Flying the Dragon

by Natalie Dias Lorenzi

  As she approached her teacher’s desk, she tried to read Kumamoto Sensei’s expression. Skye always knew when Mrs. Garcia was mad or proud or tired. But Kumamoto Sensei’s face gave away nothing. She removed her glasses and Skye looked at the floor.

  “Tsuki-san, you have improved tremendously in recent weeks. I applaud your efforts.”

  Skye looked up cautiously, wondering if Kumamoto Sensei was joking. But her teacher’s eyes looked sincere. “Thank you.” Skye smiled. “I will be ready for the exams next week, Kumamoto Sensei.”

  Her teacher nodded. “Use your time wisely this week, Tsuki-san.

  You must pass each exam with an almost perfect score in order to move into the advanced class for the next term.”

  Almost perfect? Skye’s smile faded. Scaling Mount Fuji would have been easier than getting almost perfect exam scores.

  “Your conversational skills are excellent, but you must pay close attention—especially in grammar and writing.” Her usual stony glare had disappeared, replaced by sympathy that somehow made Skye feel worse. Kumamoto Sensei leaned against her desk and clasped her hands in front of her. “I see great potential in you.”

  “In me?” Skye looked behind her. Maybe Maya the Perfect had crept back into the room.

  “Yes, in you.”

  “But … but I am the worst one in the class.”

  “You are the only one of my students who was not raised in Japan, Tsuki-san. It is natural to be less familiar with vocabulary and rules of grammar.”

  Skye would never have guessed that her teacher actually thought she might be good at Japanese. “I will study hard this week, Sensei.”

  Kumamoto Sensei nodded before returning to the chair behind her desk. Skye retrieved her o-bento box and headed for the door.

  “Tsuki-san,” her teacher called.

  Skye paused at the door. “Hai?“

  “Do not study hard this week.”

  What? Skye’s shoulders sagged. Kumamoto Sensei must have thought there was no use in even trying to pass. Or at least with almost perfect scores.

  “The exams are important, and of course you must study. But not only this week.” Kumamoto Sensei’s voice seemed to echo in the empty classroom. “Become a lifelong learner of your language.”

  My language? Skye looked at her teacher, who had already gone back to grading papers. “Hai, Sensei,” Skye said, and slipped out the door to join her class.

  She popped off the lid of her o-bento box and slid the chopsticks from their case. Now that her dad had rediscovered his Japanese cooking side, her food looked like all the others’. Skye listened to the perfect Japanese all around her. Sure, her grammar had improved, thanks to Hiroshi. And if she ever went to Japan, maybe she could pass as a native speaker in the first few words of a conversation. But if she had to talk about anything too complicated, she’d be sunk.

  She never felt like a tongue-tied imposter when she spoke with Grandfather, though. He always seemed to see straight into the heart of whatever she was trying to say. Skye wanted to show Grandfather that she was good at Japanese, that it mattered to her. That he mattered to her.

  She snuck a glance at Maya the Chopstick Expert, who was sitting next to her, chatting with the others in between bites. This was Skye’s chance to practice. To get better. Maybe learn a word or two that she could use during the kite-flying lessons.

  Skye took a breath. “What did your mom pack in your box today?” she asked. What a stupid question, Skye chided herself. Everyone’s o-bento box was open—it’s not like the contents were a secret or anything.

  Maya paused, her chopsticks poised midair, looking as if Skye had just spoken in Arabic. Maybe Skye should have kept her big mouth shut and left Japanese to the Japanese kids. Maya swallowed her bite of sushi and washed it down with cold green tea. Then she grimaced and leaned toward Skye. In a hushed voice she said, “If I have to eat any more of my mother’s sushi rolls, I think I’ll throw up.”

  Skye’s dumpling slipped from her chopsticks and plopped back into the o-bento box. She turned to Maya. “Really? I thought you liked them. I do.”

  Maya shrugged. “They’re okay. But my mom never makes anything American.” Maya looked up and down the table, then lowered her voice again. “The problem is, no one here has anything good to trade. Like a bologna sandwich with mayo and lettuce.”

  Skye laughed. “Maya the Bologna-Sandwich Eater. I never would have guessed.”

  Maya’s eyes opened wide and she grinned. “I love bologna. But my mom doesn’t.”

  Skye chewed on a dumpling and thought about what Maya had said. She liked most of the stuff her dad made, but not all of it. She didn’t like all of her mom’s recipes, either—especially meat loaf.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Skye said. “Next Saturday I’ll bring you a bologna sandwich. Mayo and lettuce, right?”

  Maya smiled. “And I’ll bring you one of my mom’s eho-maki. I’ll need some good-fortune rolls for my exam.”

  Skye doubted Maya needed any luck. “Just in case,” Skye added, “I’ll use the lucky bologna for our sandwiches.” Maya laughed.

  Skye realized that they’d been speaking in Japanese the whole time, and she hadn’t even thought of grammar once. She hadn’t needed to search her brain for a single Japanese word. In soccer, every move came naturally to Skye. With Japanese, nothing felt natural. Until now. Maybe her Japanese wasn’t perfect, but it felt like it was becoming a part of her—a part that she’d never realized was missing.

  28

  Hiroshi

  Hiroshi scanned the skies for the runaway dragon. This was all his fault. If anything happened to the dragon, it would take forever to make another one. And Grandfather didn’t have forever.

  “There!” Ravi pointed. The dragon was making its way toward a grove of pine trees at the edge of the park, dragging the line and the reel behind it.

  “I’ll get it!” Hiroshi sprinted down the hill, gaining momentum and pumping his legs until they burned. He had to get that kite.

  When he caught up with the reel, it skittered and bounced along the ground just ahead of him. He tried to bend over and catch it, but the kite teased him, keeping the reel just out of his reach. The only way he could stop it now was to step on the line that slithered through the grass. He leaped—one leg stretched in front and the other trailing behind. He pounced, then felt the line grow taut under his sneaker as the runaway kite was jerked back.

  “I’ve got you!” Hiroshi grabbed the reel. But when he turned his attention skyward, his eyes grew wide. “No!”

  The dragon had flipped upside down and was diving fast—too fast. Hiroshi let out some line, willing the kite to climb back up. It found a pillow of wind, wobbled, and then righted itself. But it still hung too low, hovering above the road—and a steady stream of traffic. He pulled in some line, and the dragon rose a few feet—still not enough. His hands tingled with the effort of being patient; he wanted to reel in the line all at once and snatch the kite out of the sky. But if he didn’t call the dragon back little by little, it might torpedo right into the traffic.

  “Hiroshi!” Carlos’s footsteps pounded up behind him. “Hey, cool kite.”

  “Thank you.” Hiroshi kept his eyes trained on the dragon.

  Carlos fell into step next to Hiroshi. “Ravi’s bringing your grandfather over here.” Hiroshi turned to see Ravi making his way down the path, guiding the wheelchair.

  Bilal arrived next, out of breath “Is it gonna fall?”

  Hiroshi reeled in a few more feet of line.

  “Nah, it’s going up—look at it!” Carlos pointed.

  “Do you need help?” Bilal asked. “I’ve flown kites before, you know—me and my brother.”

  “Thanks.” Hiroshi handed him the reel without taking his eyes off the kite. “Roll up the extra line. Don’t let go.”

  Hiroshi took the line. Without the reel it was much easier to guide the kite now. The dragon drifted up and away from the traffic, but now Hiroshi h
ad to coax it away from the grove of pine trees. If he could tempt the dragon into following a wide arc, he could bring it down without tangling the line in the trees. But the wind picked up, pushing the dragon closer and closer toward the pines.

  Hiroshi hadn’t realized Grandfather was there beside him until he heard his voice. “What do you think?”

  Hiroshi glanced at Grandfather. “What do I think? I don’t know!” He couldn’t keep the panic out of his words. “Help me get it down!”

  “You know how to get it down, Hiroshi.”

  “No, I don’t!” He offered the line to Grandfather, but Grandfather gently pushed Hiroshi’s hands away.

  “Look at the clouds. What do they tell you?”

  As the kite drifted east, Hiroshi watched the clouds above it being carried west. “The wind changes direction higher up.” Hiroshi allowed himself to hope.

  “More line,” he said, and Bilal unwound the reel. The kite climbed higher until it caught the westward wind. The dragon turned and chased after the clouds, leaving the trees behind.

  “Well done, Hiroshi,” Grandfather said.

  “Man, that was awesome!” Carlos slapped Hiroshi on the back.

  “Hey—look!” Bilal pointed. “It’s going back out over the road.”

  Hiroshi spotted an open field on the other side of the street. “I can take it down over there, Grandfather. We need to cross the street.”

  “What now?” Ravi asked.

  Hiroshi switched to English and pointed to the field. “I am going there. No trees.”

  “We’ll help you.” Carlos waved them toward the crosswalk.

  Hiroshi nodded. “Ravi, can you—”

  But Ravi was already gripping the handles of Grandfather’s wheelchair. “I follow you.” Ravi nodded.

  Carlos crossed to the middle of the road and held up his hands. Cars from both directions came to a stop as Hiroshi stepped off the curb, eyes on the dragon. The kite flapped and dipped and followed Hiroshi across the street. Bilal trailed behind holding the reel, followed by Ravi and Grandfather.

  When Hiroshi reached the curb, he stepped up and then pivoted, walking backward until he felt the pavement give way to spongy grass beneath his sneakers. As he pulled in the kite a few inches at a time, Bilal kept pace by winding up the extra line.

  “Here it comes!” Carlos said.

  “Where’d you get that kite?” Bilal asked.

  “I made it.” Hiroshi relaxed his shoulders—the dragon seemed to have given up the fight. “I made it, and my grandfather—he painted the dragon.” The boys swung their heads in Grandfather’s direction.

  “Wow,” Bilal said. “Cool.”

  Hiroshi lured the kite lower and lower until he could see the pout in the dragon’s eyes. But before he could pluck it from the air, a river of wind swept the dragon to the left and spun it around. Disoriented, the dragon headed straight for the ground.

  “It’s going to crash!” Carlos yelled.

  “I got it!” Ravi ran directly underneath the kite, holding his arms out.

  “No, Ravi!” Hiroshi shouted. But he was too late.

  Ravi lunged for the kite when it was just a few feet above the ground and grabbed one of the bamboo ribs. Ravi fell in an arc, his free arm waving in a circle. He landed with a thud, right on top of the dragon. They all heard the crunching and cracking of the bamboo ribs.

  Hiroshi dropped his line and raced over.

  Ravi rolled off the kite and stared at it like he wasn’t sure how it got there. “I am so sorry.”

  Hiroshi ran his fingers over the kite, as if his light touch might hurt the dragon.

  “Oh, man,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

  “It’s not his fault, Hiroshi.” Grandfather spoke softly, even though Hiroshi was the only one who understood his Japanese words. “He tried his best to save the kite.”

  “But now we can’t fly it in the kite battle. And it’s just a little over two weeks away.”

  “You can make a new kite, Hiroshi. You have time.”

  “Can you paint another dragon?”

  “First build the kite, and then we’ll worry about the design.”

  Bilal handed the reel to Hiroshi. “Man, sorry about your kite.”

  Hiroshi nodded, biting his lip. He took the kite from Ravi, who looked horrified. “Thank you for trying, Ravi.”

  Ravi shook his head. “I am sorry.”

  “It was not your fault.”

  Ravi shrugged, then opened his eyes wide. “I will help you make a new kite.”

  Hiroshi nodded. “Thank you.”

  But he didn’t want Ravi’s help. Grandfather was his only kite-making partner.

  “It is time to go now, Hiroshi.” Grandfather’s eyelids were drooping, and Hiroshi realized he had to get him home. The boys said good-bye and headed back toward the park.

  By the time they reached home, Grandfather had fallen asleep again. The dragon lay in his lap, defeated. Hiroshi knew it would never fly again.

  29

  Skye

  Skye followed behind Hiroshi as he pushed Grandfather’s wheelchair through the crowd at the Cherry Blossom Festival. Grandfather pointed to something near the street vendors, and Hiroshi laughed. Even if she had been close enough to hear what they were saying and knew all the words they spoke, she probably wouldn’t have understood. Their language wasn’t just words; it was shared memories. Memories that she would never know. She heard her dad talking with Hiroshi’s parents a few steps behind her—more memories of Japan.

  Enough. Skye was tired of feeling left out. She tapped Hiroshi’s shoulder. “Can I have a turn now?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind pushing.” Hiroshi threw the words over his shoulder without even turning around. “I am not tired yet.”

  Skye slowed her step, then caught up with him again. “Really, I don’t mind,” she said through gritted teeth. She gripped one of the handles, leaving Hiroshi holding the other.

  “Hey,” Hiroshi said. “I’ve only been pushing for a little bit.”

  “A little bit?” She checked her watch. “You’ve had a turn for nineteen whole minutes!”

  Grandfather glanced back and looked surprised to see them side by side. “I’m glad you decided to work together.” He smiled and turned back around.

  Skye and Hiroshi narrowed their eyes at each other.

  “You’ll need that kind of cooperation on the day of the kite battle,” Grandfather said.

  Skye and Hiroshi pushed the chair in silence through the grilled smell of yakitori, the sound of Japanese spoken by strangers, and women wrapped in flowered silk kimonos. Skye could be enjoying all of this if it weren’t for Hiroshi the Wheelchair Hog.

  Finally Grandfather broke the silence. “Hiroshi could use an extra set of hands if the new kite is to be ready in time.”

  Skye saw Hiroshi stiffen. “I bet my dad would help,” Skye said. “I can ask him.”

  Grandfather glanced back at her and smiled. “I was thinking of you, Sorano-chan.”

  “Me? But I’ve never built a kite before. My dad would be much better at it.”

  There was no way she was going to be Hiroshi’s kite-building assistant. She didn’t even know if she’d survive being his kite-battle assistant. He’d probably boss her around, tell her where to go, when to roll up the line, when to let it out. And then if they didn’t win, he’d blame her. But she could never tell Grandfather that.

  “Everyone must begin somewhere, Sorano-chan.” Grandfather turned and looked at Hiroshi. “You can build the kite, of course, but it would be good for Sorano to watch. One day she will be a great help to you.” When Hiroshi nodded, Grandfather smiled and faced front again.

  Hiroshi stepped back, leaving the handle free for Skye. She took both handles and kept walking. Good. It was her turn, anyway. She knew Hiroshi must be mad at her—again. But it wasn’t her fault that Grandfather wanted to include her. Later she’d tell Hiroshi that he could build his own stupid kite. And she’d be his assistan
t in the kite battle, but only because she’d promised Grandfather. Then she’d leave Hiroshi alone, like he wanted.

  Skye shook her head. She wasn’t about to let Hiroshi ruin this day. “Grandfather?” she said. “Can you tell another story about Grandmother?”

  He turned and smiled. “I would be honored. Why don’t we pull over and you can take a rest?”

  Skye spotted a bench up ahead. “How about there?”

  “That would be perfect,” Grandfather said.

  Hiroshi went to tell his parents they were stopping, then came jogging over. He pointed at a drink stand across the street. “They’re going to get extra water, so we can wait here.” Skye’s mom waved from the stand and Skye waved back.

  “Well, then,” Grandfather said. “For today’s story, I’ve chosen one that even Hiroshi has not heard. But the time has come to share it.” Skye settled on the bench as far from Hiroshi as possible, with Grandfather facing them both.

  “When I was a young boy growing up in my village,” he began, “I spent all my free time with a kite string in my hand. The wind was my teacher, and I paid attention to its lessons. It taught me to be both a better kite maker and rokkaku flier.

  “One girl from the village named Mariko saw me making a kite one day and asked if I would teach her how to make one. I agreed, and she proved to be a quick study. She was precise and patient in her work, essential qualities for a kite maker. Before long, I could not tell the difference between her kites and my own.

  “She might have felt pride in her new skill, but she was restless. She wanted me to teach her how to fly the kites. Not just for play, mind you. She wanted to become a kite fighter.

  “At first I laughed: why would she want to learn a boy’s game? But she didn’t smile. Instead she asked, ‘What brings more pleasure—kite fighting or learning the proper way to pour tea?’

  “That settled that. The next day we went up on the hill for her first flying lesson. Before we launched the kite, I spoke many words about wind direction, speed, and the will of a kite. After a few minutes of this, she said, ‘Enough. I want to fly.’