by Sarah Kuhn
Submitted by: Beatrice Constance Tanaka (Super Awesome Note-Taker/Researcher/Mentee who is gaining so much IRL experience, y’all, and really showing that she has what it takes to be promoted!)
Short Summary: We sent that bee-yotch back to the Otherworld! (Note from NJ: “bee-yotch” is not an official classification.)
Long Summary: Partial containment of Unidentified Demon Specimen #8765—Still At Large has been achieved, but there is not enough data to downgrade at large classification. Though we hypothesize that Specimen and Specimen’s human counterpart currently exist in a weakened state and seem to have stopped causing trouble for the moment, Team Tanaka/Jupiter remains in active data-collecting mode. We must remain alert just in case it suddenly gains a bananas amount of power and takes over the city via evil wedding gown possession. (Note from NJ: “bananas” is also not an official classification.)
Report Writer has made attempts to follow up on several angles. First, RW tracked down the host of the estate sale where boutique owner Shruti Dhaliwal procured the shady red vintage dress that was later incorporated into the Marcus Wong “abomination” gown(s). (Note from NJ: “shady” is not . . . do I really have to say it?) Said host was very nice, but mostly seemed interested in showing RW about a thousand pictures of her cats rather than revealing anything in the way of true evilness.
RW then tried questioning S. Dhaliwal herself, since the shady dress was originally part of her pop-up’s stock. But S. Dhaliwal mostly just revealed herself to be as awesome as Aveda Jupiter keeps saying she is, and RW ended up spending three hours debating the best Star Trek series with her over milkshakes. (It’s Deep Space Nine and RW is not budging on that one.)
Finally, RW tried exploring the whole Marcus Wong blackmail angle but to no avail—the third “abomination” gown remains missing, and scanning M. Wong’s empty storefront umpteen million times has produced zero results. Magnificent Mercedes, LA’s superheroine of traffic jams, interviewed M. Wong and his assistant, Franz, but procured no new data. Report Writer suggested MM should, at the very least, procure some of those kimchi pulled pork chalupas from that hot new LA food truck and send them up to Aveda Jupiter, Inc. HQ, but she didn’t seem terribly willing. :(
In any case, Team Tanaka/Jupiter is proceeding with the big Tanaka-Jones wedding as planned, even if Specimen #8765 is still at large. Because in our line of work, you can’t stop living your life whenever there’s metropolis-threatening danger going on—that just means you won’t have a life at all. (Note from NJ: This is editorializing. It is also true.)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BACHELORETTE PARTIES HAVE a certain reputation. I wasn’t sure ours was going to uphold it.
We didn’t look like a particularly wild bunch. Evie, Lucy, Bea, and I were clustered around one of the rickety tables at a hole-in-the-wall Japantown eatery called Curry On, stuffing our faces with hearty Japanese curry over rice. As kids, Evie and I had ended up here after one of our many Heroic Trio viewings, making it a post-movie tradition. The place was hardly fancy—the tablecloths were bright yellow plastic, the chairs were mismatched and falling apart, and the décor was a collection of framed black-and-white photos of various Asian movie stars. (As far as I could tell, the only thing they all had in common was that they were Asian. None of the pictures were signed, so it was doubtful that they’d patronized the place. Also, some of them were dead.)
But the food was delicious—tender pork katsu cutlets drowned in spicy pools of curry—and our long-time connection to the place made it feel like home. And since I was kind of sort of banned from The Gutter “for the foreseeable future,” according to Kevin, Curry On seemed like a good approximation of what Evie had wanted for her wedding-related parties in the first place: comfort venue, comfort food, comfort company. I’d lined up a few surprises for the night, but this time, I’d asked others for advice and considered each element carefully, thinking things through by asking myself a simple question: what would Evie’s face look like when she saw it? It was amazing the insight this added to the party-planning process.
A week had passed since we’d dumped the puppy dress into the portal, and it was the night before the wedding. We’d all been on edge, waiting for the human/puppy combo platter to make itself known, but it was apparently still skulking in the shadows, weakened and waiting. And tonight, I was determined for us to relax and have as much fun as we possibly could.
“Oh, yum,” Evie groaned, slurping a mouthful of curry and rice off her chopsticks. “You know, whenever I see one of those new so-called trend foods popping up, I always wonder why it isn’t this. I mean, white hipsters have latched on to every other Asian food thing, and this is basically the Japanese equivalent of chicken nuggets drowned in gravy.”
“Quite,” Lucy agreed, taking a more delicate bite. “It deserves to be at least as big as poutine.”
“Way better than antelope skewers,” Bea said with her mouth full. She cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, yes, I get it,” I said, pointing my chopsticks at her. “Can we maybe start letting that one go?”
“We can,” Lucy said, giving me a sly look. “On one condition.”
I took a bite of curry, savoring the way it burned down my throat. I’d anticipated the bachelorette night might involve embarrassing conversation or even juvenile slumber party games like Truth or Dare. I’d told myself to suck it up and roll with it if that’s what Evie wanted—but I wasn’t sure I knew how to roll with such things. She and I might be working things out, but I still didn’t feel like I was part of the familial unit. A lone wolf does not change its spots overnight. Or something like that.
Oh, well. Surely Aveda Jupiter could handle whatever potentially humiliating truth question or dare task Lucy might be about to lob my way? Maybe I could even figure out a way to make it extra fabulous?
“Shoot,” I said, taking another bite of curry. “What condition?”
Lucy grinned at me. “You must tell us absolutely everything that’s going on with you and Scott. I mean . . .” She glided a bright red fingernail over the plastic tablecloth in a manner that was somehow suggestive. “. . . details.”
Oh, god. I had no idea how to make that extra fabulous. Or how to talk about it in a way that was even a little bit coherent. I flushed, set down my chopsticks, and patted my lips with a napkin. “It’s really spicy tonight,” I murmured.
“Not why you’re blushing, though,” Evie said, poking me in the arm. “Pretty sure of that.”
“This is your bachelorette party,” I said, poking her back. “Shouldn’t we be talking about you?”
“Please.” Evie rolled her eyes. “Everyone has already barged in on, interrupted, overheard, or teased me about my sex life. I think we’re ready for a new topic.”
“Evie’s right,” Lucy said. “We all know Nate’s buttoned up in the streets, uncaged beast in the sheets. And in the closet, the car, the Pussy Queen dressing room—”
“That was one time,” Evie protested.
“And I’m guessing Rose would be much the same,” Lucy mused. “But Scott—”
“Wait, what is going on with Rose?” I said, hoping to deflect some of the attention from me. “How have you not sealed that deal yet?”
“I’m still doing a slow burn on that one,” Lucy said, examining her nails. “When I’m in pursuit, I have a very meticulous strategy that involves specific steps pertaining to revealing every facet of my fabulousness. Now, about Scott—”
“Bull. Shit,” I blurted out.
She arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I . . .” I hesitated. Was I Hurricane Annie-ing all over Evie’s bachelorette party? The words had spilled out before I could stop them, hastened by the cheap, BYOB champagne we’d brought with us. We hadn’t even bothered with glasses, just popped it open and were drinking directly from the paper bag-encased bottle.
But Evie had encouraged me
to embrace my Annie Chang side, right? And Annie Chang definitely had some feelings about Lucy’s avoidance of this situation. I took a swig of champagne and met Lucy’s eyes.
“We’ve established that you like Rose,” I said. “And when you like someone, you usually don’t hesitate to go for it. What’s the hold-up, here? She’s great. You’re great. Why not make your move and become the ass-kicking, justice-enforcing, attractive-to-the-point-of-over-the-top-ridiculousness power couple you’re so clearly meant to be?”
Lucy goggled at me. “You’re one to talk, Aveda Jupiter,” she sputtered. “You waited over a decade to make your move on the guy you’ve wanted to boink since you were a teenager.”
“Not true, they kissed once before all this,” Evie said, waving her chopsticks around.
“What?!” Lucy squeaked.
“Not important to the current situation,” I said hastily.
“Except it sort of is,” Bea said. “Because—”
“Not important to Lucy’s current situation,” I clarified. I turned back to Lucy. “Also, Rose obviously likes you, too—remember that night after Evie’s big karaoke win? She was all up in your business. And why shouldn’t she be? You have the athletic prowess to take down men three times your size, you put together excellent outfits, and you kill at karaoke. What are you afraid of?”
Lucy pressed her lips together and frowned at me. I leaned back in my seat, took a smaller sip of champagne, and tried to calm the nerves telling me that despite all good intentions, my Hurricane nature had probably just ruined Evie’s party. Again.
Lucy blew out a long breath and reached for the champagne bottle. “Give me that, please.”
I passed it to her. She took a long swig, then met my gaze again. “You’re right,” she finally said. “I am extremely fabulous.”
“Hear, hear,” Evie said, squeezing her shoulder.
“And normally when I go after a crush, I turn that all the way up,” Lucy continued. “Shine a freaking spotlight on it. Get them to see the most outrageous, utterly irresistible version of me. But . . .” She paused and took another swig. “Rose is different. I tend to get bored easily. But I never tire of talking to her, spending time with her. The moments we’ve engaged in thoroughly mundane activities—like walking around Pussy Queen, chatting about how the scanner technology works—make me feel all . . . glowy inside.” She wrinkled her nose, as if this was a confusing, alien sensation. “We spend hours texting about nothing, absolutely nothing. And I can’t get enough. I want her to see the me that’s underneath all the fabulousness. The me that sits at home on Saturday night, watching Netflix and cleaning my knife collection.”
“Still pretty fabulous,” Evie said.
“You want someone who truly understands the intricacies involved in polishing a custom-made Damascus fighter blade,” Bea said, swooning a little.
“Not someone,” Lucy corrected. “I want Rose. And I want her to want me—the real me. Who is fabulous. But, like, in a different way. So I’m trying to take the time to show her that. While completely freaking out that she won’t like this version of me as much.”
“I get it,” I said, taking the champagne bottle back from her. “I’m in the process of kind of . . . figuring out the real me. Who is hopefully fabulous.” Under the table, Evie squeezed my hand. “Showing that to someone is probably the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”
Lucy smiled, took the bottle from me, and raised it in a toast. “Amen, sister.”
“Excuse me, would you ladies like anything else?”
We turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered teenager standing over us, smiling genially—Sam, nephew of Curry On’s kindly old owner, who we knew only as Mr. Fujikawa. Mr. Fujikawa had let us have Curry On to ourselves for this special night and was doing all the cooking while Sam handled waiter duties.
“More curry? More rice?” Sam said, cocking his head to the side. His jet-black hair, which had that artfully tousled look that appeared effortless but actually took a lot of work to achieve, fell over his forehead. “Dessert menu?”
“Pleeeeeaaaasse, Sam Fujikawa, we know the only dessert you have here is green tea mochi from Trader Joe’s,” Bea said, with an eye-roll. “Why do you need a whole menu for that?”
“It’s more of a verbal menu,” Sam said, grinning at her and brushing his hair back into place. “Recited by yours truly.”
“Which makes it even less appealing,” Bea said, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re good, thanks.”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his grin turning teasing. “Man, have I missed you shutting me down over the most minute minutiae, Beatrice.”
“Text me,” she said. “I’ll shut you down any time. We don’t even have to be in the same room.”
Evie, Lucy, and I had been following this exchange like spectators at a particularly lively tennis match, our gazes whipping back and forth between Bea and Sam. Evie met my eyes and cocked an eyebrow, and I felt our near-telepathy click into place, both of us thinking the same thing: What’s going on here?
Sam laughed and leaned against the table—he moved with the easy grace and confidence found in star quarterback homecoming king types. “You should come back to school,” he said to Bea. “I’ll let you copy off my homework.”
“As if I would ever need such a thing,” Bea said. “I’m pretty sure you want me to come back so you can copy off my homework.”
“I enjoy healthy competition,” he said. “And if you keep skipping out, I’ll have no competition for valedictorian.”
“I am completing all my coursework at home with permission from my teachers, per section nine, code twelve of the school district rules and regulations handbook,” Bea said primly. “My valedictorian status is in the bag, and you should focus on Battle Royale-ing it out with everyone else for second best.”
“Not a chance,” Sam said. “But here’s another enticement. I’m currently building possibly the most badass engine ever in auto shop, and I know that big, weird brain of yours would be all over checking it out. Can’t do that while you’re ‘completing coursework’ at home.”
Bea looked up, clearly trying to hide the interest sparking in her eyes. “Text me when you get stuck on the build,” she said with an elaborate shrug. “I’ll be happy to offer my superior expertise.”
“Excellent.” He gave her a little nod, his dark eyes dancing with amusement, then turned to the rest of the table. “I’ll bring more curry. And some green tea mochi, just in case you change your minds.”
“I do want green tea mochi,” Evie said, poking Bea in the arm as Sam sauntered off. “Also, what was that next level flirting all about?”
“Not flirting,” Bea said. “Sam is my academic rival, we have a blood feud, and I intend to prevail. Bro-dude gearheads with more muscles than brains do not win valedictorian. Enterprising brainiacs who hold down scientific research-heavy real world jobs while also maintaining perfect GPAs on the other hand . . .” She gestured to herself with her chopsticks, then muttered, “Anyway, he’s annoying.”
Evie and I exchanged a glance. We both knew where “he’s annoying” could lead.
“Back to you, Aveda Jupiter,” Lucy sang out. “You successfully diverted the conversation to me and Rose, but I haven’t forgotten where we started.” She flashed a grin. “As I was saying before, we need to know all about Scott. He’s still a mystery to us when it comes to intimate matters. Well, maybe to just me and Bea, since Evie’s also had the pleasure of—”
“That was hardly a pleasure.” Evie snorted. “We were teenagers, we were drunk, and we have no chemistry in that regard. I’m just as in the dark as the rest of you.”
“He’s so mellow,” Lucy said, steepling her fingers and regarding me keenly. She looked like a Bond supervillain preparing to divulge her master plan. I resisted the urge to squirm. “So chilled out. What’s it like when he gets . . .”
She trailed off and waggled her eyebrows for dramatic effect.
“Totes in the passion zone,” Bea supplied.
My face felt like it was on fire. I took an extra-long swig of champagne. I thought maybe if I drank for long enough, they’d move on to another topic, but everyone was still staring at me expectantly when I set the bottle down. And since we were the only customers in the place, the silence seemed extra thick.
The bubbles from the champagne swirled through my head, making me feel lighter and loosening my tongue. My face was even hotter now, my blush intensified by my alcohol-induced Asian Flush.
“Well,” I said slowly. “In the past, sex has been a very distancing experience for me. Mechanical. And I know my body very well, so I usually had to provide some instruction. Which tended not to go over very well.”
The words tumbled out, unvarnished, and I hesitated, my face still flaming.
“It’s important to voice your needs in that department when someone isn’t getting the job done,” Lucy sniffed. “I practically had to draw a diagram for the last girl I was with.”
“Remember Richard?” Evie said, naming the pretentious professor she’d dated years ago. “He never gave me an orgasm. Not one. And I never said anything because I assumed there was something wrong with me.”
“Maybe if you had said something, you wouldn’t have gotten so pissed and burned down the library when you caught him cheating,” Bea chimed in. “So much pent-up frustration.”
Everyone murmured in agreement and turned back to me. I opened my mouth, closed it. They actually seemed . . . interested? Encouraging, even? I hadn’t been expecting that. Feeling emboldened, I took another hefty swig of champagne.
“Well, you know how he usually has to make a joke out of everything,” I said. “But when it comes to us being together, he’s actually very serious. I would even say intense. Like what’s happening between us is the most important thing in the world and I’m the most important thing in the world and he’s letting me see this private side he never shows anyone else and . . .” I knew my face was beyond Asian Flush now. I probably looked like a tomato. “ . . . in that moment, he really sees me. I mean, all of me. Not just the naked parts.”