finish out loud to an actual person. Okay, come on. I can do this. “Maybe you saw on her Instagram that we went to Off the Grid a little while ago?” I can’t quite bring myself to say, Just after you broke up? like Willow might have. “Anyway, that was my first day working here.” I recall the post and the comments, and start warming to my topic. “Yeah, we just totally hit it off. Isn’t that wild? It was like magic. We couldn’t stop talking. Oh! And we went to the Fairmont for our first date—that’s the day we ran into you here, remember? We had the most amazing kiss there—it was in the, uh, in the stairwell, totally unexpected—and she gave me flowers the next day. Roses and lilies. And it’s been pretty much nonstop bliss ever since.” By the time I finish, I’ve gotten so carried away with my own story, I almost believe it myself—Willow will be so proud of me. I smile at Arden in triumph.

  The glint in her eye has hardened, I notice, from suspicion, or maybe from jealousy.

  But it doesn’t take long for her to regain her composure. “That’s such a sweet story,” she says. “Tell Willow I’m happy for her. And tell her I was serious about my birthday party. I’d love for you both to come.” The hardness has melted out of her eyes, and as closely as I look, there’s nothing there but warmth and sincere goodwill.

  “We would love to go!” I chirp, not to be outdone. “And Willow is really happy for you. And so am I. For both of you, in fact. So happy.” I catch Dela’s incredulous stare—did I overdo it again?

  “Thanks.” Arden gives me a dazzling smile. “Well, anyway. I should get going. I just stopped in to say hi to Dela and drop off a little treat.” She gestures at the table toward a small pink paper bag with little paper handles.

  I feel a plink of disappointment that Willow didn’t bring me a treat—only, stop it, Nozomi. You’re not actually together. (Yet. Don’t give up.)

  “So, hey, Saturday’s good, right?” She addresses Dela as she throws on a cable-knit car coat, and my spy antennae go up. An actionable piece of intelligence!

  “Saturday’s good,” Dela says.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. Casual. Disinterested.

  “The Ice Cream Bar,” says Arden. “And maybe we’ll do something outside. It’s supposed to be sunny and seventy-two this weekend, so.”

  “Sounds like fun! Maybe Willow and I will do something like that,” I say. Not that I’m feeling competitive in any way at all.

  “You should totally come with us! Let Dela know if you want to, okay?”

  It’s clear from Dela’s expression that she would rather eat glass than go on a double date with me and Willow, but she’s too polite—for once—to say anything.

  While Dela walks Arden to the front door, I’m left alone to fold wishes and contemplate what’s just gone down. If Arden wants everyone to like her, like Willow said, maybe this whole encounter was an act—but if it is, she sold it like a pro. Already I’m questioning whether I really saw that shrewdness in her eyes when she asked how long Willow and I had been together, and whether the flinty gleam I noticed after I told her my story was just my imagination. I have to remember that under that warm, friendly exterior is a will of iron. Just like Willow, it occurs to me. No wonder Willow is in love with her. She is a force.

  What if Willow’s plan works and Arden tries to win her back? In the movies, the ex always makes one last attempt to get back together, and the only reason it doesn’t work is because the main couple have already fallen in love with each other.

  But Willow’s nowhere near falling in love with me. And I was not prepared for Arden to be quite so . . . much . . . more. She’s more everything than me: beautiful, talented, poised, sexy, fashionable . . . How can I possibly compete? Even if they don’t get back together, how will I ever measure up?

  My ruminations are interrupted by Dela’s return. She drops into her chair, shoving aside Arden’s pink paper bag, and scans the list of wishes as if she’s been sitting there working this entire time.

  “What’d she bring you?” I ask, poking the bag. See? I’m asking because I didn’t look inside, I want to say but don’t.

  “Cupcakes.”

  “Ooh.” I forget I’m not supposed to be nosy, and peek in to take a look. But the cupcakes are hidden inside a cute pink cardboard box. “Where are they from?”

  “She made them.”

  “What?” Though of course. Why wouldn’t she also be a baker?

  “You can have them. They’ve got chocolate frosting, and I hate chocolate.”

  “Did you tell her that?” (Also: What kind of monster doesn’t like chocolate?)

  “I didn’t have the heart to.”

  “So you do have a heart.” Oops. It slipped out before I even knew it was in my head.

  Dela lets out a little gust of laughter before she catches herself and clamps her mouth shut. The feeling I get—of making her laugh—reminds me of the first time I skipped a stone on the water. I wonder if I can make it happen again. But I don’t get a chance, because she says brusquely, “Let’s just get these done, okay?”

  Those are the last words she deigns to speak to me for another long, silent hour. When she finally announces it’s time to go, we pack up and walk out in silence.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, hoping she’ll at least say goodbye, but all she does is nod and turn away.

  Why does she have to be such a grouch? How can Arden stand her? Or is she only like this with me?

  16

  ON THE WAY HOME LAST NIGHT, I TEXTED Willow with the intelligence I collected—except for Arden’s invitation for us to join her and Dela on Saturday. Even though it would mean a date (of sorts) with Willow, and despite the strange sense of satisfaction I feel at the prospect of pissing Dela off on purpose instead of by accident, deep down, I don’t want to do it. It’s too much pressure. Too much potential for awkwardness and tension. And what if it works out the way Willo
w wants, and Arden decides to come back to her?

  But Willow never responded. I couldn’t understand why until she texted me on the way to the museum this morning:

  Omg omg omg

  Sorry I didn’t get back right away—parents took my phone (long story)

  Anyway holy shit. You have to come by the shop ASAP so we can talk

  So I stop in the gift shop right away, and she grabs my hand and pulls me behind the counter.

  “Arden was there yesterday?” she asks. “Oh my god. I can’t believe her.”

  “Just for a few minutes,” I assure her.

  “And they’re definitely a thing. Definitely a couple? And they’re going to the Ice Cream Bar on Saturday?”

  “It seems that way.”

  Willow throws her head back and drops her arms, groaning. “I knew it. I knew it. I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “She has a lot of fucking nerve taking Dela to the Ice Cream Bar. That was one of our favorite spots.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.” She fumes silently for another moment, then gives herself a little shake and straightens up. “It’s probably a good thing I didn’t find out till this morning. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep last night if I’d known.”

  “What happened with your phone last night, anyway?” I ask.

  “I kind of missed a deadline to apply for a research internship for the fall. My parents were livid.”

  “Oh. So they took your phone? That doesn’t seem fair. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Welllll.” Willow tilts her head and squints at the ceiling. “I might have missed it on purpose. It sounded wretched and I couldn’t think of another way to get out of it.” She grins at me. “Asian parents, amirite?” But before I can respond, she moves on. “Anyway, whatever. Tell me more. Did they seem good together? What was the vibe?”