Sumi's Book

by Jan Bozarth

  Praise for Kerka’s Book

  “This sparkling combination of action and magic is bound to enchant.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Excellent.… The writing is refreshingly well done and weaves together the author’s knowledge of art, folklore, and botany to paint a magical world where readers’ senses are piqued by the likes of stone fairies, cave anemones, and a queen named Patchouli.”

  —SLJ

  “Great for girls who love fairies and magical worlds.”

  —KidzWorld.com

  Praise for Birdie’s Book

  “Bozarth’s tale is a beguiling mix of magic, adventure and eco-awareness, and her message of girl-power and positive change will resonate with tween readers.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A fun, light read that ought to be a hit with girls who like adventure and magic.”

  —Books for Kids (blog)

  “Bozarth has taken the best aspects of various young adult genres and mixed them together in a fresh and optimistic way.”

  —Kidsreads.com

  The Fairy Godmother Academy

  Birdie’s Book

  Kerka’s Book

  Zally’s Book

  Lilu’s Book

  Sumi’s Book

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by FGA Media Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  “A Little Piece of Sky” copyright © 2003 by Blue Arrow Inc.

  Visit us on the Web!

  randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at randomhouse.com/teachers

  Visit FairyGodmotherAcademy.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bozarth, Jan.

  Sumi’s book / Jan Bozarth. — 1st Yearling ed.

  p. cm. — (The Fairy Godmother Academy ; bk. 5)

  Summary: When Sumi Hara finds her family’s magical hand-mirror talisman, she dreams her way to the enchanted land of Aventurine where, as a fairy-godmother-in-training, she discovers her individual power with the help of her handsome guide, Kano.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89605-7

  [1. Fairy godmothers—Fiction. 2. Fairies—Fiction. 3. Magic—Fiction. 4. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 5. Japanese Americans—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.B6974Sum 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010047797

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  To all the beautiful girls in my life:

  Bella, Kailey, Andrea, Cameron,

  Marie, Tara, Angela, Lurleen,

  Meredith, Dee, Sherry, and Jesyca

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Discovering the Seams

  1. Hidden Treasures

  2. Fairy Tales and Tea

  Part Two: Unraveling

  3. Shifting Dreams

  4. Piece of Cake

  5. Slither and Puff

  6. A Tantalizing Trap

  7. Plant Tricks and Fish Treats

  8. Rocky Road and House Hunters

  9. The Junkyard

  10. Bristolmeir

  11. Reflections of Evil

  Part Three: Sewing It Up

  12. Takara’s Truth

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part One

  Discovering the Seams

  1

  Hidden Treasures

  Mystic Moments was the exact opposite of the designer-label clothing boutiques I wanted to check out. The store sold antiques from around the world. I didn’t shop at stuffy, old places unless my mother dragged me, which she did—often.

  Short and trim with a touch of gray in her straight black shoulder-length hair, Osen Hara is an expert in Asian art and antiquities. She finds artifacts, authenticates them, and displays them in galleries and museums. She can’t resist the lure of forgotten relics waiting to be rescued from obscurity. She saw Mystic Moments on her way to an appointment to select Japanese kitchenware for our new apartment. She insisted on taking me along when she went back.

  We’d been in New York for three weeks now, and would be on our own until my father arrived from Japan in a week to start his new job. For now, she just had me.

  Even though I didn’t share Okasan’s affection for worn-out, obsolete junk, I didn’t resist. I just lagged behind as we climbed the stone steps so she wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.

  As we stepped through the heavy wooden doors into the dimly lit store, my mother paused and glanced around with an appreciative smile.

  I wrinkled my nose and tried not to sneeze.

  The aisles were cluttered with barrels, large objects, and display racks. Baskets full of merchandise sat on wooden counters, and shelves were crammed with books, folded clothes, and knickknacks. Scratchy classical music played softly in the background.

  “Isn’t this charming, Sumi?” my mother asked. She spoke English fluently—our family had agreed to speak only English during our first year in New York. We were all pretty good at it already thanks to English classes in Japan, but my parents insisted on my being completely fluent as quickly as possible.

  “It smells funny, Okasan,” I whispered, convinced that the musty odor was laced with toxic mold.

  Okasan breathed in deeply. “Leather and lavender with a touch of silver polish,” she said.

  The elderly woman behind a glass jewelry case looked up. She smiled and raised a silver candlestick. “I just finished cleaning it.”

  “What an interesting piece.” Okasan stepped closer to examine the candlestick.

  “It’s a fabulous example of a colonial silversmith’s work.” The woman turned the candlestick upside down and handed it to my mother. “It has a family mark on the bottom.”

  “Is that the artisan’s signature?” Okasan asked.

  “No, it signifies ownership,” the clerk explained. “Most early American towns didn’t have banks. So instead of hiding their money, rich people turned their coins into silver objects. When stolen pieces were recovered, the owner could identify his property by the mark.”

  “Who owned the candlestick?” Okasan asked.

  The clerk sighed. “Unfortunately, that information was lost long ago.”

  The music stopped, but the scratchy sound continued.

  “What’s that noise?” I asked.

  My mother stiffened slightly.

  The woman peered at me over the rim of her glasses, like a disapproving teacher. “That noise is called Sea Drift by Delius. It was recorded in 1929.”

  A few awkward seconds passed before I realized my goof. “The music was fine,” I said. “I meant the noise now.”

  “Oh!” The clerk turned toward a large wooden cabinet with a raised lid. She lifted a brass disk that was connected to a brass arm, and the scratchy sound stopped. When she lowered the disk, the music started over from the beginning.

  Okasan added a compliment to help smooth things over. “Your gramophone works remarkably well.”

  “It was made in 1917. It only plays records that were produced before World War Two.” The woman held up a black record with a grooved surface. “The old needle is too thick for the groove
s on more recent seventy-eights.”

  Okasan noticed my perplexed look. “Records that play at seventy-eight revolutions per minute,” she explained. “Hi-fis and stereos were introduced in the fifties and sixties. They played forty-fives and thirty-threes.”

  “Now it’s MP3s,” the clerk said with a sigh. When the music began to drag, she grabbed a metal handle on the side of the gramophone and turned it. “No electricity or batteries required. You just crank it up.”

  “But you can’t carry that music with you.” I palmed the tiny MP3 player in my pocket. I was glad I lived now and not way back then.

  “That’s quite true,” the clerk said.

  My mother changed the subject before I insulted the woman again. “Do you know how old the candlestick is, exactly?”

  “No, but it dates back to colonial times,” the clerk said. “Maybe a little before. It’s very old.”

  “Yes, it is,” Okasan said with a reverent nod.

  She was being diplomatic. The definition of “very old” is much different in America than it is in Japan. The Pilgrims landed in the New World in 1620, and the United States has only been a country since 1776. Kyoto, the city where I grew up, became the imperial capital of Japan in 794. Combs, pottery, and weapons dating back to 11,000 BC have been found in the Japanese islands. That’s old.

  “It would be an honor to have a genuine piece of this country’s history,” my mother said. She rolled the silver candlestick in her hands.

  I recognized the signs of an impulse purchase. I do the same thing with clothes, and sometimes I really hate the things I buy as soon as I get home. Okasan can’t always stop me from making costly mistakes, but I might be able to keep her from making one.

  “The stem isn’t straight,” I said, “and the pattern is kind of off.”

  “It’s handcrafted,” the clerk pointed out. “Colonial methods weren’t exact.”

  “The imperfections are what make this piece so precious,” Okasan said.

  I persisted. “It doesn’t match our Japanese furniture.”

  Okasan gave me a pointed look. “Art does not have to match the decor.”

  I gave up. Why press an argument I couldn’t win?

  My mother is the essence of wabi-sabi, a perception of life and the world that Japanese culture has embraced for centuries. She sees something beautiful about everything, even if it’s very old, very gross, or very ugly. Sometimes I wonder if her love of flaws has anything to do with the crescent-shaped scar on her face. I don’t know what I would do if my cheek were scarred like that. I would probably point out the good in imperfections, too. But I’ve never asked her about the scar. People get insulted really easily about their looks, and I don’t want to make her feel bad.

  Okasan gave the candlestick back to the clerk. “Will you hold this while we look around?”

  “Of course!” The woman smiled and set the piece by a large antique cash register.

  My mother began a methodical exploration of the aisles. “If you find anything you like, Sumi, consider it an early birthday present.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but I wasn’t hopeful about finding anything. I was turning thirteen in two weeks, and I had my eye on some killer heels that my mom would never have let me wear in Japan. I was hoping that in the next few weeks she would realize that the fashion in New York City was a lot less conservative than back home.

  I wandered past wood and metal toys, jars of dried herbs and spices, sewing notions, books, and bins of weird household utensils. A display of old dress patterns caught my eye, but I didn’t stop to look. I’d just spotted clothing racks in the back corner of the store where I might be able to discover some vintage designer pieces.

  I’m passionate about fashion, and someday I’ll be a famous designer. There’s no doubt in my mind. I wear the latest styles, and I’m not afraid to make alterations and add my own touches. I’ve even started a few trends. One day, I wore mismatched kneesocks with a skirt that was part of my old school’s uniform. I liked the funky look. Soon all the girls were wearing mismatched kneesocks—it was suddenly lame to match—just because I’d started wearing them.

  I’m tall and slim, so I look great in clothes—especially a Japanese kimono, which Okasan and I wear to weddings and other traditional events. We don’t do it very often. Kimonos are so complicated, my mother has to hire a professional to help us dress.

  Obviously, we wouldn’t be wearing kimonos in New York. I needed new pieces for my wardrobe immediately.

  I pulled a gray pleated skirt off a rack and then put it back. It was much too bland for my taste. I didn’t know what the students at the Girls’ International School of Manhattan usually wore, but it didn’t matter. I had already chosen my outfit for the first day: a shocking pink sweater with a black skirt, black tights, and ankle boots. Some kids like to blend into the background until they figure out who’s who and what’s what in a new school. I like to stand out.

  A glint of light reflected off a full-length mirror on the wall, drawing my gaze. I wrinkled my nose at my image. I had worn tailored tan pants and a basic white blouse to please my mother. Even my long, shiny black hair looked plain without a beaded headband or sparkling barrettes, but I didn’t let the dull look dampen my mood. I was still pretty with large oval eyes and a flawless complexion.

  “Do you need help?” the clerk asked, coming over to stand by me.

  “No, thank you. I’m having fun looking.” I took a white dress off a rack and gasped. “This is gorgeous!”

  “It was hand sewn in the twenties,” the woman said.

  I touched the fabric with awed amazement. The white silk tulle was heavily embroidered. The short sleeves and knee-length hem were made of knotted lace. With a scooped neck and empire waist, the dress was as perfect for an afternoon in the twenty-first century as it had been almost a hundred years ago.

  And it looked like my size!

  “Would you like to try it on?” the clerk asked.

  “Absolutely!” I grinned as I stepped into the curtained fitting room, then looked out again. “Do you have shoes to go with it? I’m a six.”

  The woman left and returned with a pair of rose-colored T-strap pumps with a thick three-inch heel. The dress seemed to fit, but I stepped out to look in the full-length mirror. “What do you think?” I asked, but I was just being polite. I didn’t care what she thought. I’m very particular about everything I wear. If I don’t like what I see, I don’t waste my time.

  “That dress was made for you,” the clerk said.

  I twirled in front of the mirror and then stopped to shift my weight from one side to the other with a hand on my hip. This dress might be perfect for my profile picture. I turned my back to the glass, twisted, and glanced over my shoulder to the left and the right. The dress flowed with my movements beautifully.

  “It’s perfect,” the saleswoman added.

  “Almost,” I said. “If I had a beaded bag, then it would be perfect.”

  “You’ll find bags and accessories over there.” She pointed toward shelves and a table of bins.

  I changed back into my boring shopping outfit, gave the new outfit to the clerk, and hurried toward the shelves.

  Several hats were on display. Some sat at perky angles on faceless plastic heads. All the price tags included a date. A few of the styles were too clunky for my small frame, and most of the colors were too gaudy or drab.

  I picked up a bell-shaped cloche from the mid-twenties. The hat and narrow brim were covered in eggshell-white lace. The cloth flowers attached to one side had faded to a pretty shade of pink. It wasn’t too big or too snug and looked fantastic on my black hair. I wouldn’t wear it with the old-fashioned dress—that would be too matchy-matchy—but it would look great with jeans and a simple white top.

  I set the cloche aside to look at bags, which didn’t have a special place on the shelves or in the bins. Everything was jumbled together, and I had to sort through scarves, combs, brushes, coin purses, brooches, and d
ozens of other items. Taking care not to damage anything, I tackled the search with an enthusiasm that reminded me of Okasan when she unpacks artifacts from an archaeological dig.

  There weren’t any beaded bags in the first bin, but I found a blue rhinestone butterfly brooch. I would have adored it when I was six.

  When I moved the top layer of scarves and handkerchiefs in the second bin, I finally found a scalloped beaded evening bag, but its chain strap was buried under a wooden box. Being careful not to snag the chain on anything, I lifted the box. It was heavier than I expected. Dust and grime had settled into the crevices of the bird, flower, and leaf design carved into the wood. The lid was held in place by tarnished metal hinges and a matching clasp. I opened the box, expecting to find small trays and compartments, but was surprised.

  The bottom was lined with padded silk, which, over time, had formfitted around a brass hand mirror. The embossed leafy vines on the handle and the elegant bird, flower, and leaf design on the back matched the carving on the box. However, the mirror glass was missing, making it interesting but completely useless. I put the mirror back in its silk nest and closed the lid.

  But despite my loathing for dirty, broken old things, something about the box and hand mirror kept me from putting them back in the bin. I’ve learned a lot about ancient Asian artifacts from my mother. I was almost certain that the box and hand mirror were very old by Japanese standards, not American. The mirror made me think of Amaterasu, the Japanese Shinto sun goddess. Her story had been my childhood favorite, and Okasan had never tired of telling the myth over and over again.

  Okasan used to say that Amaterasu was so beautiful and bright, her father made her the ruler of the heavens. This made her brother, Susanoo, the storm god, very angry. Susanoo battered the earth with hard rains and deafening thunder that drove his shining sister into a cave. Fearing her brother’s wrath, Amaterasu blocked the entrance of the cave with a giant rock and sealed herself inside.