by Sarah Kuhn
But . . . no. None of them look like that. Belle beams at me in a way that borders on smug. Eliza gives me a mushy gaze, like she’s about to melt into a puddle on the floor. And Rory . . . well, Rory doesn’t look appalled, but she is frowning at me in an accusing fashion.
“He was supposed to be my boyfriend!” she complains. “You don’t even like Dance! Off!”
“He’s too old for you!” Belle admonishes, whacking her arm. “We can find out if he has a younger relative of some kind. And anyway, Rika never likes anyone, so let her have this one!”
“Fine,” Rory grumbles, slouching over her ice cream. “I guess that would be okay.”
“Oh, Rika,” Eliza says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “This is so precious.”
“Really?” I press. “It’s not weird to feel that way about someone so fast? Like, I don’t know, you belong with them and it’s not hard to feel that way? It just works?”
“Well, I’ve certainly never felt that way in my many romantic escapades,” Belle says, waving a hand. “But I don’t think it’s weird, no. Remember, that’s how Ma Och says she felt the first time she saw Ma Suzy. Every person who was in that year’s Nikkei Week court or involved with that year’s Nikkei Week court or . . . I don’t know, in the vicinity of that year’s Nikkei Week court had some kind of crush on Ma Och. She’d just moved to the States from Japan, she was this exciting new face—and she was just so cool. But she says the minute she saw Ma Suzy, that was it. It was like a light went on. She felt that connection instantly, and she knew they belonged together.”
I surreptitiously brush tears from my eyes. Ugh. Why am I crying? I’ve heard this story a million times. Maybe it’s because this time I’m actually picturing it. Auntie Suzy, so beautiful in her princess gown, her smile the sweetest, brightest thing in the room. Full of hope, before she was tired all the time. Auntie Och, stopping in her tracks, completely bowled over. That connection snapping into place between them as everyone else in the room melts away. Just like a fairy tale.
Actually, I know exactly why I’m crying. It’s because now I’ve felt that, too.
“I don’t trust it,” I say abruptly.
Eliza shakes her head at me. “What?”
“This feeling,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. “Feeling like I fit with someone this way. It’s too . . .” I give Belle and Rory a rueful smile. “You know—Team Princess. I usually feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”
I expect them all to object to that. I expect Eliza to tell me that of course I belong at the dojo. For my sisters to tell me that I belong with them, because we’re family. I expect them to say all that and then for me to instantly reject the idea—because I know they’re just saying that. I know I don’t feel that way. It cannot be denied that I stick out like a sore thumb, and that their half-hearted protests are merely to make me feel better. They can try to “claim” me all they want, but I still don’t really belong to any of them.
“I get that,” Belle says.
My head snaps up. “Excuse me, what? You get that?”
She nods and pops the last bit of cone in her mouth. “Of course I do.”
“What?!” I repeat. “No. There’s no ‘of course’ here. Belle, you’re the freakin’ Nikkei Week Queen. One of the most popular kids at school. Your dog is an influencer—”
“Well, almost,” Belle corrects. “I’m still trying to get his follows up to where they need to be.”
“And you’re so confident,” I barrel on. “You’re always so sure about what you’re doing. How do you feel like you don’t belong?”
“Rika-chan.” Belle gestures expansively to her fabulous curves. “This is not what people think of as the perfect Japanese American girl body. Remember when Auntie Och tried to order us those cheap clothes from Japanese stores online? None of them fit me. I started getting boobs when I was eleven. I’m also loud. I talk too much. I date hot people of all genders. And I bring my dog to sacred Nikkei Week rituals.” She gives me a sardonic smile. “The elders who disapprove of you so much are not holding me up as a shining example for our people—trust me.”
“But . . .” I shake my head, my thoughts a tangle. “I love all of those things about you. And I’ve always admired how proud you are of them.”
“I am proud,” Belle says, drawing herself up in her seat. “I think I’m amazing. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel out of place sometimes, or that there aren’t people trying to tell me I don’t belong.”
“Yeah, me too,” Rory says. I notice that despite her best efforts, she’s dribbled ice cream on her makeshift cape. “Everyone sees me as this math genius, right? Which, to be fair, I totally am. But I also like other stuff. Like dancing and drawing and coming up with costumes. Remember when we drew all those yokai pictures for your room, Rika? That was so fun.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say, smiling softly at her.
“I wish people would see that I’m good at that stuff, too,” Rory says, her little face screwing into a look of consternation. “But people have already kinda decided who I am. The art clique kids all make fun of me when I try to ask them stuff, and the math club kids don’t understand why I want to waste my time with anything else. It’s like no one sees all of me, exactly. Because no one wants to.”
“I see you, Rory,” Eliza says, giving Rory one of her sweet smiles.
“Thank you,” Rory says primly, adjusting her cape.
“I feel that way, too, Rika,” Eliza says, turning to me. “A lot of the kids in our class have teased me for being an ‘Asian stereotype’ because I’m good at judo. Even though I am in fact a real person, not some cartoon character. And they seem to feel extra comfortable teasing me because I’m so nice.” She bites off the last word, glaring down at her ice cream.
“Wow, both kids and old people have the capacity to be massive assholes,” Rory says.
We all laugh, needing the release. I look at each of them, taking this all in. It blows my mind that they all have felt this way. That belonging isn’t as easy for other people as I seem to think it is.
That everyone, at some point, doesn’t feel like a whole version of themselves.
I guess I’ve always seen them a certain way—like they were on one side of a fence, the side where you have exactly what you need to magically fit in. Belle’s confidence. Rory’s brilliance. Eliza’s sweetness. I was always on the other side, bad-tempered and uncomfortable in my own skin.
But as it turns out, we were actually together—there was no fence. They can understand me. We can understand each other.
I feel that door to my heart cracking open a tiny bit more.
“Hey,” I say. “I really love you all.”
“Oh, Rika-chan,” Belle says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Of course we love you, too. Now.” Her eyes narrow shrewdly. “We’ve heard your plan for trying to track down Grace tomorrow. But what about your plan with Henry? Are you going to do more stuff?”
I laugh and glance down at my phone. I have a new text from Henry.
Just practicing my throw, it says. I used a pillow. But I wish I was throwing you instead.
My face flushes again.
I feel something bubbling up in my chest, something light and free, something that’s become weirdly familiar the past few days.
I realize that it’s hope.
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess was gifted with the keys to a glittering kingdom. As the prophecy foretold, it was there that she would finally be reunited with her long-lost mother—a great queen.
The princess could barely contain her excitement and hardly slept the night before her grand adventure, the keys to the glittering kingdom clutched tightly in her hand. Would the prophecy be everything she’d dreamed of? Would she and her mother share a long embrace, a fine meal? Would she finally feel found after feeling lost for all seventeen year
s of her lonely life? Would she be able to ask her mother all the burning questions she suddenly had about kissing and rolling around on judo mats with handsome princes and possibly desecrating historic landmarks?!
Unfortunately, there was nothing in the prophecy about that.
SIXTEEN
I can tell Henry’s nervous. He doesn’t say he’s nervous, but the big smile plastered across his face when he picks me up is not that sweet, open one I’ve become accustomed to. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which keep darting all over the place as his fingers drum an erratic rhythm on his car’s steering wheel.
This time, though, that big fake smile doesn’t bother me—because I know it’s not a front for me. He’s thinking ahead, to the people he has to impress.
He doesn’t say much as he drives us to the lot. Which is maybe for the best, because I’m lost in my own thoughts. I’m thinking about Grace—allowing that little spark of hope to flourish. I’m thinking about the night before, the revelation that I’m not as alone as I thought I was. I’m thinking about Henry, his body pressed against mine on the judo mats, his lips seeking out that tender spot over and over again . . .
“Are you too hot?” Henry’s voice cuts into my thoughts, and I jump a little. “I can turn the air up.” He reaches over and fiddles with the broken buttons on the car’s console.
“F-fine,” I squeak, my face flaming.
God. This is the part they don’t put in fairy tales, the excruciating awkwardness that descends after you’ve crossed the threshold from friends to, you know, people who kiss. I’d really love to see the part of the story where Cinderella and her handsome prince are forced to make small talk while also wondering incessantly what the other person is thinking and if they maybe want to kiss you again.
We pull up by the security booth at the lot’s entrance, and Henry offers his name, ID, and the reason he’s here. The security guard takes his sweet time scrutinizing Henry’s ID, then nods at me.
“Who’s she?”
“Um, my assistant!” Henry blurts out, plastering that big smile on his face. “She goes everywhere with me! Part of my entourage. It’s, um, necessary!”
I stifle the laugh bubbling up in my chest and give the security guard the most winning smile I can muster. I imagine myself as the nure-onna, transforming into a sweet, guileless princess right before his eyes.
The security guard side-eyes me for a few moments more, making an extra big show of looking at Henry’s ID. My heart beats faster—is he some kind of wizard-like gatekeeper, hell-bent on keeping both Henry and me from our happy endings?
But then he just shrugs and hands the ID back to Henry. “Park in the structure to the left,” he says. “And here’s a map—you’re in Building H.” He gives us a lopsided grin. “Loved you on Dance! Off!”
“Thanks, man!” Henry says, giving the guard a little salute.
“Excuse me, your assistant?” I yelp as Henry pilots us into the parking structure. “That’s my cover identity?”
“I had to think fast!” Henry protests. “What else was I gonna say?”
“I dunno, how about your trainer?” I counter. “I taught you all that judo shit, didn’t I?”
He parks the car and turns to me, a more genuine grin spreading over his face as he studies me intently—in that way that makes me feel like he can see through my skin.
“You taught me a lot of things,” he says.
And I blush—because of course I do.
“Apparently I didn’t teach you how to lie,” I huff. “Because you are truly terrible at that.”
I’m trying to sound snarky, but there’s no heat behind it. His grin only widens.
“We’ve already covered this,” he says. “You are also a terrible liar, so I probably learned that from you, too. Now. Time to put all your lessons to work.” He brandishes the map the security guard gave him. It’s nothing more than a flimsy piece of paper with a blurry grid of boxes. Somehow I expected a little more effort from a fancy Hollywood studio. “I’m going here,” Henry says, tapping one of the boxes. “And the sets for We Belong are over . . . here.” He taps another box that’s on the opposite side of the lot. “Soundstage Nine. Or at least they were a few weeks ago.”
“What should I expect?” I say, wheels turning as I study this indecipherable grid. “Will there be, like, guards blocking off the area?”
“Not exactly,” he says, a smile playing over his lips as he taps thoughtfully on the square. “You should see a cluster of trailers next to these two big soundstages—the sets are on the soundstages. Security’s tight around the stages because that’s where filming’s gonna be. But there aren’t really guards by the trailers. If you can find Grace’s trailer, maybe you can catch her on a break. Oh—and the markers on the trailers will have character names, not actor names—look for the one marked ‘Suzanne.’ That’s who Grace plays in the movie.”
“Suzanne!” I exclaim. “Like Auntie Suzy.”
“A sign!” Henry says, his eyes widening. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Maybe I’m starting to,” I say. “Anyway, that plan sounds good and stealthy-like. Though my track record for being stealthy is really not great lately. What if I somehow cause a huge disruption that destroys the entire set and gets both of us banned from this lot for the rest of our lives?”
Henry laughs and holds the map out to me. “If you get to finally meet Grace? Then I think it would be worth it.”
“How are you just so decent all the time?” I say, taking the map from him. “You’re really saying you’d be fine with me tanking your career just for a shot at completing my Mom Quest?”
He shrugs. “It’s important to you.”
I meet his eyes and take a moment to revel in how good he is. It sounds dorky and cheesy, and Belle would have a field day if she heard me say that out loud. But it’s true. He always does the most right thing, and it’s never calculated—it’s like an instinct. Whether it’s helping Rory with the salad and making her feel like a star, or calmly eviscerating Craig Shimizu, or telling me he still has hope even when I’ve lost it completely.
“And this audition is important to you,” I say. “So go in there and crush it, okay? The part is gonna be yours—I can feel it.”
And then, because I’m really going with the whole feelings thing, I impulsively stretch myself over the gearshift and kiss him. His hands tangle in my hair and he pulls me closer, and I feel myself falling into him again—
Until an earsplitting HOOOONK rings out through the parking garage and we jump apart, gasping for breath.
“Oops,” he manages to get out. “I bumped the horn.” He gives me a sly grin. “Look at you, already causing disruptions.”
“Me?” I spit out, indignant. “You’re the one who bumped the horn!”
“Because you distracted me,” he says, leaning in again. He glances down at my shirt. “Hey, is that the nure-onna?”
“Oh . . . yes,” I say, smoothing the front of my beloved T-shirt. “I wore it for luck.”
“She looks cool,” he says. “Like she’s about to fight the good fight.”
“I think she’s actually about to eat people and have her revenge on all of humanity,” I retort. He just grins at me. “But maybe she could do both,” I amend.
He touches his forehead to mine. “Let’s go accomplish our respective missions. I believe in us—and the nure-onna.”
“Me too,” I murmur. “Just don’t forget to drop your shoulder when you’re going into the throw, or you’ll completely mess it up.”
“What a pep talk,” he laughs.
My heartbeat speeds up again and my palms start to sweat as we exit the car. Henry points me in the right direction and heads off the opposite way. I see him adjusting, trying to center himself, squaring his shoulders and muttering his lines under his breath. I watch him until he’s
a dot bobbing in the distance. The butterflies cascading through my stomach are for him, I realize—because I know he wants this so badly. And I know he’s scared to want it so badly.
When he’s finally out of sight, I turn and survey the lot in front of me. Just to my left is a small fountain, welcoming me to the stately, arched entryway with pinnacle pictures emblazoned on it. Beyond that are rows and rows of soundstages—tall beige boxes that block out the sky. And to my right is an outdoor screen of some sort, a gigantic square of bright blue that seems to be serving as a backdrop for exterior shots.
I’ve never actually been on a Hollywood lot. Rory is always complaining because TV and movies that depict LA are obsessed with showing approximately three elements of the sprawling city: the Hollywood sign, the gilded front of one of the many studio lots, and Rodeo Drive. “Why don’t they show the real LA?” she’ll say. “Like, the place where we actually live.”
It is like watching a far-off glittering fantasy kingdom built on top of the city I love. These images people associate with LA have nothing to do with my actual daily existence. I remember some kids in my and Belle’s class who moved here from the East Coast asking us if we knew any movie stars, like that was a normal part of life in LA.
Although . . . now I do know a movie star. My mother is a movie star. And my . . . whatever Henry is . . .
And here I am on an actual Hollywood lot, ready to find my happy ending.
I take a deep breath and step forward, passing under the entryway. I try to meander down the row of soundstages casually but with purpose, like I totally belong here and totally know what I’m doing. I am so focused on my extremely casual meandering, I almost bump into a man barreling my way, wearing a giant lobster costume.
“Oops, sorry!” I cry, scurrying out of his path. He waves an oversized claw at me and keeps on barreling.
As I continue my trek, I feel more and more like Dorothy getting her first taste of Oz, or a confused Alice right after she was plunked into Wonderland. I see various costumed people marching by, wearing all sorts of things. A woman dressed as a pancake, pacing back and forth and studying her lines. A trio of teen vampires who keep cracking each other up by trying to recite tongue twisters around their fake teeth. A very tall man dressed as some kind of scaly green alien, phone pressed to the foamy ear of his costume as he shouts about how he “just can’t do this anymore!”