From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  What’s she doing here?

  I’m good—no, excellent—at judo. Sparring is one of the only times I don’t feel like some kind of weirdo, bad-tempered Asian Lite mistake, trying to go home with families I don’t belong to. It clears my mind and settles my restless body, and I can connect to the pure magic of Little Tokyo that I love so much.

  In other words, the only time I feel truly at home is when I’m fighting something.

  And if I push myself to be outstanding today . . . I mean, my judo teacher, Sensei Mary, told me there will be a UCLA scout in attendance, assessing our performances for scholarships.

  I dream of ascending the college ranks, kicking ass on the competitive circuit, maybe even helping Sensei Mary run the dojo one day. Basically, this is my ideal future as the nure-onna, defeating all enemies who stand in my way and eventually settling into a life where my fighty-ness is an asset.

  And if I can do the community proud, maybe the gossip, the whispers, the lingering stares will . . . stop. Maybe I’ll finally feel like I belong here, to this place that flows through my blood as naturally as the sizzle of my temper.

  “So, who do you think the grand marshal will be at the parade?” Rory says, snapping me back to the present. “And why is it always such a big secret?”

  “It’s for the drama, Rory, they do a big reveal every year,” Belle says, rolling her eyes. “But honestly it’s probably some boring old person we’ve never heard of—as usual.”

  “I have to go,” I say, suddenly realizing my door is now unblocked and I can continue on my quest to the dojo.

  “Wait!” Belle protests as I dart toward my exit.

  “I’ll wear it like this!” I shout over my shoulder, hastily using Belle’s scarf to tie up my unruly hair.

  “Rika-chan!”

  I let out a yelp and jump back as my bedroom doorway is blocked yet again, this time by Auntie Suzy. She’s swaddled in an old yukata with a fading sakura print and Adidas slides with socks, and she looks like this day has already exhausted her, even though it’s barely nine a.m. Nak scampers around her feet, tail wagging.

  “Rika-chan,” Auntie Suzy repeats in a way that’s probably meant to be admonishing but is, as usual, too absentminded. She reminds me of a kindly witch who can’t remember what spell she’s supposed to cast. “Are you girls fighting already?” Her gaze lands on me, and her nose crinkles. “And what is that . . . shirt?”

  Nak gives me a scolding look, as if to agree with her, and trots over to Belle.

  Okay, so everyone in this family disapproves of my amazing T-shirt. Even the dog.

  “It’s a nure-onna,” I say. “A Japanese fairy creature who morphs into a half snake and seeks revenge on those who have done her wrong—”

  “Mmm, why can’t you like the nice fairy tales?” Auntie Suzy shakes her head.

  “Fairy tales aren’t nice,” I mutter, twisting the hem of my shirt. Stubbornly, all of them being so against it makes me want to wear the shirt even more. “Anyway,” I say, edging my way toward the bedroom doorway again, “I really need to get down to the dojo and warm up because—”

  “No.” Auntie Suzy’s voice is sudden and firm—a marked contrast to her usual dreamy cadence.

  “What?” I stop cold in my tracks, unsure that I’ve heard right.

  Auntie Suzy deflates a little. “I’m sorry, Rika-chan, but you can’t participate in the demonstration today. I need you to work at the restaurant—we’re having a much bigger crowd than usual.”

  “But . . .” I shake my head, confused. My Aunties’ restaurant, Katsu That, is located right below our apartment, and their claim to fame is they will katsu literally any foodstuff. The whole family works regular shifts there, but I’d specifically asked for today off. “I’ve been training for this all year. I mean, really for most of my life, considering how long I’ve been in judo.”

  My voice is already rising, my face flushing, my temper bubbling to the surface.

  “I’m sorry, Rika-chan,” Auntie Suzy says again, but now my kaiju is roaring, threatening to consume my entire body, and I have to make her understand.

  “I finally made the number one spot this year—do you know how hard that was?” I say, struggling—and mostly failing—to keep my tone even. “Natalie Ito and I have gone back and forth since we were nine, and she is a legit beast at sparring—she beat me out three times in a row for the regional championship, remember? But I finally did it, I beat her enough times in class, and now I get to lead warm-ups and be in the centerpiece match, and I can finally—” My voice catches, hot tears filling my eyes.

  I can finally show everyone I belong here.

  Auntie Suzy cocks her head at me, something I can’t recognize passing over her face.

  “Rika,” she says slowly, “why must you make everything so difficult?”

  Really, her weary tone is one of the most infuriating things. How can she be so unbothered, so dismissive of something so important to me?

  “You wouldn’t be doing this if I were a princess like Belle and Rory!” I blurt out.

  “Technically I’m the queen,” Belle murmurs.

  “Because that’s important, right?” I bulldoze on, ignor-ing her. “You get why that’s important, them wearing fancy dresses and waving to the crowd, but when it’s something that’s important to me—”

  “Your sisters are performing a service to the community,” Auntie Suzy interrupts, her tone still flat. “You had your chance to do that, too, and you chose not to—so now you can be of service to your family—”

  “I’m barely part of this family!” I spit out, my temper exploding. My face feels like it’s on fire, and the tears are starting to run down my cheeks, and I’m just . . . so . . . frustrated. “None of you will even try to understand why I like my monster-woman shirt and why I don’t want to be a princess, and by the way, part of this isn’t just about my resistance to all things princess—I also don’t want to deal with Uncle Taki death-glaring at me from the sidelines because he thinks only ‘pure Japanese’ girls should be Nikkei Week Princesses, and—”

  “Ma Suzy.” Belle’s voice is soft and placating. I can feel her sidling up to me, gently adjusting the scarf in my hair. I also feel Rory’s hand take mine. “Rika is the best at the dojo. She’s earned the chance to show everyone how good she is, right?”

  I swallow hard and look at the floor, trying to shove the temper back down. But it doesn’t want to go. When it’s like this, it feels like it has nowhere to go. It’s a blaze consuming my body, obliterating everything else.

  “I’m sorry,” Auntie Suzy says again—and now she really does look sorry, that sadness she always has about her brimming to the surface. “Your family needs you in the restaurant, Rika-chan.”

  Then she turns and shuffles out of the room.

  I feel Rory squeezing my hand, Belle messing with my hair. I love them and I know they mean well—but they’re trying to soothe something that can never be soothed, to slap a coating of princess over the messy remnants of my snarling monster.

  I feel the distance growing between us—and there’s that twinge again.

  The one that says no matter what, I will never belong here.

  And I will never belong to my family as fully as they belong to each other.

  TWO

  I escape to the closest thing I can find to a comforting dark corner—the floor of Auntie Suzy’s dusty walk-in closet.

  The closet is the only room in our apartment that feels big, even though it’s stuffed to the brim with Auntie Suzy’s collection of vintage dresses and kimono. As the story goes, Auntie Och—Auntie Suzy’s wife—used her handyperson skills to knock down a wall between two smaller closets and make one giant one, back when they first got married and spent all their time being hopelessly in love.

  Sitting on the cool floorboards, shrouded in a rainbow of crammed-
together patterns and colors, you can almost feel the soft sweetness Auntie Suzy used to possess, before she was just tired all the time.

  Also before she was so into crushing the dreams of her only niece.

  I take a deep breath and worry the silky hem of a bright orange yukata between my fingers, trying to get my temper under control. I glance over at the mirror hanging on the closet’s door, nearly hidden by all the kimono. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see the nure-onna staring back at me: bloody fangs, flashing red eyes, unadulterated rage. Ready to take down her enemies. I find it comforting, to be honest. It tells me the armor I’ve worked so hard to build up is firmly in place. That I can get through anything.

  Although I don’t quite feel like that right now.

  I should be getting ready for my newly acquired shift at the restaurant, but my mind is stuck on the dojo, working furiously to figure out how I can still do the demonstration at the parade.

  I love the parade, because it’s the one day a year when all the magic bubbling under the surface of Little Tokyo comes out to play, amplified by the wonderstruck crowd of locals and tourists. The cavalcade of bright colors is more vibrant, the creepy hidden-away nooks and crannies are even darker, and the juxtapositions of things that shouldn’t go together are just more. That crumbling, overstuffed souvenir shop crammed next to the modern swoop of the most elegant hotel in the city looks even more beautifully improbable. The blazing sun shines even brighter, illuminating the crimson and ivory lanterns strung through the air and making for a cheery facade—but that facade gives way to shadows lurking in grubby alleyways and abandoned warehouses.

  Those soft, comforting shadows are what I sink into when my temper’s about to explode.

  It was at the dojo where I found the shadows. It happened the day I finally beat Natalie Ito for the very first time, when we were both nine. She usually won every single match, but that day, I somehow managed to get her into a kata-gatame hold and willed myself to stay put, staring resolutely at one of the shadowy spots where Sensei Mary always forgets to clean, little pockets of space populated by spiders and dust and wilting, discarded hand-wraps. These corners seem in direct contrast to the rest of the dojo, with its big, bright open space, its soft mats to catch your falls, its high ceiling with skylights that soften the relentless Little Tokyo sun. It’s that juxtaposition of things that shouldn’t go together but do. That characteristic that defines so much of the neighborhood.

  Those dark corners are my favorite. As a kid, they always seemed to me like doors to other worlds.

  I always thought that maybe if I stared hard enough at one of the dark corners, the nure-onna would emerge. She’d kick ass at judo.

  My discovery inspired me to search out other magical dark corners in Little Tokyo. Whenever I felt my kaiju-temper flaring, I’d find one—I’d go hide under the biggest tree in the garden behind the community center or retreat to the back of Uncle Hikaru’s ancient mochi shop on First. I’d crouch among the wild assemblages of plants and flowers or the unwieldy stacks of packaged mochi and dusty snack boxes and random trinkets. And I’d read one of my Japanese monster books until I felt better. Slowly, I’d be soothed and held by the shadows. I’d feel like I was home.

  I sometimes wonder if my mother was like me, gravitating away from #TeamPrincess and toward tales of monstrous snake-women and hopelessly sad endings. Sometimes the whispers about me drift to the mysterious nature of her death. How there was no funeral, even—it was like she simply ceased to exist. Vanished into the ether. Some say it’s because Auntie Suzy was ashamed, but I don’t see how that could be. Auntie Suzy seems too exhausted and dreamy for that kind of shame—I think she was just sad. And still is, to some degree. Whenever I try to talk to her about my mother, she says the same stuff everyone says about how beautiful and charming Mom was, then changes the subject or finds some chore for me to do.

  So I guess I’ll never know.

  I freeze in place as the closet door creaks open and light spills in, startling me from my thoughts. I try to make myself smaller, huddling more fully underneath the canopy of kimono. A pair of feet wearing mismatched socks—one has a stripy pattern, the other is covered in bright yellow cartoon Minions—shuffles in my direction.

  “Rika-chan!” a voice bellows, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I should have known I couldn’t hide from her.

  “Down here, Auntie Och,” I call out.

  She kneels and moves the orange yukata out of the way, her stern face sizing me up. Auntie Och has the same incredible mane of jet-black hair as Auntie Suzy—but hers is starting to streak with white. Which just makes her more formidable.

  “Almost time for the parade, ne?” she barks at me. Auntie Och can never seem to manage less than a bark. “What you doing down here?”

  “I . . . um . . .”

  “I need a kimono,” she says abruptly, her gaze turning to the orange yukata. “I’m going to drive Belle and Rory through the parade in my Mustang.”

  “Oh . . . cool,” I manage. Every member of the Nikkei Week court has to come up with their own mode of parade transportation—there’s no central float. So it’s usually some kind of family car where you can put the top down and wave to the crowd. Auntie Och has had her Mustang convertible since she was a teenager. Apparently she was quite the hell-raiser, back when she and Auntie Suzy met as princesses in the Nikkei Week court and Auntie Suzy fell for her rebellious charms. Auntie Suzy was eventually crowned queen—which is probably why she’s always told me to “never argue with the Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo.” She was basically telling me not to argue with her.

  I guess we can see how that worked out.

  “Suzy always liked this one,” Auntie Och says, rising to her feet and freeing the orange yukata from its hanger. “It was a special-occasion yukata, only for Nikkei Week.” Her harsh features soften as she gazes at the yukata, lost in memories.

  I’m also suddenly fixated on the yukata, but for different reasons. Because my overactive brain has finally worked out a way I can still do the judo demo and . . .

  I gnaw on my lower lip. Wait, is this ridiculous? Or . . .

  The pretty blue-and-yellow flower pattern cascading over the yukata’s voluminous sleeves shimmers, as if encouraging me.

  “Auntie Och,” I exclaim, scrambling to my feet before I lose my nerve. “What if I drive the Mustang in the parade?”

  Her bushy black eyebrows draw together. “I thought you were supposed to work in the restaurant with Suzy.”

  “I . . . I am,” I say. “But Auntie Suzy said something about me turning down the honor of being a princess, and . . . and it really got to me! I want to be in the parade with my sisters. All princess-y and stuff.”

  I give her what I hope passes for a winning smile. Her bushy brows are still drawn together, suspicious. I don’t think she believes one single word I’ve said.

  But then one of her brows quirks upward, transforming her expression to thoughtful. “I would rather work in the restaurant than deal with driving in front of the Watanabes’ flower-shop float,” she muses. “George Watanabe, he always yell at me for braking too fast. Even though I am a much better driver than him.”

  She hems and haws for a few moments, then nods decisively. “Hai. Okay. You drive the Mustang. I’ll tell Suzy.”

  “Can you not tell her, actually? I mean. Not right away,” I say quickly. “I want it to be a, um, surprise. Since she wanted me to be a princess so bad.”

  “Mmm.” Auntie Och nods—but looks suspicious again. She thrusts the orange yukata at me. “Wear this.”

  “Oh, but I’m already . . .” I gesture to my nure-onna T-shirt, anticipating how freaking hot and uncomfortable the yukata will be.

  But Auntie Och shoves the yukata at me more insistently.

  “You will wear,” she says in that way that’s definitely an order. “You want to be princess now, ne?”


  I guess . . . I do? Even though I don’t plan on being a princess for long.

  I take the yukata with a smile, the kind I imagine the nure-onna flashing right before she strikes the killing blow.

  * * *

  I emerge from our building to blazing heat. It’s only nine thirty, but the sun is unrelenting. Downtown—and Little Tokyo in particular—is always hotter than most of LA thanks to the rays bouncing off all the tall, reflective buildings of the business district and baking the sidewalks. During the summer, the air seems to shimmer, casting a magical, muggy haze over everything.

  There’s nothing magical about the sweat patches already forming at the small of my back and under my arms, however. Even though it’s a lighter cotton material than some kimono, the yukata is still an excess of fabric for this weather. Auntie Och finished it off with a giant purple obi around my waist, and I already know the stiff, clunky bow affixed to the back will shove me forward in the driver’s seat, adding about a thousand degrees of difficulty to my task.

  Luckily, I managed to escape before she popped geta on my feet, which would have made driving near impossible. My gold Adidas aren’t quite covered by the yukata’s length, but they’ll be hidden by, you know, the entire car.

  I asked Auntie Och to send Belle and Rory out once they’re finished assembling their royal looks—but also asked her not to tell them I’m their new driver. I don’t want to risk one of them letting it slip to Auntie Suzy.

  The minutes before the parade starts are the only time this neighborhood is ever quiet. The charmingly cramped assortment of ramen shops, mochi emporiums, and that one slightly illicit-looking place that sells bootleg DVDs of martial arts movies and disintegrating old kimono are all closed for the parade. The neon CHOP SUEY sign that’s been a fixture for decades and usually casts a wild rainbow glow over First Street is dimmed. And the temple across the street is deserted, silent, and a touch eerie—lending credence to the rumors that it’s totally haunted.