From Little Tokyo, With Love

by Sarah Kuhn

  On my left, I see a path to what looks like a fake city street—facades of buildings that aren’t actually buildings, a subway that doesn’t go anywhere. Even the path beneath my feet appears to be made up of some kind of fake cobblestones, lovingly crafted to look real. Only their suspiciously shiny surfaces give them away.

  I suppose I should be repulsed by all this, by this superficial kingdom dedicated to selling some version of reality that has very little to do with real life. Grace Kimura’s happy endings.

  And yet, as the gentle summer breeze and the laughter of the tongue-twisting vampires wash over me, I can’t help but feel charmed. So many people’s dreams are bubbling underneath the surface of these fake cobblestones. I imagine my mother, setting foot on this lot for the first time. Realizing the sacrifices she made led her here, that soon she would be catapulted into the glittering life of a Hollywood starlet beloved by millions. That she could at last escape her tragic past as a teen mother cast out by the community she once loved.

  That she could be a princess in this kingdom built on top of my city.

  I’ve gotten so lost in my reverie, I’ve actually come to a stop on the fake cobblestones and am gazing off into the distance, my eyes zeroing in on that fake subway station. I shake it off, reminding myself of my mission, and glance down at the crumpled map in my hand.

  I was supposed to go . . .

  I frown, turning the map over, and look up at the numbers on the soundstages. Then back at the map. Only now the map appears to be upside down . . . or is it? Sweat beads my brow as I turn it over and over, unable to make sense of it. I’m looking for Soundstage Nine, but I can’t tell if it’s to my left or up ahead or if I’ve already passed it. This janky-ass map seems to indicate that it could literally be in all three of these places.

  I swallow hard, my brow furrowing. I’m lost. And I don’t think I can just GPS my way to Soundstage Nine or ask the guy in the lobster suit . . .

  “Hey, Rika? Sweet Rika?”

  My head snaps up to see a familiar figure bustling toward me, swoopy ponytail twitching behind her—Joanna Raine. The writer from the Asian Hollywood meetup. The one who told me I thought I didn’t deserve a happy ending.

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling shy for some reason.

  “Hey,” she says, giving me an exuberant head bob. “What a nice surprise. The show based on my books is set to shoot a few soundstages over.” She jerks her thumb in the direction of the fake subway. “What are you doing here?”

  I belatedly remember that I’m not actually supposed to be on the lot at all. “I’m, uh . . . I just . . . I’m here.”

  “Oooh, wait, did you convince Baby Hank to go to his audition?” Joanna bounces on her toes. “That makes me so happy! I was worried he was going to, you know”—she gestures vaguely—“get in his own way.”

  “We’re both pretty good at that, actually,” I say, smiling at her. “Um, maybe you can help me with something, though.” I brandish the map. “I’m trying to find Soundstage Nine. And I can’t seem to figure out where I am or where it is or . . .” I trail off and gesture at the big row of soundstages, which are more and more indistinguishable from each other every time I look at them.

  “Nine is this way—come on, I’ll show you!” Joanna says, pointing to a path that splits off to the right.

  I follow her down yet another fake cobblestone path, marveling at her seemingly boundless energy.

  “So what are you doing at Nine?” Joanna asks. “Is Henry’s audition over that way?”

  “Um, no,” I say. “I’m, uh . . .”

  Dammit. Henry’s right. We’re both terrible liars.

  “I’m . . . looking for someone,” I say.

  “Oh, wait—you guys said the other night that you were looking for Grace Kimura, right?” Joanna snaps her fingers and beams at me. “Is Nine where they’re shooting We Belong?”

  “Yes!” I say, relieved that I can at least sort of tell the truth. “I, uh . . . I need to meet her. For reasons.”

  I expect Joanna to push me on that, but she gives me another sunny smile and we keep walking, our shoes clicking steadily along the fake cobblestones.

  “Here we are,” Joanna says after we’ve walked for a bit, sweeping an arm toward one of those giant beige boxes. This one has a big “9” emblazoned on it, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If Joanna hadn’t happened upon me, I’d probably still be wandering around the lot, running into who knows how many people dressed as giant sea creatures. The soundstage appears to be all closed up, but there’s a cluster of trailers set up near the entrance. My heart starts to beat a little faster again—that’s what Henry said to find. The trailers.

  “Uh-oh,” Joanna says, her brow crinkling. “It looks like no one’s here—or at least they’re not currently shooting. I guess Clara Mae was wrong about those rumors.”

  “That’s okay,” I say hastily. “I don’t need to watch them shoot anything. Henry suggested I try to find Grace’s trailer, maybe?”

  Joanna tilts her head, studying me. She doesn’t look suspicious, exactly. It’s more like she’s trying to take all this in, to figure out what I’m thinking. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I’ve managed to totally bungle this situation already.

  But then her gaze shifts back to the row of trailers.

  “Okay,” she murmurs, lowering her voice. “We’ll have to be extra stealthy because even if no one’s on the stage right now, there could still be security folks lurking around. Come on.”

  She beckons me forward, and we slip between two rows of trailers, practically plastering ourselves up against them in an effort to stay hidden. My heart is beating like mad now, and I should feel ridiculous—the way we’re creeping around, eyes darting to the side, probably makes us look like a pair of extremely cartoony cat burglars. But my adrenaline is amped up way too high for me to think about anything except the possibility of reuniting with my mother. After these past few days, all our near misses, me feeling so close yet so far, me wanting it yet desperately wishing I didn’t want it . . . is this really about to happen?

  “Check the doors—we’re looking for Suzanne, right? That’s who she’s playing?” Joanna hisses at me, tapping on one of the trailers. I see that each one seems to have a piece of masking tape affixed to the door with a character’s name scrawled on it. This, much like the studio map, seems way jankier than what I would imagine for a fancy Holly-wood production—when Henry said the doors would be marked with character names, I imagined some kind of engraved-plaque situation. I guess they spent all their money creating those fake cobblestones—the impression of reality is more important than actual reality.

  I scan those scraps of masking tape on every trailer we skulk up to, adrenaline powering me forward, but none bear the name I’m looking for. They start to blur into nonsensical series of letters, puzzles I have to decode in order to gain the keys to the kingdom.

  But then we reach a trailer at the end of the row, positioned right next to the soundstage. The sun trying to break through from behind the soundstage cascades over its brilliant white surface, illuminating this mundane piece of Hollywood like a glittering disco ball.

  I know before I even see the masking tape on the door. I can’t explain how.

  And once I get close enough to actually see . . . there it is. That name, the one that’s maybe a sign. Scribbled in that same basic marker as everyone else’s. Yet the letters seem to pulse with an unearthly glow, calling out to me.

  suzanne

  I run my fingertips over them, reassuring myself that they’re real.

  “Yessss, you found it!” Joanna whispers, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I forgot she was there.

  I try knocking—once, twice. Tentatively.

  No answer. My heart sinks a little, and the glow around the name dissipates.

  Is she really not here? Are we really having ye
t another near miss?

  I don’t know what possesses me, but I reach out and try the door. And just like that, it swings open.

  “Wait, Rika!” I hear Joanna’s urgent whisper behind me. “What are you doing?”

  I can’t answer because I don’t actually know. But I also can’t stop myself from climbing the little metal steps into the trailer and entering yet another space my mother recently inhabited. It’s like some other force is guiding me, and I simply cannot do anything else.

  The space is dark and cramped, and the stuffy air shimmers with dust motes and the beginnings of cobwebs. To my right is a teeny kitchenette-type area with a mini fridge. To my left, a very small couch and a makeup table with a mirror attached. Everything is so shrunken, it almost looks like doll furniture.

  It’s also very empty. If those cobweb whispers weren’t enough to show me that this space has been abandoned for a very long time, the lack of anything beyond this weird doll furniture certainly is. When I walked under the big arched entrance of this lot earlier, I swore I could feel my mother’s presence, could see her setting foot in her future kingdom all those years ago.

  But now . . . I don’t sense her at all. I can’t picture her in this dark, sterile space. Shards of panic sliver their way through my heart. Have any of my feelings been real since this journey first started? Would I even know if they weren’t?

  “Rika?” Joanna sidles up next to me, her eyes shifting nervously to the side. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be in here—like, we’re really not supposed to be in here. Maybe we should—”

  “No!” I blurt out. My cheeks heat up as I realize how loud and weird and angry I sound. My kaiju-temper does not want to leave. I force myself to relax my shoulders and lower my voice back to a stealthy level. “I mean. I just need to, um, look around for a second. Please, Joanna.”

  She studies me again, that expression I can’t quite read passing over her face.

  “Okaaaay,” she says, very hesitantly. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not sure,” I murmur, crossing the minuscule space to the makeup table. There’s absolutely nothing on it, not even leftover traces of powder or lip gloss. It’s bare, save for a thin layer of dust. I idly run my finger through the dust, just to see if it will actually leave a mark—or if this is all an illusion. My fingertips wander lower, to the single drawer built into the table. I give the handle a slight tug and am surprised to find it opens as easily as the door to the trailer.

  And there’s something inside. Something that’s not dust or cobwebs or a blank expanse of absolutely nothing. A small square of faded colors, crumbling around the edges—another photo.

  I sit down on the stool in front of the makeup table and pull the photo free. This one is just her. Grace Kimura.

  She’s young again, but she’s not a child—maybe about fourteen. She’s sitting in a beautiful garden underneath the drooping branches of a big tree. I’d recognize all that green and that tree anywhere—it’s the garden behind the JACCC. The onryo tree I used to hide under. The place that cradles me and gives so much comfort when I feel lost.

  My mother is staring off into the distance. Longing for something.

  “Rika?” Joanna crouches down in front of me, her face concerned. Once again, I’d forgotten she was there. “What’s the matter?”

  I look up from the photo . . . and realize my eyes have filled with tears. I freeze, making myself very still. Trying to imagine my nure-onna armor rising up and surrounding me. I sneak a sidelong glance at the mirror, but all I see is me.

  That sad girl who doesn’t want to admit she’s sad. That girl who can’t seem to stop waiting for someone to want her. That girl who knows the exact yearning in this photo because she’s been feeling it in little bits and pieces every day for her entire life.

  I look back at the photo, gripping it tightly between my fingers. My knuckles turn white. I’ve started holding my breath without even knowing it. Trying with all my might to be still. If only I can be still enough, maybe I’ll disappear.

  “Rika,” Joanna repeats, her voice so quiet and gentle, it makes me want to let those tears fall. My fingers clutching the photo so tightly tremble. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?” she says. “More than wanting to meet a famous movie star?”

  I don’t trust myself to say anything, so I give her a tight head bob.

  I expect her to press me for more, but she simply reaches up and squeezes my hands, which are still tightly clasped around the photo, then sits back on her heels. My gaze returns to the photo. I can’t seem to stop looking at this girl Grace Kimura used to be. I feel such an instant connection to this girl—just like when we locked eyes at the parade. But she’s so far away. So unreachable. Even though she’s right here, in front of my eyes.

  Frustration bubbles up in my chest, mixing with the potent rage of my kaiju-temper.

  I just . . . I just want . . .

  “I know what it’s like,” Joanna says.

  My head snaps up, and I look at her quizzically—still not trusting myself to speak.

  “To feel like you never totally fit in anywhere—or with anyone,” Joanna says. “To love a community so fiercely, with everything you have—but to feel like you don’t always belong there.”

  I look down at the photo again, at my mother. I blink hard, willing those tears to please, please stay put.

  “When I said you don’t think you deserve a happy ending . . .” Joanna trails off, and I feel her eyes boring into me again. “I know that was kind of . . . forward and weird. But I could tell you hurt the way I used to—the way I sometimes still do. That you have so much anger you’re constantly trying to repress.”

  “I don’t actually repress it that well,” I murmur. “Or, like . . . ever.”

  “I think you do,” Joanna insists. “I can tell it’s sitting inside of you, getting bigger every day. That you’re trying so hard to make yourself small.”

  I just keep staring at the photo. I don’t even know what to say.

  “I really wish so many of our communities would just, like, acknowledge that anger isn’t always a bad emotion,” Joanna continues. “Sometimes it’s there to let you know when something’s wrong or to protect you from being mistreated or to tell you that you care. You can’t just reject it—you have to let yourself feel it, make room for it, or all that repressing will burn you up inside. You have to figure out a way to channel it. That’s what I finally realized I had to do.”

  “How did you do that?” I manage.

  “Lots of practice, lots of mistakes,” she says, laughing a little. “But ultimately, I started listening to my heart more. Trusting myself. And I let that anger power me—every time someone told me no one would buy a dragons-and-swords fantasy series starring women of color, or a story starring more than one Asian, or that I don’t look like someone’s very narrow idea of what ‘Asian’ is . . .” She shakes her head. “I got mad. I felt that power, deep in my bones. And I used that to figure out what I really wanted and to drive me forward.”

  A single tear drifts down my cheek. I don’t even know how to start doing . . . what she’s saying. It sounds as far-fetched as the most candy-sweet of fairy tales.

  “All this anger—it’s a totally understandable response to the hurt,” Joanna says, her voice very soft. “I know exactly what that feels like.”

  “Why?” The word escapes my lips, barely a whisper. “Why do I feel this way?”

  “Because . . . some of the awful things people have said to you? You’ve heard them so many times, you secretly believe they’re true.”

  I freeze, still blinking like mad. Staring at that photo.

  I think of all the things Craig and some of the saltier Uncles have spewed at me. Being “claimed” by Belle, because otherwise I wouldn’t belong to my family at all. All the times I’ve been called a mistake.


  Do I think I’m a mistake?

  I built up my snarling nure-onna armor so these words would bounce off of me. So I could throw them to the side and they wouldn’t matter. And I fight everyone and everything to show just how much all of this doesn’t matter.

  But maybe, all this time . . . all I’ve been doing is absorbing these words, making them part of myself. Trying to consume them so they can never consume me.

  Whenever I think of myself, it’s always as this snarling, uncontrollable monster.

  Joanna’s telling me this monster could be so powerful . . . but I just don’t believe it. I can’t picture it. Currently, all I can see is the picture in front of me—my mother, longing for something.

  I see myself in this picture, too. And this picture isn’t angry at all.

  This picture is sad.

  “I have to go,” I say abruptly, shooting to my feet and scraping a hand over my eyes. I don’t even think about what I’m doing as I stuff the picture in my pocket.

  “Wait,” Joanna says, getting to her feet, too. “Rika, you can talk to me about this. I understand—”

  “No, you don’t,” I snap.

  I push her aside and start to hustle toward the door . . . when I spy something else. A bit of blue-silver fluff, sticking out from behind the small couch. I change course, go to the couch, and tug on that bit of silver fluff. It leads to more fluff—the stuff just keeps coming and coming as I pull, like I’m a magician drawing an endless series of scarves from my sleeve. When I finally get the whole thing free, I shake it out and hold it up in front of me.