by Misa Sugiura
The kettle starts whistling. I get down the teapot and cups and Dela pours the boiling water into the teapot, swirls it around, and pours that water into each of the teacups before measuring the tea into the teapot and pouring all the water back into it. Watching her calms me.
Okay, maybe now isn’t the time to make a stand about LGBTQIA rights, or feminism, or anything. Now is the time to take care of Baba. If Dela can keep her mouth shut, so can I. I will be as calm and collected as she is.
“Hey, Nozomi?” she says quietly.
“Yes?” I try to be zen and serene and open to whatever the universe may send me, to whatever Dela may have to say about Baba, about this situation.
“You look like a ghost. You should probably wash your face.”
After I return from scrubbing off the flour and, in the process, all my makeup, and combing out my hair, Dela pours the tea into the teacups. I collect a couple of stray chunks of butter that have escaped the bowl and made it onto the countertop, and after weighing my options, I rinse them and put them back in the bowl.
“Not a baker, huh?” Dela deadpans.
“I was trying to do something nice,” I retort.
She gets up and peeks into the bowl. “You’re not supposed to throw everything in all at once. You have to use room-temperature butter and beat it with the sugar. Then you add the eggs, and then you add the flour.”
“Thanks. Very helpful,” I say. “I’ll remember that twenty minutes ago.”
“You can pour out everything but the butter and start over,” she says. She pokes the chocolate chips and wrinkles her nose. Right. She doesn’t like chocolate.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here, or I would have made something else,” I protest.
I can see Baba eyeing the chocolate chips, so I pour some leftovers into a little bowl and offer them to her. “Here,” I say. “You deserve a treat. You’ve had a rough evening.”
“Ah! Thank you, Nozomi. You’re a good girl,” she says.
Dela and I find a recipe for snickerdoodles, and at her insistence, we follow the directions exactly. “There’s a reason they’re there,” she tells me in the most patronizing voice imaginable. “So you don’t end up with a crime scene.”
“It wasn’t a crime scene. There was no blood,” I grumble.
“A disaster area, then.”
We’re mixing the eggs into the whipped butter and sugar when Stephen, Lance, Max, and Cliff arrive. Baba explains how it was pure coincidence that Dela found her; she wasn’t lost, not really, and after thanking Dela, Stephen exchanges somber looks with Lance and Max over Baba’s head. He takes Baba into the living room to try to figure out how she ended up lost.
In the meantime, Lance busies himself chopping vegetables, bacon, and a leftover pork chop. He pulls out a plastic container of leftover rice, and soon, there’s a wok full of fragrant yakimeshi and a cooling rack full of snickerdoodles for dessert. Baba has the good manners to thank Lance, and she even praises his cooking. But apart from that she barely looks at him through dinner. We all pretend not to notice. Not long afterward, Baba has gone to take a bath and get ready for bed. Cliff and Max take kitchen duty while Stephen and Lance go back to the living room and FaceTime with Dad in hushed tones so Baba doesn’t overhear, and Dela and I are sent to the store to get more flour and butter.
After walking in silence for a block or so, I ask the question that’s been tapping at the window all evening. “So how did you find my grandmother? I know you weren’t on your way over to pick up a hammer.”
Dela shoves her hands in her pockets and shrugs. “I really was in the neighborhood, kind of. With Arden, actually—there’s this restaurant she wanted to go to. But my dad called and told me your grandma was missing and asked if I could help. So, you know. Here I am.”
Wow. “But why?”
Dela shrugs again. “I don’t know. It was the right thing to do?”
We stop at a corner and wait for the light to turn.
I shiver in the cool night air. It was the right thing to do, undeniably. Baba could still be out there if it weren’t for Dela.
“But she’s—like I know she’s my grandmother and everything, and she does have some good qualities. But to you, she’s just this homophobic old lady who hired your dad to fix her fence.”
“Well. Maybe a little more than that.”
“Huh?” Then I remember that connection I noticed between them earlier.
“She folded hundreds of cranes for my mom,” says Dela. “She made tons of meals for us while my mom was sick, and after she died. She taught me how to cook.”
It takes a moment for this new version of Baba to sink in. Or rather, the old version of Baba, the one I remember from my childhood. Only better. And this new version of Dela, whose affection for Baba is undeniable, despite the constant barbs that I’m sure she’s had to endure about her sexuality. Suddenly I have a different picture of how things with Baba could be. If I want them to be that way. And assuming Baba won’t be the type who thinks being queer is okay for some people but not okay for her own family.
The light turns, and we cross. We buy the flour and the butter and walk home without any more conversation. Just before we enter the house, I say, “She doesn’t know I’m queer.”
Dela nods. “I know.”
“She’s been so awful. To Stephen and Lance, to you, even. I know it could be worse, but . . .” I can’t quite voice my fear.
Dela gives me a long look. I have just enough time to understand that she sees me—she sees it all—before she pulls me into a hug, and the anxiety that’s been simmering quietly all summer bubbles over. We sit on the front steps, and I tell her how much I wish Baba could love all of me, and how I’m afraid that she’ll push me away. And how now I’m dreading watching Baba sink into dementia whether I come out to her or not.
Dela doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell me I’m overthinking it, or blowing things out of proportion, or asking for too much. She just pulls me to her again, and eventually my thoughts stop their spinning, my breathing slows, and eventually I feel like myself again. I stay where I am for a little longer, just soaking in that safe, calm feeling.
After a moment, Dela says in measured tones, “Tonight may not be the night for a big splashy gay debut.”
“Hilarious.” I sit up straight again and smile.
“I’m known for my rapier wit.”
“Ha.”
“And my—what was it? My dark, sour, bitter personality? Sour cherry–infused espresso?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, if that’s what I am, then you’re a cream puff.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say indignantly. It sounds a lot like beige wallpaper, especially given the color of cream puffs. “That I’m bland and vanilla and boring?”
“No! Cream puffs aren’t any of those things. Why would you say that?”
“Because . . . whatever, it’s something someone said once. It’s not important. Anyway, I’m over it, so.” I think about my sightseeing selfies with Willow from earlier: proof that I’m not boring.
“I don’t think you are. Over it, I mean.”
“I am, too!” I insist. I’m totally over it. Obviously. I’ve transformed into a brand-new girl, with an amazing life and a gorgeous could-be-my-girlfriend-if-all-goes-well, and I have the photos to prove it.
“You’re not.” Dela peers through the window into Baba’s house. “They’re still busy in there. Let’s walk around the block and you can tell me why you think you’re boring.”
“What are you, my therapist? I don’t think I’m boring.”
She ignores me and heads back to the sidewalk, where she pauses to look at me over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”
“Ugh. Fine.”
The story only takes us one circuit: crush, kiss, balcony, wallpaper. Only this time, with Dela, I don’t skip the parts about how out of my league Helena was, and how small I felt when I heard her say what she said. De
la only sees me as someone who makes a mess out of everything, anyway—first impressions, art installations, double dates, and now cookies—so there’s no point in hiding anything. I couldn’t impress her even if I wanted to.
“But I’m not letting it get me down,” I conclude. “I’m using this summer to bounce back and live my best life and all that. See? Look.” I show her the Hawk Hill post of me and Willow.
“Uh-huh.” Dela barely glances at the photo but is regarding me with an unsettling intensity. I feel myself getting nervous.
“What?”
“Are you telling me you think this picture is proof that you’re not boring?”
Is she deliberately not getting this? “Yes. Obviously.”
“Because you’re, what—in San Francisco? Because you have a girlfriend?”
I sigh. “Yes. I’m in San Francisco in this like, iconic, romantic spot, and I have a girlfriend, and she’s . . . well, look at her! I’m the best version of myself in this photo.”
“Are you, though?”
“Well, of course I am! That’s the whole point!” How rude.
“Mm-hmm.”
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“What. Tell me.”
Dela exhales and looks at me, like she’s sizing me up. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“When have I ever liked anything you’ve said?”
She grins. “Good point. Fine, this is what I think. I think that maybe you’re dating Willow because you like what she is at least as much as who she is.”
What? What? “Did you—did you just say that I only like her because she’s pretty?”
Dela groans. “I told you you wouldn’t like it. And no, that’s not what I said at all. It’s more like . . . that old thing of not knowing if you want to be someone or if you want to be with them.”
“It is so not that.” Just because I’ve been experimenting with my look this summer doesn’t mean—anyway, how would she know?
“I’ve seen photos of you from before this summer at your grandma’s house, so don’t even pretend you’ve always been into clothes and makeup. You looked fine before, by the way. But it’s like you’re doing this lifestyle glow-up and Willow’s part of the process. You’re in love with the idea of her. Or the idea of dating her. Or maybe an idea of yourself.”
I have never been so insulted in all my life. “I am not doing a lifestyle glow-up!” Though once I say the words, I realize I might be. But it sounds so shallow when she puts it like that. “I am undergoing a transformation,” I say. “I am becoming my best self. I am living my best life.”
“And Willow is part of that life.”
“Willow is . . .” Ugh. How can I explain? “She’s just Willow, okay? And I like her for who. She. Is.” I slow it down to make sure Dela gets this very important point, but she just sighs. “It’s like . . . like in Queer Eye when the person asks someone on a date at the end and, like, makes dinner for them or whatever. Do the guys sit there and go, ‘He didn’t ask that girl out for who she is!’ Or whatever the pronouns are? No! They go, ‘That’s awesome! He’s taking a step toward happiness!’”
“But is he really? Do those people stay happier?” asks Dela.
“Yes.” This is what I choose to believe.
Dela looks up at the night sky and says, “A wise person once said, ‘We are all connected by our aspirations toward happiness—by our wishes on stars.’”
I gape at her. “I said that!”
“I know.”
“I wrote that about the Tanabata Pavilion. For the museum website.”
“Again: I know.”
“You read it?” I know, I know. Queen of the Obvious.
Dela doesn’t even bother to answer. But she does say, “I read a bunch of them. They’re really good. You made me think about some of those pieces in a whole new way.”
“Well, of course they’re good,” I say in a huff. She thinks she’s so smart. I don’t care if she likes my work. I’m only blushing because I’m embarrassed that she read it.
Okay, I might be a little bit pleased that she likes it. I’ve been working hard, and I’d be crushed if she thought it was garbage. It’s nice to get some validation from someone whose opinion you respect. On art, that is.
We’re back at the house again, standing in the orange glow of the streetlight. I look at the house, and then at Dela. “Ready?”
Dela reaches toward my face and rubs what must be leftover traces of flour—or maybe it’s eye makeup—from under my eye, and smiles. “Yep.”
For a moment, I think she’s misinterpreted, and that she thinks I’m asking if I can kiss her. The very idea kind of short-circuits my brain, and I have a sort of micro-hallucination where we are kissing, and it’s . . . well, it’s ludicrous. Completely preposterous. As if I would ever fall in love with—I mean kiss—anyone so ornery. I blink dazedly as I come to my senses. “Good. ’Cause I’m ready, too. To go inside, that is.”
Dela also looks slightly dazed—was that glitch in my circuits that obvious? But I’ll never know, because she shakes it off, squares her shoulders, and says, “Okay. Let’s go, then.”
27
I DIDN’T HEAR FROM WILLOW AT ALL UNTIL THIS morning when I stopped by the gift shop. Not that she owed me a text or anything, obviously. But I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that she never thought to check in last night to see if Baba was okay.
But she did ask right away when I walked in. She was visibly relieved to hear that Baba was safe and sound, and that Dad had jumped on a red-eye last night and would be staying with Baba for a while. “I was so worried for you! I got a little distracted with Arden—I have to tell you about her, oh my god—but I kept thinking about your grandma. I’m so glad she’s okay.”
“Yeah, me too.” Distracted? With Arden? Oh my god?
I wait for Willow to tell me about the distraction, as promised, but she’s busy logging into the computer and I have to wait.
Finally, the computer makes a satisfied blip, and Willow turns to me. “Okay, are you ready? Arden called me right after I left you at your grandmother’s, and she wanted to talk.” Willow opens her mouth and eyes wide: shock!
I feel my own mouth drop open. This can’t be good.
“Mm-hmm,” says Willow, presumably responding to the expression on my face. “She was all, ‘I feel like we should talk, just to get closure.’” Willow sighs out of . . . frustration? Satisfaction? “She never could leave a fight unfinished. She’s all about closure.”
“So . . .” A chill starts to creep into my chest. “What happened?”
“Okay. So.” Willow tells me what a hard conversation it was, and how they ended up admitting that they missed each other, and the chill spreads.
Then she says they discussed the depth of their connection, how intensely they still loved each other, and how they realized that the toxicity of jealousy was starting to eat away at that love, and—
I can’t take it anymore. “Are you saying that Arden wants to get back together? That’s great!” I force my features into something that hopefully conveys joy—a big, toothy smile, wide, blinking eyes. “Everything worked out perfectly!”
“Right? I feel like some kind of evil genius whose nefarious plan has come to fruition,” she says with a little grin. “Not that it was nefarious. Well”—she pauses to think about it—“it kind of was.”
Technically, I feel like saying, I am the evil genius, it was my nefarious plan, and it’s gone hideously awry.
“Do you need us to break up? I mean, you know”—I add air quotes with my fingers—“‘break up’?” I consider winking but decide against it.
“No! No, no, not at all! This—” Willow gestures between herself and me. “What we have? It’s perfect.”
Wait, what?
“Arden said she noticed that I seem happy again—just like we talked about, remember? But here’s the thing: I realized it’s not just an act anymore. I am happier. You’ve gotten me to g
o out, gotten me inspired in my makeup work again . . . you don’t even know.”
“Oh!” Wow. This is—
“To be honest? Lately? I sometimes think you and I might . . . I mean, maybe if things were different . . .” She trails off and blushes.
You and I would what? Maybe if things were different, what? I want to shout. Let’s do it! Let’s make things different! Instead, I just say, “Oh,” and try not to hyperventilate. Maybe I should kiss her. That would do it. Just sweep her into my arms and look tenderly into her eyes, and—
“Whatever. No point going there, right?” (Go there! Go there! I will her, but to no avail.) “My point is that seeing me being happy and independent is making her realize what she gave up. Not pathetic, sad, needy me, but the independent, happy me that she fell in love with. And I’m pretty certain she’s having second thoughts about leaving me for Dela. And it’s all because of you.” Willow looks at me, glowing.
All because of me. Arden and Willow are going to get back together after all, and it’s all because of me. And my plan. My train-wreck-garbage-fire-disaster of a plan.
I put on a smile and say faintly, “That’s perfect! I’m so glad!”
“So, I’m thinking we should do this dating thing just a little longer. It’ll be tricky, though. We can’t go too far, or she’ll give up. And then at exactly the right moment I’ll let her know I’m ready to try again—maybe at her birthday party? No, that’s too soon. But it would be the perfect time to really show her how much I’ve grown. Wouldn’t it be great if she came crawling back to me on her own after that? She wouldn’t even have to crawl. If she just came back . . .”
I want to gnash my teeth in frustration. I was so close—am so close. It’s maddening. I feel like Taylor Swift in her old song about being in love with the boy next door who only has eyes for the short-skirted, high-heeled cheerleader. Or Gilbert Blythe in Anne of Green Gables when Anne thinks she’s going to marry that tall, dark, handsome guy with the snobby sisters. Why does Willow have to be so obsessed with Arden? Why can’t she see that if I’m the one who’s making her happy, then I’m the one she should be with?