From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  “I . . . sorry,” I say, laughing a little—I can’t help but apologize for my apology, it seems. “Thank you for checking up on me, and I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your texts. I did not fall off a cliff.” I gesture to my clearly-not-falling body. “But the last few days have been a lot. And I promise to tell you everything later,” I say, as Eliza opens her mouth to protest. “But for now, I need your help with something.” I step a little to the side and make a sweeping gesture toward Henry. “This is Henry. And he needs to learn judo.”

  “Honored to meet you, Sensei,” Henry says, giving a slight bow. It’s so dorky, I have to stifle a laugh.

  “I think we can take care of that,” Sensei Mary says, her gaze narrowing as she sizes Henry up. “I have a beginning class for older teens and adults. It meets weekly—”

  “We actually need something a little more, ah, immediate,” I say hastily. “Henry has an audition tomorrow where he’ll need to show off some martial arts moves. I thought you could teach him a couple basics? Like, right now?”

  “Mmm, I can do that,” Sensei Mary says, still studying Henry very intently. “But he’ll need a sparring partner so I can instruct and correct his form.”

  “Oh . . .” I turn to Eliza, who is still in her judogi.

  “I, um, have to go!” she says brightly, giving me a shrewd look and an overly grand wave. “Sorry. But I’m sure someone here can spar with Henry.”

  Before I can respond, she’s skipping off, still waving merrily at me.

  “It’s all you, kiddo,” Sensei Mary says, gesturing to the mats.

  “Oh, I’m . . . I’m not dressed right, I didn’t bring my kit,” I say, motioning to my hapless outfit. I’m wearing an old Katsu That T-shirt and basketball shorts again. Plus I haven’t done anything resembling judo in the last few days, so I’m not exactly at my best. My muscles feel cold and stiff, like they don’t even remember exactly what they’re supposed to do.

  “There’s no one else,” Sensei Mary says, gesturing to the now-empty dojo. The five-year-olds have all been scooped up by their parents. “Come on, this is an informal-type lesson, take your shoes off and get on the mat—we’ll warm up.”

  “I . . .” I gaze out at the mat, which suddenly seems weirdly intimidating, a vast expanse of soft blue foam.

  “Rika.” Henry clasps my hand again. I try to quell my blush, but I can feel Sensei Mary’s eyes on us, taking in our every move. “Come on, help me—please. We can do a trade: you teach me how to spar, and I’ll teach you how to dance so you can be ready for the gala.”

  “Oh, thank god,” Sensei Mary says, rolling her eyes skyward. “Someone needs to teach Rika-chan how to dance. The attempts we’ve witnessed over the years are, uh, really something. You’d be providing a great service to the Little Tokyo community.”

  “I’m not going to the gala anyway,” I mutter. But I grudgingly slip my shoes off, bow, and get on the mat.

  Why am I being weird about this? I’m confident in my sparring abilities. It is perhaps the only thing I’m confident in. Yes, his frame is bigger and taller, but my experience should more than make up for that. This is just another way of helping Henry, which is why I came here in the first place.

  Henry follows suit, slipping off his shoes, bowing, and joining me on the mat. Sensei Mary has us do a few warm-ups—stretches, jumping rope—then stands in front of us, sizing us up.

  “Okay,” she says briskly. “We’re gonna teach you a simple shoulder throw. Not too hard, but looks impressive to people who don’t know any better.”

  “Is Rika gonna throw me?” Henry asks, his gaze sliding to me. “Because I have to be honest, I find that prospect absolutely terrifying.”

  “You’re going to throw her,” Sensei Mary says, her expression turning amused. “Trust me, the thrower looks more impressive than the throwee in this scenario. But you are correct to be intimidated by Rika-chan’s throws—they’re the stuff of legend.”

  “I’ll bet,” Henry says, his eyes never leaving mine.

  I tear my gaze away and move closer to him, positioning my body so we’re facing each other.

  “Rika-chan’s going to put her hand on your chest,” Sensei Mary says, her tone as businesslike as can be. “She’s attacking you—if you were wearing your judogi, she’d grab the front of your garment.”

  I obediently reach out and place my hand lightly on Henry’s chest—and immediately have to order myself to not get distracted by the warmth of his skin radiating through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, or the fact that I can feel those ripples of hard muscle that were pressed up against me last night in the alley—

  Goddammit. I’m already failing.

  “Now you’re going to grab her arm,” Sensei Mary says to Henry. “One hand on top, right above the bend of her elbow. Other hand should shoot out and grasp her near the armpit.”

  “Okay . . .” Henry says, his brow furrowing as he tries to concentrate. He does as Sensei Mary instructs, his arms shooting out gracefully, his touch light.

  “Mmm, you are a dancer, yes?” Sensei Mary says, nodding. “You have that natural grace in your movements. But in judo, you have to be firm—your moves should be decisive, almost choppy. If you telegraph too much, your sparring partner will be able to counter very easily.”

  “Got it,” Henry says, making his hold a touch firmer.

  “Now pull her forward and spin around on your front foot,” Sensei Mary instructs. “You’ll still be holding her arm, but now this hand”—she taps the hand in the crook of my elbow—“will go to her wrist. And bend your legs—it should look like you’re trying to carry her over one shoulder.”

  Henry does all this, slowly working through each movement. He goes out of his way, I notice, to make his moves more exaggerated, more decisive. But it’s all working counter to his natural grace—there’s still a flow to what he’s doing that is not quite right for judo.

  I allow myself to be pulled toward him, and then he spins around and bends his legs so I’m kind of half-flopped over his right shoulder—like a baby koala.

  “Okay,” Henry says, sounding like he’s concentrating super intensely now.

  I’m pressed lightly against his back, the arm still in his grip draped over his shoulder. I can feel his breath, rapid and heavy. Hmm. That’s odd—we’ve only just started, we haven’t been exerting ourselves that much yet, and he’s in such good shape—

  He turns his head to look at me, his eyes scanning my face.

  “Are you okay?” he says, his words coming out wheezy.

  “I . . . fine,” I say.

  And his breath speeds up even more.

  I realize then that my face has gotten all hot, that my entire body is basically pressed up against his, that this is . . . possibly the most intimate position we’ve been in? Suddenly, all I can hear is our rapid breathing, synchronizing and echoing through the empty dojo. Giving the space an uncomfortable heartbeat.

  Sensei Mary clears her throat, and Henry’s head whips back around to face her. I try to hide my blazing face in his shoulder, feeling like a kid who’s gotten caught cheating on a test.

  “Now,” Sensei Mary says, “Henry, you need to lower your shoulder a bit, and flip her over so she lands on her back. It’s kind of a circular motion.”

  “Oh . . .” Henry freezes, his muscles tensing up. “Won’t that . . . I don’t want to hurt her . . .”

  “That won’t happen,” I say, regaining a teeny bit of my bravado. “I know how to be both thrower and throwee, I know how to land right—and these mats are cushioned. Anyway, weren’t you saying how scared you are of me?” I raise a teasing eyebrow, even though he can’t see my face.

  “I am,” Henry says—but he still sounds nervous, like he’s worried he’s going to Hulk out and crush my delicate girl body. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  He bends his knee and slowly�
�so very slowly—drags me over his shoulder. I relax my muscles and brace myself, but then he also takes his sweet time flipping me, as if trying to take utmost care with every single movement. Like we’re suddenly in slow motion or something. When he finally throws me onto the mat, it’s so deliberate and gentle, it’s more like he’s . . . setting me down. Like I’m some kind of super-breakable porcelain doll.

  Which he should know by now that I’m not.

  “That was not a throw!” I protest, scrambling to my feet. “That won’t look impressive at all if you’re trying to show off for the casting people!”

  “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “I really don’t want to hurt you—”

  “You’re the beginner!” I retort, my defensive armor rising up. “You’re in way more danger of getting hurt than I am!”

  “And I don’t know what I’m doing!” he says. “That’s why I’m trying to be so careful with you—”

  “You don’t have to be careful at all!” I snarl, practically snapping my nure-onna fangs at him.

  “Enough.” Sensei Mary holds up a hand and steps closer to us. “Henry: that was not a bad start. You have the general idea of the motion, but you’re too trapped in your head, worried about getting it wrong. And perhaps”—her gaze slides to me—“allowing other things to distract you.”

  My blush is just a constant state of being now. But I can also feel the more familiar thrum of my kaiju-temper beating against my breastbone, raging through my veins, demanding to be set free. There’s something comforting about it—like I know this state of being way better and am therefore more comfortable with it and trying desperately to hold on to it with both hands.

  But . . . why am I suddenly so mad? There’s no reason for it. He was trying to be careful. As careful as he was when he kissed me last night.

  I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my kaiju-temper and focus on what Sensei Mary’s saying.

  “Judo is all about contrasts, bringing seemingly conflicting ideas together,” she says. “You want your form to be precise, your movements to be calculated—but there’s also an element of going with the flow, allowing your body to instinctually fuse with what you are doing. If you’re too rigid, your opponent will be able to take advantage of that.”

  Henry nods, his brow tightly furrowed—like he really wants to get this.

  “Rika-chan,” Sensei Mary says, amusement flickering in her eyes, “remember to be patient with beginners. Henry will learn, we just have to drill it over and over again and encourage him, mmm? We must be as patient as I was with you when you were small.”

  “Yes, Sensei,” I murmur, looking down at the mat.

  “Go again,” Sensei Mary says, clapping her hands together.

  We resume our positions, facing each other. This time, Henry makes his movements firmer, faster. When he hauls me over his shoulder and tries to flip me, it’s still awkward and his movements are still too slow—but he doesn’t try to second-guess or soften my fall. I brace myself and land with a satisfying whump.

  “Better!” Sensei Mary calls out. “Again.”

  “How many times before I master this?” Henry says, giving me a rueful half smile as we face off.

  “Master it? Probably like a million,” I say. “But I think we can get you to ‘looks like he mostly knows what he’s doing’ reasonably fast.”

  “This is way harder than it looks,” he says, as I reach out to put my hand on his chest.

  That makes me want to bristle again—like, what, he thought this thing I’ve dedicated a good chunk of my life to would be easy? But that flash of irritation has no real heat behind it. It’s an instinctual response, a thing my nure-onna self wants me to pounce on and lash out with and hold close to my chest until nothing but fire blazes through me.

  That fire will keep me from feeling anything else.

  “I think that’s what’s so cool about it,” Henry continues. “Like, people always tell me I make dancing look effortless—but that’s cause I’m putting in a whole lot of effort to make it seem that way.”

  “Yeah,” I say slowly—and my anger just . . . dissipates. I tentatively smile back at him.

  “All right,” Sensei Mary says, clearing her throat again. “Let’s go, kids.”

  We drill the move again and again, Henry flowing through it a little more easily every time. His brow gets less furrowed, his grip becomes more assured. He’s less hesitant when he flips me, that combination of technique and instinct slowly beginning to fuse together.

  We start drilling faster, falling into the calming repetition of the movements. After a bit, we stop talking entirely, developing an unspoken routine. He throws me, I get back up, and we face each other again. Over and over and over again, the whump of me landing on the mat giving us a rhythm. Sensei Mary falls silent, ceasing her corrections and stepping back so we have more space to work.

  When I fall for what seems like the umpteenth time, Sensei Mary finally claps her hands together, and Henry and I both jump. We’d gotten so into our rhythm, I’d sort of forgotten she was there.

  “Yes—good!” Sensei Mary says, beaming as she steps closer to us. “I think you’ve got it, Henry—you’re a fast learner. So there’s one stellar move you can show them, and if you need more help, please come back. I’m happy to teach you others.”

  “Thank you,” he says, giving her a little bow. He’s breathing hard again—this time from actual exertion and not because he’s, you know, distracted. “Can we try it a few more times, though? I want my body to really learn it. I know I’ve got a dance move down when I feel like it’s now housed in my bones or something.”

  “I actually have to head out,” Sensei Mary says. “But you two can stay here and drill as long as you like—just make sure to lock up when you leave, Rika-chan. You know where the key is.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say. “But . . . are you sure, Sensei Mary? I don’t want to, um . . .”

  I trail off, not sure what I’m trying to say. I do know where the key is—all the older kids do, in case there’s an emergency. Sensei Mary keeps it underneath the little potted bonsai by the entrance. But this isn’t an emergency, and I’ve never been entrusted with this task before. I’ve never been left alone in the dojo. Whenever the possibility of that has come up, I’ve imagined myself somehow destroying the whole building. I don’t even know how, I just feel like my kaiju-temper would find a way. Sweet, even-keeled Eliza would be a more natural fit for this kind of responsibility.

  But Eliza’s not here.

  “I trust you,” Sensei Mary says simply. She flashes Henry one last smile. “Nice to meet you—and good luck with the audition.”

  Then she’s gone, gathering up her stuff by the entrance and heading out the door.

  Leaving us alone.

  My gaze wanders up to the skylight, where night has started to fall—the sun’s trying so desperately to hold on again, but she’s overruled by dusky shadows sweeping over the clouds.

  “Shall we go again?” Henry asks me.

  “Let’s do it,” I say, going to stand in front of him once more.

  I place my hand on his chest, just like I’ve done a million times at this point. Only now that we’ve had a break in the rhythm—a pause—it somehow doesn’t feel like something I’ve done a million times. And I swear I can feel his heartbeat speed up through the T-shirt that’s now clinging to him in sweaty patches.

  “So,” Henry says, “I’m getting pretty good, huh?”

  I meet his teasing gaze. “You’re getting passable. At one move.”

  “And now I’m ready for more,” he says, reaching out to grasp my arm. “You heard Sensei Mary—apparently I’m a fast learner.”

  “She was being polite,” I say, as he twists around, putting me in the baby koala position. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Hmm, I dunn
o,” Henry says, his voice way too amused. “Sounds like you’re worried about holding on to your top spot here.”

  “Never,” I insist. “I’m never letting that go, especially not to a beginner. This is all kids’ stuff, you’re not ready for the real thing yet.”

  “You better watch out,” he counters. “Soon we’ll be sparring for real.”

  I want to retort, but suddenly I’m pressed up against his back again and he isn’t flipping me yet—he’s just kind of holding me there. I feel the heat of his skin through his shirt—so much warmer now that we’ve been drilling for so long. See the sweat beading his neck, drifting under his collar. His shirt is definitely clinging more to his biceps, his broad shoulders, and I’m so freaking close, I can’t help but stare, my mouth going dry . . .

  “What, nothing to say to that?” Henry says.

  Then he does flip me. Only this time, I’m so fixated on his shirt and his heat and his stupid biceps that I’m momentarily caught off guard. I let out a loud yelp as I fly through the air, my sense of gravity disrupted, and then I’m landing flat on my back on the mat. I manage to brace myself just in time, but I still wince upon impact.

  “Oh, shit,” Henry says. “Shit. Rika, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I manage, my breathing uneven. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention.”

  Still grasping my arm, he leans down, frowning as he studies my face. “What . . . were you paying attention to?”

  I really don’t want to answer with “Your biceps, obviously,” so I take advantage of his weakened position, ground myself firmly on the mat, and yank hard on his arm.

  “Wha—” A look of utter surprise crosses his face as he goes tumbling down.

  He lands on top of me, but because I’m ready, I use the momentum of his fall to flip us, so he’s flat on his back and I’m straddling him at the waist. Kind of like the first time we met, only I’m not all tangled up in my cumbersome yukata. He gazes up at me, dazed, his hair sticking out in all different directions.

  “And that,” I say triumphantly, “is why you’re definitely not ready to spar with me for real. You let your guard down and easily gave me the upper hand. And now . . .” I gesture expansively to myself and the dojo. “Winner. Undisputed number one champion of the Little Tokyo Dojo!”