My Almost Flawless Tokyo Dream Life

by Rachel Cohn

  “I never backed on,” he answered, but not angrily, just matter-of-factly. Imogen didn’t seem to get under his skin at all. He moved his rear end closer to where Imogen sat at the side of the table, and he let one rip in her direction.

  The fart was disgusting, but I couldn’t help laughing.

  “You’re the worst,” Imogen told him.

  “Go zai mas,” Ryuu said.

  Jim silenced the classroom to begin class. As he started to lecture, I looked at my own class schedule for the first time, which Chloe Lehrer had given me earlier that morning. I had Swimming for Personal Fitness class, then Algebra 2 with Trigonometry, Spanish (which I’d taken back in Maryland), Marine Science, English 11, a study hall period, and Visual Arts. My schedule had no advanced placement classes on it. Imogen’s classes were almost all AP classes. I knew I’d been given an easier class load to help me acclimate to my new country, but I didn’t want to be in the slower classes forever. I was going to work my ass off here.

  Then I glanced down at the AP Environmental Science syllabus and almost immediately scaled back my competitive ambitions. The amount of work required in this class was huge! It also might have been written in Latin or Japanese for all that I understood half the words used in it. My eyes circled the room, inspecting all the students. Nobody seemed bored or distracted on their phones. They seemed to be dutifully paying attention, like they were actually interested in what Jim was saying. The energy was completely different from any classroom I’d experienced in Maryland.

  Class was only five minutes in, and already I felt tired. How could I ever catch up here? Was I overwhelmed or was it jet lag or both?

  My mind felt fogged, and my body heavy and exhausted. I let my eyes close for a moment’s relief but almost immediately felt myself listing to the side. I shook myself awake, but I couldn’t fight the fatigue onslaught.

  Within minutes, I fell asleep on Ryuu Kimura’s shoulder.

  “I am not joking!” Imogen exclaimed to the Ex-Brats during lunch. “Sweet Elle fell asleep directly on Ryuu Kimura!”

  Jhanvi and Ntombi could not stop laughing. I didn’t know if their laughter was because they pitied me or just thought the situation was genuinely funny. I did not think it was funny. I could not be more embarrassed.

  “What did he do?” Jhanvi asked.

  “He just let her sleep!” said Imogen. “She was probably out for ten minutes before Jim came over and gently tapped her awake.”

  “Why didn’t you wake her?” Ntombi asked Imogen. (Exactly! I thought.)

  Imogen said, “She looked so cute and content, I couldn’t. Also, I loved watching Ryuu squirm, trying to figure out what to do.”

  “I’m so mortified,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” said Imogen. “Everyone here is jet-lagged at school at some point. People fall asleep at their desks all the time.”

  “Just not usually on Ryuu Kimura’s shoulder,” said Jhanvi, still laughing as Ntombi made a yuck face.

  What I found funny was that I was sitting at the popular girls’ regular table on the outdoor patio like it was no big deal and happened all the time. By virtue of being Imogen’s charge, New Elle was insta-popular, and when I really thought about it, that kind of made up for falling asleep on Ryuu Kimura’s shoulder.

  Ntombi, who’d only been half-paying attention to Imogen’s story while she texted on her phone, suddenly squealed. “Luke’s parents are coming to Tokyo this weekend, and he convinced them to bring him along!” Her wrists were covered in bangle bracelets, and between those and the beads at the ends of her cornrowed hair, every time she moved, there was a subtle chorus of mesmerizing clicking.

  Imogen told me, “Ntombi’s mom is Namibian ambassador to Japan, but she used to be ambassador to Korea. Ntombi’s boyfriend, Luke, goes to ICS-Seoul. Ntombi used to go there till last year.” She turned to Ntombi. “Are you gonna be one of those girls who forgets her friends when her boyfriend’s in town?”

  “I sure am,” said Ntombi, smiling and returning to her texting.

  “We have a field hockey game this weekend against the British International School,” Jhanvi reminded her. “You’re not going to miss that, right?”

  Ntombi shrugged. “Might!”

  “Not cool,” said Jhanvi.

  “You’re the one who cares about field hockey, not me,” Ntombi told her.

  Jhanvi said, “Ugh, it’s São Paolo all over again. We were on track to win the championship until our team captain started dating some minor league soccer star.”

  “Was São Paulo totally boy crazy?” I asked Jhanvi.

  Jhanvi’s face looked confused. “São Paulo’s a place, not a person.”

  “Right,” I said, like, I knew that. “When’d you live there?”

  “Before Lisbon but after Beirut.”

  “Wow, you’ve lived in a lot of places! Are your parents in the military?”

  Jhanvi scoffed but I couldn’t imagine why anybody would be offended by the suggestion that their parents served in the armed forces; seemed like an honorable job to me. “Hardly. My dad’s an engineer. He doesn’t enlist. Major companies enlist him. He builds skyscrapers. Once a new one is finished, we move on to the next city. But I don’t care when the new Tokyo building is finished, I’m staying here. Tokyo is the best.”

  “You can live at my house,” Imogen told her.

  “Thanks, Joushi,” Jhanvi said. “I love you so much, even if you refuse to play on the field hockey team.”

  Imogen said, “My weekends are saved for my karate trainer. Field hockey sticks are too primal for me.”

  Ntombi said, “Joushi should have taken Arabella’s place on the team when she returned to Bolivia. We need her aggression.”

  “Who’s Joushi?” I asked, looking around to see if someone new had joined our table.

  Ntombi didn’t look up from her texting, but she pointed at Imogen and said, “It means boss in Japanese.”

  “Where are you from?” Jhanvi asked me.

  “Washington, DC,” I said, which sounded worldlier than Maryland.

  “Most boring city in the world,” said Jhanvi. “But the best American high school field hockey teams are from Maryland.” I should have just said I was from Maryland.

  “Did you go to ICS-Washington?” Ntombi asked.

  I shook my head.

  Jhanvi asked, “Sidwell? Georgetown Day? Holton Arms? I have a field hockey friend from São Paolo who transferred there.”

  If they had verifiable friends at those schools, I wasn’t going to lie about the school I’d gone to. I said, “I went to Temple Park . . . Prep School.” So maybe I fudged Temple Park High School a little to sound fancier than it was.

  “Never heard of it. What brought you here?” Jhanvi asked.

  “I came to live with my father. He owns this place here called Tak-Luxxe.”

  Finally . . . finally . . . it was like I’d said something right. There was a look on their faces, like I was one of them. “Not too shabby,” said Jhanvi. “My father says it’s one of the best-constructed new buildings in Tokyo.”

  “I’ve eaten at one of the restaurants at Tak-Luxxe,” said Ntombi. “The views up there are sick.”

  Imogen said, “We could probably throw amazing parties at Tak-Luxxe. I’m taking a vote to bring Elle into the Ex-Brats. All in favor say aye.” Neither Ntombi nor Jhanvi answered. “The motion passes! Let’s eat.”

  Not surprisingly, given every other facility I’d seen at ICS-Tokyo so far, the cafeteria was more like a nice restaurant buffet. No sloppy joes and lukewarm Tater Tots here. Instead, there were buffet trays filled with delicious and healthy offerings like chicken, fish, tofu, vegetables, with a full salad bar, and an espresso machine. My lunch today was my new favorite: a bowl of hot ramen. Not as good as from Tak-Luxxe room service, but still damn fine. I dug into my ramen so my mouth would be too full to showcase my lack of worldliness, even if I was Tak-Luxxe’s newest resident, which apparently was an impressive status.
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br />   The Ex-Brat girls all had identical takeout containers—­rectangular-shaped and about the size of a box of chocolates, with a plastic red liner inside the box to separate beautifully arranged food items like sushi, tempura, rice, and dumplings. The boxes looked more like ornate gifts than ordinary lunches. Curiosity won out over my sense of intimidation. I had to know. “What are you guys eating?” I asked them.

  “Konbini lunches,” said Imogen. “Konbini are convenience stores.”

  “So much cuter than ICS caf food,” said Jhanvi, using chopsticks to pick through a carefully arranged box filled with sushi and edamame.

  “Itadakimasu!” said Imogen, bringing a gyoza dumpling close to her mouth. Then she clarified for my benefit. “That means, like, ‘bon appétit.’ ”

  “So where’s your mom?” Ntombi asked me.

  “D-I-V-O-R-C-E?” asked Jhanvi.

  “She’s in a correctional institute,” I admitted, using the more polite term. I didn’t want to go there, but it was no use lying about where Mom was. These kids seemed to know everything and they’d probably find out anyway. Better for me to say it first, and own the truth.

  The girls laughed hard.

  “You are such a brat, Elle,” said Imogen.

  “I’m serious,” I said. Their faces turned to shock. I added, “Not for murder or anything. Drugs.”

  “Whoa,” all the Ex-Brats exclaimed. It was weird, but I could feel the energy from Ntombi and Jhanvi toward me turn from dismissive to . . . awed?

  “That’s harsh but so cool,” said Imogen.

  “Is it like Orange Is the New Black?” asked Jhanvi.

  “I love that show,” said Ntombi.

  I didn’t get a chance to tell them I’d only visited my mother once in jail, and my impression was that it was anything but cool. It was a million times more dreary and less glamorous than on TV. Two Lower School students—seventh grade, by the particular plaid of their school uniforms, with each grade distinguished by a unique pattern—approached the Ex-Brat table, holding out lunch boxes filled with different kinds of Kit Kats.

  “What’s the trade today, kids?” Imogen asked them.

  One of the girls said, “We have ginger ale and soy sauce.”

  Imogen inspected their offerings. “Interesting. Ginger ale is a rare find.”

  “Do it, Joushi,” said Jhanvi.

  Imogen told the girls, “I’ll trade you two red bean for two ginger ale and soy sauce. Each.”

  It was an unfair 1-flavor-for-2-flavors trade, but the younger girls eagerly handed over the four Kit Kats to Imogen, who in turn retrieved two mangled red bean Kit Kats from the bottom of her backpack, and gave them to the girls. The seventh graders squealed in excitement and ran away.

  “Suckers,” said Imogen.

  “Why would they make that trade?” I asked.

  Ntombi looked at me like I was an idiot while Jhanvi informed me, “A trade with an Ex-Brat is a very valuable social commodity to a seventh grader.”

  Imogen passed around a Kit Kat for each of us. “I haven’t tried soy sauce yet. I’m stoked.”

  Jhanvi said, “I tried sweet tofu last week. Loved.”

  Ntombi said, “Good trade, Joushi. Red bean is disgusting.”

  Imogen said, “I kind of like ’em. Which one do you want, Elle-san?” I knew that adding “san” to a last name was a way of saying “Mr.” or “Ms.”—the staff at ­Tak-Luxxe called Uncle Masa Araki “Araki-san.” I hadn’t been in Japan long, but I was sure what Imogen had just called me was this group’s form of hipster slang, and not a proper Japanese nickname at all.

  I didn’t know which to choose. I’d never imagined Kit Kats could come in so many interesting flavors. I feared each and every one. “Ginger ale?”

  Imogen handed me a ginger ale Kit Kat. I unwrapped it and took a bite. It was a simultaneous burst of sweetness and bitter in my mouth. “How is it?” asked Ntombi.

  “Surprisingly good,” I said between bites. “More ­ginger-y than soda-y.”

  “Move over.” Two athletic-looking guys—lean, strong, preppy hair—sat down on either end of our bench and placed their own konbini bento box lunches on the table.

  “Who’s the newbie?” asked a dark-haired, olive-skinned guy. He was clean cut and classically handsome, straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

  Imogen said, “This is Elle. She just started at ICS today. We’ve decided to take her in because we are so wise and generous. Her dad owns Tak-Luxxe.”

  “Cool,” said the guy, like he met girls whose fathers owned boutique luxury hotel companies all the time. “I’m Oscar Acosta.”

  “Did you see our girl while you were away for the weekend?” Jhanvi asked him.

  Oscar said, “No. Arabella didn’t come to the match. She’s still brooding over that loser.” He veered his head in the direction of Ryuu Kimura sitting alone in the courtyard, propped under a tree, eating cafeteria rice balls and reading a Haruki Murakami novel—in French. The Ex-Brats smirked in Ryuu’s direction. He looked up briefly, noticed their glares, and returned to his book. He seemed like he couldn’t care less. I kind of admired him for that.

  Imogen told me, “Oscar and Arabella are twins.”

  “You went to Bolivia just for the weekend?” I asked him. Who were these people?

  “Of course not,” said Oscar.

  The other guy told me, “We went to Buenos Aires. Polo match. Hi, I’m Nik.”

  “Hi, Nik,” I said. Nik was cute, with intense blue eyes, razor-cut black hair, and the muscled body of a weight lifter.

  “Hey, Elle-san,” Nik said. He smiled at me flirtatiously. “You’re cute.”

  “Not yet, Nik,” said Imogen. “She only just got here.” The others laughed.

  “Where were you guys this morning?” Jhanvi asked the boys. “Didn’t see you in Global Relations class.”

  Oscar said, “Our flight was late. Delayed departure from Buenos Aires because of a storm.” His accent leaned toward American, but with shades of British and Spanish.

  “Did you fly commercial?” Ntombi asked them.

  “Hardly!” said Nik. “Zhzhonov Air.”

  The other Ex-Brats laughed. Once again, I was confused. For all I understood of their conversation so far, they might as well be speaking exclusively in Japanese.

  Imogen to the rescue. She told me, “He means he flew private. The family has their own jet. His dad is Alexei Zhzhonov.”

  Suddenly going to school with Shar Kato’s daughter was almost ordinary. While I’d never heard of so many varieties of Kit Kats, even my unsophisticated bumpkin self had heard of Alexei Zhzhonov. He’d invented the latest chip technology used in practically every mobile device in the whole world. He was on the cover of that Harvard Business School magazine that Emiko Katsura had tried to pass off on me to read on my flight over.

  “Do your bodyguards look as jet-lagged as you?” Ntombi teased Nik. “Did you drag them here with you or are they finally allowed a day off?

  “Very funny except not at all funny,” replied Nik. “I only have bodyguards when I travel to third world countries. They stayed on the plane after we got off to take Mom and Dad to Ukraine.” Nik then focused his gaze on me. “But I’ll be your bodyguard any day, new girl.”

  “Shut up, you lecherous creep,” said Imogen.

  “I love you, too, Joushi-san,” Nik said, stealing a dumpling from her bento box with his bare hand, which Imogen playfully slapped.

  I looked around to the other tables and saw Akemi studying nearby, all the other kids at her table oblivious to her. She looked lonely and I remembered her saying during our car ride that the cool kids never talked to her. “Maybe we could invite my friend Akemi over here to join us?” I suggested, then added, “She lives in my building.” Thinking that might give her more Brat-cred.

  The Ex-Brats exchanged disturbed looks. Imogen said, “There’s no need to be a humanitarian aid worker here, Elle-san.”

  Was I a prisoner like my mother but with better ame
nities? I had to wonder.

  I couldn’t wait to use my new MacBook after school to see if I could find Reggie on G-chat, but as soon as I returned to the penthouse after my first day at ICS-Tokyo, I found Emiko Katsura waiting there, with plans.

  Back home, before the Beast, Mom would take the day off from work on my first day of school. She’d pick me up at the end of the day, and we’d go home and have hot chocolate and freshly baked cookies, and we’d talk about my teachers and the other kids in my classes and what I’d be studying. I wished I could call Mom this very second and tell her about Imogen Kato and the free laptop and falling asleep on some rude-but-hot dude’s shoulder during AP Environmental Science. I wished hard that whatever she was doing at this moment, she was on her best behavior so she could get paroled as early as possible.

  Kenji Takahara apparently had no immediate parental curiosity about my day. His assistant, Emiko, said, all business, “I’ve allotted time now for your Tak-Luxxe orientation. Let’s go.”

  “I was planning on doing my own thing this afternoon,” I said.

  Emiko shook her head. “You’ll have leisure time later. Now, schedule. Takahara-san wants you to receive instruction on how the building works.”

  “He should show me himself,” I said. WTF? What a terrible host and new parent.

  “When there’s time, I’m sure he will.”

  “Is there ever time?”

  There was a look of appreciation for me on Emiko’s perfect face. “Now you understand.”

  I wanted to try to reach Reg and start to put my bedroom together, but I knew arguing would be pointless. Besides, I was curious to explore Tak-Luxxe. Like a good prisoner, I followed the warden for a tour of the fanciest jail ever.

  Tak-Luxxe was like its own little city up in the sky. We started on the fiftieth floor, which bustled with employees wearing uniforms, businesspeople, and sophisticated travelers and residents. Emiko explained to me that the lower floors, thirty-six through forty-five, were hotel rooms, and the upper floors, forty-six through forty-nine, had private residences like the one I now lived in. Above the private homes, the very top floors, fifty through fifty-five, of Tak-Luxxe had restaurants and clubs and spa services.