From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  “So, what, it’s your fault for being born?” Henry says.

  Yes, my brain says viciously. I swallow the word.

  “I let them down,” I repeat. “Why would they ever want to talk to me again?”

  “You’re always so ready to not belong,” he says, leaning in closer and locking my gaze with his. “It’s like you think people are going to, I don’t know . . . throw you away. Over the smallest things.”

  I feel a rogue tear slip down my cheek. I want to break away from him, heave myself out of the car, run far away. But I can’t seem to take my eyes off of his.

  “And now it’s like you’re throwing yourself away first,” he says.

  “Maybe I’m doing them a favor.”

  “No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not how friendship works. That’s not how love works. And these people . . . Rika, they love you. I can tell by the way you talk about them.”

  I swallow again, trying to keep those fucking tears from falling.

  Joanna’s voice echoes through my head: It’s because you think you don’t deserve a happy ending.

  What did she mean? It’s not that so much as . . . I just think they don’t exist. Not for girls who get called “mistakes.” Not for girls who wait for someone to want them. Whether or not I deserve one seems like another question entirely.

  But . . . do I think that?

  I definitely don’t deserve Sensei Mary’s and Eliza’s love. My kaiju-temper always destroys everything in its path. Somewhere deep in my gut, I’ve always known I’d destroy them, too.

  “I think you should talk to them,” Henry says.

  “I . . .” I trail off, studying him. Those sweet, hopeful eyes I can’t seem to get enough of. He wants this so badly for me, just like he wanted me to meet Grace at the zoo. How can I say no to that? “Tell you what,” I say slowly. “If we go to the dojo tomorrow together—if I talk to them and show you a few moves—will you keep your audition? And, hey—what you’re saying about love. Don’t you think it could apply to your parents, too? Maybe you should talk to them. About how you feel.”

  He grins, surprised—and maybe a little bit amused.

  “You’re very strategic sometimes. Cunning.”

  The nure-onna at her finest, I think, smiling back.

  “Okay, deal,” he says, nodding vigorously. “You talk to your friends, I’ll keep my audition.”

  “And talk to your parents?” I push.

  He laughs. “What did I say before? Relentless. I’ll . . . I’ll think about that one. Maybe if you show me these slick moves of yours, I can overcome all this pressure I’m feeling.”

  He squeezes my hand one more time and turns back to the steering wheel, finally ready to start the car and maneuver us out of this tight parking spot.

  “Overcome that pressure and win the part you want,” I say, trying to pump him up.

  “Oh, and get on the lot and try to find Grace!” Henry exclaims. “Even more incentive.”

  I smile at him, even though I totally forgot about the Grace factor. She’s been slipping further and further from my mind all evening.

  “That’s the multitasking spirit,” I say.

  “Excellent pep talk,” he says with a chuckle. “Hey, if we are in a fairy tale—are you my handsome prince, swooping in to save me? You did it at the library, you did it tonight at the meetup, extricating me from an awkward conversation, and now you’re doing it again.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that is probably meant to be suave but mostly just comes off as dorky.

  I can’t help but laugh and am about to respond with something tossed-off and snarky . . . but before I can, a bunch of images flash through my mind.

  Henry agreeing to help me on my Mom Quest, even though he had no reason to.

  Henry resting his hand on Craig Shimizu’s shoulder, telling him to apologize to me.

  Henry at the zoo, asking me not to give up, to look at all the beauty the world has to offer.

  Henry trailing after me in his car, unwilling to let me stomp off into the night.

  Henry touching me with so much care, kissing me with so much passion . . .

  “I think we’ve saved each other—a few times,” I say. “Maybe we’re both the prince in this scenario.”

  Once upon a time, a pair of noble warriors set out to slay their respective dragons. They both had quests they desperately wanted to complete, if only they could vanquish these fearsome beasts that stood in their way. They both spent most of their lives in an endless cycle of fighting, losing, and returning to the dragon. Only to be defeated once more.

  And yet, neither of them could seem to give up.

  One fateful day, they decided to team up in the hopes that their combined noble warrior skills could take down their dragons once and for all.

  Both knew it was a risky proposition—if they were to be defeated again, as they had been so many times before, perhaps it would be the last time. Perhaps they would both crumble into dust, the dragons reigning over all the land.

  But if the warriors emerged triumphant, it could be the start of something new. Something truly beautiful.

  All they had to do was remember to never give up.

  FOURTEEN

  “Just go inside. That’s all you have to do. Worry about the rest as it comes. Live in the moment. Oh god, now I sound like one of Belle’s wannabe influencer captions.”

  “Rika?”

  I whirl around to see Henry approaching, head cocked at me in a quizzical manner. I’m standing outside the dojo, letting the relentless summer heat of Little Tokyo beat down on me. My hair sticks to my sweaty neck, and I can already feel those little bits of perspiration gathering in the crooks of my knees and other weird places.

  I thought I could do this. But going inside the dojo, entering this space after the parade disaster, suddenly feels like trying to scale the most skyscraping of mountain-tops. I am a mere speck at the bottom, looking all the way up.

  Henry drove me home last night, and we agreed to meet at the dojo in the late afternoon, right when I know classes will be winding down. I was conflicted when he dropped me off. Part of me wanted to kiss him again—could pretty much think of nothing else. The other part told me to eject myself from the car as quickly as possible—and that’s what I ended up doing. I didn’t want to ruin the pure magic of our kiss in the alley, of that giddy feeling that surged through me . . .

  Ugh. Listen to me. Maybe Sweet Rika has a mushy heart after all.

  Everyone was asleep when I’d let myself into the apartment, and I’d managed to slip into my room with no problem. Then I’d worked a bustling morning shift at Katsu That, which still seemed to be reaping the benefits of Henry’s appearance yesterday. Luckily, there was not a Craig nor a Becky in sight. And Belle and Rory were busy with their courtly duties, so I managed to avoid them as well.

  That hasn’t stopped Belle from blowing up my phone, demanding to know all about what I’m “studying” with Hank Chen.

  I meet Henry’s eyes and flush, the memories of the “studying” we did yesterday flashing through me most vividly.

  “Rika?” he says again, his brow crinkling. “Are you okay? Were you just talking to yourself?”

  “Yes,” I squawk, my flush deepening. “I’m, um . . .”

  Thinking way too much about your mouth.

  “. . . still nervous about going inside,” I say, brushing the other notion away. “I thought I could do this, but . . .”

  I turn back to the dojo, its stately arched entrance framing a wide set of heavy wooden doors with a series of kanji carved into them. Sensei Mary told me once how these doors are the only part of the building that survived LA’s massive earthquake in the nineties. These kanji are all scratched up and faded now, and I can’t make out what they say. But Sensei Mary always tells me these doors and these kanji ar
e like symbols of what you have to go through when you’re training hard in judo. You get knocked down, you pop right back up. You may not always be able to stay standing, but you don’t break. Not ever.

  I feel like I will absolutely break if I set foot back in that dojo.

  “Hey.” I’m still laser-focused on those damn doors and their indecipherable kanji when I feel Henry take my hand. “Try the breathing,” he says.

  I turn to face him, jolted out of my reverie about doors.

  “What?” I say, confused.

  He gives me one of his warmest smiles, and I feel that awkward crackle of electricity between us yet again.

  “The anxiety breathing,” he says. “Even if you’re not on the verge of a panic attack, it can still help kind of center you so you can come back to the moment and feel like you’re ready to”—he nods toward the big doors and squeezes my hand—“step inside.”

  I open my mouth to protest, to tell him I don’t need that, I can take care of myself, I can put on my mental armor and blaze through those doors just as I have so many times before.

  Then I stop myself. Meet his eyes again. And we go into the breathing, like it’s the most natural thing ever. Big breath in through the nose. Hold for several counts. Out through the mouth. Steady, steady, steady.

  I find myself lasering in on the most specific of sensations. The sun pressing down on my neck, tendrils of heat slipping under my skin. Our palms brushing against each other, making me overly aware of what his skin feels like against mine. The fluttery snippets of sound wafting from the dojo, hard smacks against the mat and Sensei Mary’s sweet voice calling out words of encouragement.

  I breathe. I stare into his dark eyes, because there’s simply nowhere else to look.

  And I find myself feeling grounded, like my feet are more firmly planted on the earth than they ever have been before. I remind myself how much I want to help Henry, this boy who’s been so stalwart in helping me.

  “Let’s go,” I say, making my voice as steady and confident as I can manage. The nure-onna, I think, would be proud of me.

  “You sure?” Henry says, jiggling my hand.

  I nod emphatically. “Yes. We gotta get you some new moves.”

  I wiggle my hips, my basic approximation of dancing.

  “What was that?” he guffaws.

  “These are my moves,” I say, shaking my hips a little more. “Um, my non-judo moves. My dance moves.”

  “Those are not dance moves,” he teases, amusement lighting his eyes. “Doesn’t the Nikkei Week gala involve dancing? Has no one ever intervened on your behalf?”

  “I don’t go to the Nikkei Week gala,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Or any places where I will be required to dance, really.”

  “Hmm. Things can change,” Henry says, his hand drifting to the small of my back.

  He keeps his hand there as we enter the building, but it’s not like he’s guiding me or trying to steer me in a certain direction. It’s more like he’s reassuring me? Letting me know he’s there?

  Why am I blushing again?

  I bow as we enter the space, and he follows suit. Sensei Mary doesn’t really adhere to all the traditions and rituals of judo in the strictest sense, but she does like us to bow when we enter and exit, a show of respect.

  In many ways, the dojo is exactly as I remember it when I first set foot inside as a kid. The high ceilings still capture the echoes of students training and Sensei Mary’s constant encouragement. The sunlight still pours in from the big skylights, casting an otherworldly glow over the space. And those dark corners still beckon to me, their shadows and cobwebs shrouding forgotten hand-wraps.

  Classes have finished for the day, and Sensei Mary is leading her three p.m. session of five-year-olds in a series of unruly tumbling passes—she says it helps the kids burn off their excess energy after working so hard to focus for an hour. I remember I used to get stuck on the first somersault, my brow crinkling in frustration as I tried to get it right. Sensei Mary kept trying to tell me that it wasn’t about being “right,” it was about having fun. But that never seemed to stop me.

  “Ohmygod, Rika?!?”

  Before I know what’s happening, Eliza Hirahara is barreling toward me and sweeping me into a monster hug.

  “Eliz—oof” is all I manage to get out before she’s slamming into me. Eliza is tall and wiry with close-cropped dark hair that sits like adorable tufty peach fuzz atop her perfectly shaped head. Her mom hates that hair, but Eliza is never short on admirers of all genders. Since a few of those admirers have already proclaimed themselves future doctors, her mom’s kind of let it go. For now.

  “Where have you been?” Eliza demands, hugging me harder. “I’ve been texting you! I keep seeing all these photos of you on social media and . . .” She pulls back and makes an exploding gesture next to her head. “Mind blown by these adventures you seem to be having. Oh, hi, I’m Eliza.” She turns to Henry without missing a beat, extending a hand.

  “Henry,” he says, laughing a little as they shake. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Interesting, since I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you,” Eliza says, side-eyeing me.

  “Sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry. Eliza, I—”

  “Rika-chan!” Now Sensei Mary is gliding toward us, her face lit with a welcoming smile. Sensei Mary is always so elegant—the way she moves through the world is so thoughtful, so deliberate, like she’s being very careful to respect every single solitary object she might come across. It is the complete opposite of my destructive kaiju ways.

  Sensei Mary envelops me in a hug—a softer hug than Eliza’s, but she holds me for just as long.

  “Kiddo,” she says, giving me a little shake. “We’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, even as surprise tears prick my eyes. She’s called me “kiddo” since I was six. I feel like she’ll still be calling me that when I’m sixty.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, pulling back and facing them. “To both of you. I totally disrupted the parade and ruined the demo, and I know you worked really hard to get that UCLA scout to come out, Sensei Mary. And, Eliza, I’m sorry you didn’t get your shot to show off for them, I just . . . I was afraid to talk to either of you or even text back because I feel so ashamed about what happened. Like maybe you should have kicked me out when I bit Craig Shimizu. And . . . yeah. Sorry.”

  I hang my head, my cheeks blazing as my eyes go to the floor.

  “What the hell, Rika!” Eliza cries. “Er, heck. Sorry, Sensei Mary.”

  “I know you all swear,” Sensei Mary says, and I can practically hear the eye-roll in her voice. “Just try not to do it around the littler ones.”

  “Rika,” Eliza says, her voice urgent. “Why on earth would you think we were mad at you about that?”

  My head snaps up. “Because I ruined everything?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Sensei Mary says, shaking her head at me. “None of those things were your fault—unless you somehow hired Grace Kimura to jump out of a car and crash into you, and even then . . .” She studies me, like she’s trying to make sense of it all. “Nothing was ruined, kiddo. Nikkei Week is still happening. The parade will go on next year. And I’m talking to the scout about setting up a time for a demo do-over so you and Eliza get your shot. That’s why I’ve been texting you nonstop—I wanted to find out what your schedule might be like for that, and if you were up for squeezing in a few more practice sessions.”

  “Oh” is all I can manage to say. I guess, deep down, I thought she was texting me so she could finally kick Rika the Biter out of the dojo after all these years. But why was that my assumption? Sensei Mary has always defended me fiercely, has seen certain potential in me when no one else has.

  “Who would get all petty about that anyway?” Eliza scoffs. “Oh, wait, I just listene
d to those words come outta my mouth and realized that Asians are masters of being petty, so of course we would. But I never thought any of that, Rika—I thought you were mad at me.”

  “N-no, of course not,” I manage. I can’t actually think of what to say. My instinct is to now apologize for trying to apologize, which doesn’t exactly seem like the thing to do.

  “Rika-chan.” Sensei Mary gives me another smile and squeezes my shoulder. “We were very worried about you. Please respond to our texts next time.”

  “Yeah,” Eliza says, nodding emphatically. “I really don’t want to worry that you’ve fallen headfirst off a cliff or something. Or that you’re off having amazing adventures and have suddenly decided you don’t need your best friend anymore.” She throws Henry a pointed look, and he just gives her a genial smile. He’s been quiet this whole time, giving me space to do whatever it is I’m doing.

  I turn back to Eliza and Sensei Mary, who are both smiling at me in a way that’s so open. It reminds me of the trust-fall drill Sensei Mary had us do when we were little, wherein your sparring partner stands behind you and you have to fall backward, hoping they’ll catch you. I’d stand there for at least a few full minutes, my body tensing up, unwilling to take the chance. No matter who was standing behind me, I was always worried I was about to land flat on my ass. How could I just know someone was going to catch me?

  Eliza used to call out: “Don’t worry, Rika, I will catch you! Just let yourself fall!”

  I could always hear that same open smile in her voice. It’s what gave me the courage to let my feet slip from under me, to experience that terrifying moment of being weightless in the air.

  And Eliza did catch me. Every time.

  Looking at them now, hearing what they’re saying . . .

  I matter to them.

  Maybe it’s weird that I never quite realized it before. Henry’s words float through my head: it’s like you think people are going to throw you away.

  But seeing those smiles on their faces, I realize: they’ve both been trying like hell to hold on to me. They’re still going to catch me—every time.