From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  The stairs are slanted, oddly steep, and the passageway is so claustrophobic—but for some reason, I’ve never been afraid of falling. Even though scraps of sunlight filter in from the trail, I still feel like I’m surrounded by shadows. Like I’m home.

  This expanse of gray concrete might look pretty depressing if it weren’t for the wild splashes of bright graffiti covering nearly every inch of space. This is a prime spot for the artists and taggers of the city; their work never gets washed away or “cleaned up”—people keep adding to it. Now it’s an elaborate mural that feels like a decades-in-the-making chronicle of this part of the city—vibrant, always in motion, always alive.

  “If we go up these steps, it leads to this whole area of old cages,” I say, my voice echoing down the chasm of the staircase. “Lots of people like to wander around up there. Maybe Grace is one of them? I dunno, is this her kind of thing?”

  My voice gets too loud and too high on that last syll-able, as if I’m trying to hide the fact that every question I ask about Grace is weighted with bottomless yearning.

  “I think she’d dig it,” Henry says slowly, as we very gingerly pick our way up the staircase. “She’s so . . . hmm, how can I describe it? She relishes life so much. She’s always trying to dive fully into every experience, to wring every drop of joy out of it.”

  “So . . . not like me, then,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Not trying to suppress her feelings and go to the shadows because she’s scared of destroying everything around her.”

  “Mmm—actually, I think she is like you. Or you’re like her. Like I said, she also has that passion.”

  I am suddenly glad for the catacomb-like atmosphere, because he can’t see me blush again. I really need to get a handle on the blushing. Maybe I should get an on-purpose sunburn so no one can tell.

  We reach the top of the staircase, duck under another forbidding set of bars, and reach the hidden world of the old zoo.

  “Whoa,” Henry says, his voice echoing a bit off the walls. “This is so cool.”

  He smiles in wonder, taking in the jagged concrete walls, the hollowed-out spots that were once animal enclosures, and that endless, uncontained rainbow of graffiti. The upper part of the old zoo has different “rooms,” little secret spaces that feel like whisperings from the past, fitted together in a nonsensical puzzle. Once you step outside these rooms, you hit an old-fashioned chain-link fence with big holes cut in it. Pass through one of these holes, and you’ll be transported to the sun-drenched hiking trail—another world, yet again.

  The area we’ve emerged in actually has my favorite bit of graffiti, dreamy strokes of brilliant turquoise punctuated by silvery swirls that glint in the few rays of sunlight streaming in.

  But today, it does nothing to calm me.

  “It is cool,” I say, my gaze sweeping the desolate space. “It’s also empty. She’s not here, either.” I feel a pinprick of frustration, just potent enough to make me itchy.

  “Let me try texting her again,” Henry says, pulling out his phone. “Ahh, no service.” He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. “What if we just wait for a minute?”

  “For what?” I say. That frustration is clawing at my insides now, the itch spreading over my entire body. “Even if she was late, too, how would she know we’re up here? How would she know where to look? I still don’t even know that the message on the photo was meant for me. I don’t know . . . what to do . . .” I sit down hard on one of the concrete benches jutting out from the wall, all the air leaving my body in a dejected whump.

  For a moment, there’s just silence—the eerie quiet of this tucked-away pocket pressing down on me. I look at the floor, at those wild splashes of paint so many graffiti artists have left behind. I hate the way hope sends you careening after something, ignoring all the practical signs that it’s just not going to fucking happen.

  Eventually, I hear the soft trod of Henry’s footsteps, feel him settling in next to me.

  “Tell me what you like about this place,” he says.

  My head jerks up. “What? I’m having an existential crisis and you want me to give you a guided tour?”

  “Sort of?” He laughs a little. “Actually this is something Grace taught me. Sometimes if I’m in pre-panic-attack mode, she’ll ask me to tell her a really specific story—something about a restaurant I’ve gone to, or a moment when I remember falling in love with dancing. It helps my mind focus on the details—it grounds me. And the emotions I was feeling before that were so frustrating kind of . . . evaporate.”

  “That sounds . . . okay, fine,” I concede, as the frustration roars through me, louder with every passing second. “Why not? It’s not like I’m doing anything else.” I blow out a long breath and stare at the silver swirls. They shimmer, as if encouraging me. “Auntie Suzy brought me and Belle and Rory here when we were little. All those wide-open spaces outside—it meant we could run around all we wanted. Plus, it was a free activity. I remember she brought us here once after Belle begged and begged to go to Disneyland to see all the princesses. Auntie Suzy told us this was like Disneyland—but, you know, something we could actually afford.” I smile slightly at the memory, at Belle’s indignant face when she realized her Disney princess dreams were definitely not coming true that day. “I guess we were about ten? Belle thought it was ugly. Rory was indifferent, mostly because Rory’s favorite activity at that point was grabbing as many blades of grass as she could hold in her tiny little fist. And I . . .”

  I close my eyes, remembering that day. Auntie Suzy looking tired as usual, slumped at one of the picnic tables with Rory plopped on a blanket at her feet. The way my heart skipped a few beats when I saw those strange rock formations that looked like a half-finished villain’s lair. All the dark corners and shadows waiting for me, as if calling me home. I’d explored every single one of them. And then . . .

  “I came up here,” I say, recalling the way I’d skulked into the rock formation and found that ominous tunnel. “I almost tripped on my way up the stairs, but eventually I ended up here. And I was so . . .”

  “Scared?” Henry says.

  “Enchanted,” I say, giving him a wry grin. “It felt like the nure-onna’s lair. Like a place with endless shadows. I fantasized about moving here, setting up my own little home. Just me, all by myself.”

  “What an enterprising ten-year-old,” Henry says. “Your aunt must have noticed you were gone, though—did you scare the shit out of her?”

  “Sort of,” I say. “She was so busy trying to keep Belle entertained and Rory from toddling farther into the grass, she didn’t notice I’d completely disappeared until it was time to go. By then, I’d been up here for like half an hour.”

  “Were you stoked?” Henry says, amusement creeping into his voice. “For a whole half an hour, you got to live out your ultimate secret-lair dreams.”

  “I suppose I was. But I also . . .” I trail off, falling back into that moment in time that feels so long ago. I remember being excited, then kind of bored as the minutes ticked by. I remember making plans for how I was going to decorate my lair, and how maybe Auntie Suzy wouldn’t look so tired now that she only had two kids to look after.

  How my whole family could finally escape the shadow of Rika the Biter, Rika the Monster, who always seemed to cause trouble for them no matter what.

  “But you also . . . what?” Henry prompts.

  “Nothing,” I say hastily, but now the memories won’t stop. They’re crashing over me, as loud and endless as the graffiti on these concrete walls. “I . . . I told myself I was happy. And at first, I was. But then I started getting bored. I started feeling . . . lonely.” The word comes out jagged, broken. “And deep down, I wished . . .” My voice catches and I press my lips together, determined not to let any more words out. But somehow I know Henry can hear the rest.

  I wished someone would come for me.

&n
bsp; Which is what I’m doing now, hanging out here and hoping Grace will magically show up.

  I am nothing more than a pathetic girl, sitting in a hidden-away part of the world, waiting for someone to want her.

  “Let’s go,” I say abruptly, springing to my feet and scraping a hand over my eyes. “She’s not coming, the park’s probably about to close, and we’re wasting time on nothing.”

  I stalk back down the staircase, putting a little of that Rory stomp in my step. Henry follows behind me, his footsteps quiet. Always so quiet.

  We emerge to a dusky sky, the sun finally losing her battle and sinking into the earth. It’s not cold—LA is almost never anywhere near cold in the summer—but there’s a slight breeze in the air, and I stuff my hands into my pockets for warmth.

  And that’s when I realize . . . there’s nothing in my pockets. They are empty, useless. The photos I’ve been carrying around with me like some kind of talisman are gone.

  “Oh . . . oh no,” I whimper.

  “What?” Henry says, his brow furrowing with concern.

  “Th-the photos,” I manage. “The ones of Grace . . . they’re gone.”

  “Maybe you dropped them in the ruins—let’s go back,” he says, turning to the entrance.

  “No.” I shake my head vehemently—and to my horror, the tears I managed to suppress earlier rise up once more. “I . . . the last time I remember having them was at the restaurant. They could have fallen out at any point. During my shift. While we were hiking. In the tunnel. Th-there’s no way to know, it’s pointless to even look . . .”

  “Rika . . .” Henry’s voice is so gentle, my tears spill over.

  “Everything’s ruined,” I say, my voice breaking. “I . . . I don’t know what I was thinking. This is playing out just like I thought it would. I can’t find my mother, and now I’ve lost those stupid photos, and . . . and no one is coming for me. It is like a fairy tale. My kind of fairy tales, with the sad endings. Only—”

  I can’t say the rest.

  Only this time, maybe I didn’t want it to be sad.

  My tears are flowing freely now, and I’m too lost and upset to even be embarrassed by it. My kaiju-temper pounds at my rib cage, demanding to be set free so it can fuck up this beautiful park.

  I turn on my heel, wrap my arms around myself, and start stomping back to the trail.

  Then I feel Henry grab my hand.

  “Rika,” he says again, more firmly. He’s behind me, just like he was when he grabbed my hand the first time. I stop in my tracks and am angry to realize that once again, I don’t want to pull away.

  He moves in front of me, never letting go of my hand. I look at the ground. I absolutely cannot meet his gaze. It’s too much.

  “You can’t give up,” he says. “We can’t give up.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, my head all mixed up and muzzy from the emotions spinning through me and that little bit of electricity that hits right where our palms touch. “This day was a complete disaster, and our whole quest is an overall disaster so far. How can you have so much hope?”

  “Look around,” he says, his voice lit with that sense of wonder—the one I found so annoying earlier.

  But I do lift my head, because I am suddenly hit by a jolt of longing so deep, so potent. In spite of myself, I desperately want to see what he sees.

  I look up and witness the hazy Los Angeles sky turning dreamy orangey-pink, like an artist’s streaked it with paint. The sun setting in the distance, casting whispers of light over the rock formations. The fuzzy shadows, settling in for the night. It looks unearthly, not of the human realm. Wild and weird and magical.

  “All this beauty in the world,” Henry says. “How can you not have hope?”

  I tear my gaze from the enchanted sky and meet his eyes. He’s smiling at me so openly—in that way that’s so him. I’m too overwhelmed by my tornado of emotions to put up my usual defenses. To tell myself that I don’t like the way his eyes light up with so many things or the perfect imperfection of his mouth or the way he looks at me with such . . . such . . .

  I don’t even know what to call it. I’ve never been looked at this way before.

  He’s not ready to give up on this thing I want so badly, this thing I need to feel whole. He believes so hard, even when it seems impossible.

  I soak in that delicious breeze floating through the air, infused with the scents of green and summer. I look at the pink sky and the enchanted shadows flickering around us.

  Something shifts in my chest, and it feels like the world shifts with it. I feel so moved by all this beauty—and this boy who won’t give up.

  “Henry,” I whisper, my voice shaky.

  He squeezes my hand and leans in closer.

  “Yes?” he says.

  And suddenly I’m not looking at the pink sky anymore. It all melts away, and I can only see him—that hair I want to brush off his forehead, those eyes I want to stare into forever, that mouth I want to . . .

  “I . . . you’re right,” I manage, my words tripping over themselves. “It is beautiful.”

  “It is,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.

  He reaches up and smooths my tangle of hair away from my face, his thumb stroking leftover tears from my cheek. I shiver.

  “Rika . . .” he murmurs—and it feels like he’s asking me a question.

  I answer by leaning in and pressing my lips to his.

  They’re soft at first, gentle and warm—then more insistent, his hands sliding into my hair and urging me closer.

  All I can feel is how good this is. All I can think is . . . nothing. All I want is to stay frozen in this moment, with this boy.

  I want him to keep kissing me forever, kissing me with so much intent as the sun sets behind us, rendering the pink sky velvet black.

  TWELVE

  Unfortunately, we can’t stay locked in that moment forever because the old zoo area of the park closes promptly at sundown. The rangers shoo us to the exit trail, and we hustle back to Henry’s car without saying more than two words to each other.

  I’m happy to have a task to focus on, because otherwise I’d probably be spending way too much time thinking about what just happened, obsessing over it, overanalyzing it until I convince myself it’s a mistake and I have absolutely no interest in Henry Chen that way and I need to turn myself into a monster and bite his head off so he won’t hypnotize me any further.

  Instead I am flushed, giddy, almost giggly. I can practically hear the nure-onna snarling at me, telling me we don’t do giggly.

  But I can’t deny what I feel, any more than I can deny that I desperately wanted Grace to come find me.

  That I secretly hoped for a happy ending this time.

  “I can’t believe this is your sweet celebrity ride,” I say, as we get into Henry’s dented old Subaru. I don’t know why I even say that. Maybe it’s a half-hearted attempt to snap us back to something more comfortable. But seriously, for someone who was so into Auntie Och’s Mustang, it’s weird that he has such a basic car—and one that’s definitely seen better days.

  “It’s my parents’ old car,” he says, fiddling with one of the falling-off knobs on the console. “They gave it to me when I came out here.”

  “They’re still in New York?” I ask, puzzled. I’d assumed his parents moved with him.

  “Um, yeah,” he says, giving me a rueful shrug. “I live in this kind of dorm thing for actors—it’s like boarding school. I have roommates and stuff. Not very slick. So . . . should I take you home or . . . um . . .”

  It’s too dark to tell, but I swear he’s flushed bright red. Neither of us wants to go home, but we’re both afraid to say it. Saying it out loud might destroy the delicate, awkward crackle of energy that’s simmered between us since we broke our kiss and were rushed out of the park. It’s like we’re b
oth dancing around an electric fence, the desire to reach out and touch it irresistible, the knowledge that we can’t irrefutable.

  “I . . .” I stare at him for a moment, unable to do anything else. I shake my head, trying to wake myself from this all-new and exciting spell that’s been cast over me. “I don’t want to go home,” I finally make myself say. Well, more like confess.

  Henry’s mouth curves into a tentative half smile. “Me neither.”

  We are thankfully saved from the electric fence by Henry’s phone, which lets loose with a series of chimes.

  “Oh,” he says, tearing his gaze from mine and picking up the phone, “looks like we’re back in the service area. And looks like I got some texts . . .”

  I glance at my phone. Oh, shit. I also have many texts. From Belle and Rory, demanding more details on my “studying” with Henry. From Eliza and Sensei Mary, asking about the flood of pictures from today’s star-studded lunch hour at Katsu That—and also wondering when I’ll be coming back to practice.

  I dismiss all notifications and turn my phone facedown.

  Henry’s brow furrows as he studies the screen, and I try not to stare obsessively at every single one of his features, lingering especially long on his mouth . . .

  “Yes!” he murmurs, tapping on the screen. He looks up and grins at me. “There’s an Asian Hollywood meetup tonight at this Thai place near . . . hmm, that area where Thai Town and Koreatown and Little Armenia sort of mush together.”

  “Very LA,” I murmur.

  “Aaaaaand . . .” With great fanfare, he flips the phone around and waves the screen in front of me, even though I can’t really make out any of the individual messages. “There’s a rumor that none other than Grace Kimura will be there!”

  “What, really?!” I exclaim. “Are you sure that’s something that could happen?” I try to order my heart to get itself under control, but it’s exploding with newfound possibility. “If she’s in hiding, why would she come to something so public?”