by Rachel Cohn
“It will be your first of many,” said Kenji. He opened a storage closet door that I hadn’t even realized was in the living room wall. “Emergency supplies, in there. If it’s a big one, most important thing is to take cover under something like a table and cover your head with your arms for protection in case things fall.”
“What do I use to protect my panicked heart?”
He laughed. “There’s no need to panic in an earthquake. They happen frequently, usually not that bad. Just be prepared. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, until a few minutes ago.”
“Good.”
Neither of us said anything. The silence of two strangers wearing their jammies was awkward.
Finally, I asked, “So what’s up for today?” It was the weekend. I couldn’t wait to take a shower in Heaven Bathroom, put on my expensive new clothes, and try to make Kenji Takahara forget I had just arrived from foster care and my mother was in jail. I was excited to explore this new city beckoning outside the sunny windows with him. I wanted to go somewhere already.
He said, “I have to do an inspection with the building engineer. Then, meetings.”
“On a weekend?”
“There’s no such thing as a weekend off in my job. Kim made a hair appointment for you for early evening. We’ll have dinner together after. Emiko will text you the schedule.”
I tried not to let my disappointment show on my face. “So what should I do the rest of the day?” I didn’t have homework yet.
“Why don’t you text Imogen Kato and see if she wants to show you the city?”
After Kenji left for work, I gathered all my courage and texted Imogen. I mean, she’d given me her number and told me to text her anytime. She hadn’t sounded fake when she said it.
Hey Imogen-san, what’s fun to do on a Saturday and do you want to do it with me? Xoxo Elle-san
I waited five minutes. No answer. I felt sweaty and nervous and hungry. I decided to go out for some breakfast and leave my phone behind for the adventure, so I wouldn’t be staring at it, hoping for a return text from Imogen. Hoping if she did send one, it didn’t say something like Why are you texting me, loser?
I never thought it possible, but I wanted a break from delicious Japanese food. I wanted food not made by Tak-Luxxe chefs. I wanted good ol’ American cereal, with lots of sugar and no pretending there was nutrition involved. The Ex-Brats loved konbini food from convenience stores. I remembered I’d seen a 7-Eleven on the main street, at the ground-level entrance to the offices on the lower floors of Harmony Tower. I went down to the side-street entrance for Tak-Luxxe, then walked around the corner to the office building entrance. I realized this was the first time I’d left Tak-Luxxe alone. Could I successfully get my own food without the benefit of English-language-speaking people accompanying me?
I walked into the 7-Eleven. The store looked familiar, with compact aisles densely filled with convenient foods, but all the packages were in Japanese. There was a fresh food section with meticulous arrangements of boxed lunches and noodles in beautiful packaging. The store felt way too classy to be a 7-Eleven, or maybe this was how a 7-Eleven was supposed to look, and the American versions were just sloppy? I chose a bottle of soy milk, a banana, and a single-serving bowl of what looked like the sugariest cereal based on the colorful Japanese lettering on the package, and I headed to the front counter. The young counter clerk bowed and said, “Hello!” brightly to me.
“Konichiwa!” I answered.
The clerk must have then assumed I spoke Japanese because he started speaking in Japanese to me. For all I knew, he could be saying, You’re very almost-Japanese looking, American! Or You have excellent taste in cereal!
I shook my head and made an apologetic face. “No Japanese,” I said.
The clerk also shook his head, but he smiled warmly. “No English. Only ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘bathroom,’ ” he said, pointing toward the restroom in the far corner of the store.
He rang up my purchases. I tried to hand him my new American Express card, still not entirely believing this plastic card could pay for my purchases, but the clerk didn’t take it and for a moment I worried. Then he handed me a small tray the size of a wallet, and I remembered a rule from Emiko’s binder: When paying for purchases in Japan, it was considered impolite to hand the money directly to the clerk; money should be placed on a tray first. I placed my Amex card on the tray, the clerk took it, swiped it, and then placed my items in a bag, along with napkins and plastic utensils, and returned the credit card to me on the tray. He bowed to me, I bowed to him. It was funny how proud I felt about the minor transaction, the kind I had completely taken for granted in America, but it felt like a huge accomplishment in this place where I didn’t speak the language, barely knew my way around, and had never in my life used a credit card.
I returned to Tak-Luxxe, to enjoy my breakfast at the very top of the building, in the Sky Garden on the fifty-fifth floor. I wished Mom could see this sight. Her baby daddy owned this palace! She’d be so impressed. I tried not to think about where Mom was at this moment while I was living this life. The Sky Garden was a lush, glassed-in area that felt like a forest, with its own walking path around flora and fauna from all over the world, and little placards in Japanese and English describing what each plant was. The ceiling was also glass, and from all the way up on floor fifty-five, it felt like the sky hovered that much closer, as if I could reach through the glass and touch the clouds.
I approached a small table at the far corner of the Sky Garden and saw Akemi sitting nearby, studying a math textbook. She wore a demure, long-sleeved, knee-length white lace dress, black patent leather Mary Jane shoes, and on the floor was her school backpack that said “ICS-Tokyo” and was adorned with pastel ribbons, bows, and lace. The woman with her looked like she was in her early thirties, and she was long and slender with a fierce beauty, and intense black eyes that looked like they could burn holes through me.
Akemi said, “Good morning, Elle.” She didn’t sound particularly enthused to see me, but maybe it was that I was used to American cheerfulness.
“Hi!” I said.
Akemi said, “This is my mother.” The woman bowed her head at me, and I did the same.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kinoshita,” I said.
Mrs. Kinoshita said nothing. “She doesn’t speak English,” said Akemi.
Akemi’s mom didn’t smile, but she extended her hand to the available chair. I sat down, and then Akemi and her mother exchanged some words in Japanese, and Mrs. Kinoshita stood up and walked away.
Akemi said, “She’s going to swim.” The pool was in the adjoining area to the Sky Garden. It was too small for quality laps, but if Imogen Kato didn’t answer my text, it’s where I would probably spend my afternoon till my hair appointment. Who was I kidding? Imogen Kato wasn’t going to hang out with me today. She was just being nice when she showed me around my first day at ICS because I was her day’s assignment. Akemi added, “And my mother is not Mrs. Kinoshita. But she doesn’t understand English, so it doesn’t matter if you call her by the wrong name.”
“Then who is she?” I asked, confused.
“Watanabe-san. The real Mrs. Kinoshita lives in Osaka with my father’s real wife.” Akemi relayed this information casually. “She is very old.”
“Oh! Does she know about you?”
“Yes. That’s why we live in Tokyo now.”
And I thought my family was complicated.
Imogen texted me back!
My Saturday martial arts trainer has the flu. Sucks for him, good luck for you. Let’s go to Ginza!
Imogen met me at the thirty-sixth floor lobby of Tak-Luxxe, wearing distressed denim jeans, a ratty old T-shirt that said “My Daughter Goes to Wellesley,” a leather motorcycle jacket with the words Shar and Kato painted in graffiti style on the wrists, sparkling purple eye shadow rimming her eyes, and black lipstick on her mouth so her face looked rather like a very stylish bruise. She wante
d to see the view from Ikebana Café. I couldn’t believe Imogen Kato was actually here, by her own choice, with nothing to gain, except a new, very unworldly friend who didn’t even know what an expat was until she arrived in Tokyo.
“You could throw some sick parties at Destiny Club,” said Imogen.
“Totally.” I’d never thrown a party in my life. Did not have a single clue how to. Would I even be allowed to? “So where are we gonna go?”
“Lunch. Priorities. Got your PASMO card?”
“Check.”
“Been on the Tokyo subway yet?”
“No.”
“The subway is def the fastest and easiest way to get around here. Don’t be like the other Ex-Brats and take cabs or Uber cuz you’re lazy and spoiled.” I almost died from the compliment. She’d grouped me in with her lazy, spoiled Ex-Brat friends!
Imogen navigated us a few blocks from Tak-Luxxe and into the subway station. We walked through what felt like an endless underground corridor (connected to other endless corridors), with convenience stores, newsstands, and small restaurants lining the way. There were a lot of people walking through the corridors, but the flow of foot traffic was so orderly. People walked on the left and passed on the right, just like the cars. I noticed a lot of Japanese kids wearing school uniforms. I asked Imogen, “Why wear uniforms on Saturday?”
She said, “Japanese students go to school a lot more days of the year than us. I think they have school on, like, the second and fourth Saturdays of the month. Might not be actual classroom time, but test preparation and school trips. And lots wear their uniforms even when they don’t have to. It’s a Japanese thing—showing your place in society—and uniforms announce ‘student.’ I’d never wear mine on the weekend.”
“But your mom designed the ICS-Tokyo uniform! They’re so cool, for uniforms.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “Too too.”
“Too too, what?”
“I don’t know. Too obvious. Too cute. Too branded.” Said the girl with her mother’s brand announced across her leather jacket’s wrists.
We’d reached the fare gate for the subway. Imogen demonstrated how to swipe the PASMO card to enter. I followed her through a surge of people, up a set of stairs, and to the train platform. I thought I’d be overwhelmed by the strange surroundings and the crush of so many people, but all the direction signs were in Japanese and English, and Imogen shuttled me through like a pro. I’d ridden the Washington, DC, Metro system—and heard about subway systems in other cities like New York and London—so I knew what mass transit was supposed to be: late, grimy, unpleasant disease factories with pushy, irritated passengers. But here, the trains and platforms were so clean they were almost sterile, and riders formed orderly lines where the doors opened to let passengers on and off. There were no homeless people lying around the stations or subway cars, no terrible odors, no overflowing trash cans. There was no pushing or jostling. It was like everyone had their own invisible lane and knew exactly how to use it, despite so little space relative to the crowd size.
When the train pulled up, a crush of people got off, but nearly as many were waiting to get on. Imogen stood behind me and gently pushed me onto the train. We sandwiched in, too close to strangers for my comfort, but Imogen didn’t appear fazed, so I tried to follow her lead and be chill about a situation that made me want to panic. When it seemed like not another person could possibly fit into the car, a uniformed officer wearing white gloves stood outside the train and pushed at the people at the door, to squeeze them in. Finally, the door closed.
I told Imogen, “If an officer had pushed people on the DC Metro like that, there would have been a riot.”
I didn’t think I’d been talking loudly at all, but Imogen placed her index finger at her mouth to indicate quiet. Softly, she said, “Talk low on the subway. It’s the etiquette here. And never talk on your cell phone while you’re on a train. Big Japanese no-no.” I was so squished I couldn’t have dug out my cell phone even if I’d tried.
An older lady carrying giant shopping bags that scratched against my legs pressed too closely to me, her face practically touching mine, her mouth covered with a face mask held up with ties behind her ears. “How come so many people wear surgical masks here?” I whispered to Imogen. It wasn’t just this lady. It seemed to me that at least half the people on the subway car had surgical masks covering their faces—young and old, none of them looking particularly sickly.
Imogen said, “They wear them to protect themselves from germs, but also to protect you if they have a cold and don’t want to spread their germs.”
“That’s so polite.”
“That’s so OCD!”
Smushed between so many people, I looked above their heads to distract myself from all the unwanted human flesh contact. The subway car was lined at the top, above eye level, with colorful electronic advertisements and anime showcasing parks, restaurants, beauty products. Above the train car door, an electronic map followed the train’s progress on the subway line. Imogen groaned when one of the electronic ads displayed a series of photos for what looked like an art exhibition. The photos were of erotic sculptures painted in splashes of bright colors—hips and breasts and groins, rendered in swirls of loud pinks, neon yellows, electric purples. Imogen said, “Dad is such an art perv.”
I didn’t get it. “He likes those crazy sculptures?”
“Those are his sculptures.” The ad flashed the exhibition name in English. Akira Kato Presents: A Rainbow of Sensuality.
And I thought it was awkward to see Kenji Takahara in pajamas.
A female intercom voice announced the next stop in Japanese, then repeated it in English. “Nihonbashi!” The voice was so cheerful it was like she’d just announced the train’s arrival at Disney World. Imogen said, “That’s us. Push, Elle. Go!”
I pushed my way through the people not getting off the train, stepping on a a few feet and tripping over someone’s suitcase, then had to take a deep breath at the train station wall. “That was intense,” I said.
“Wait’ll you see how crowded it gets at rush hour.”
“Ima take Uber, then.”
“Sometimes I do, too,” Imogen confessed. “Then I get pissed when I’m stuck in traffic.”
We walked toward the exit. At the end of the platform, there was a sign on the floor that had Japanese lettering, and beneath it said WOMEN ONLY.
“Women Only?” I asked.
Imogen said, “That means late at night, the cars that arrive at this spot on the platform are just for women. So the polite salarymen who hit the izakaya bars after work don’t suddenly think they can become subway grope monsters on their drunken rides home.”
I thought of how often Mom complained about drunk guys hitting on her when she took the Metro home after late-night shifts and how she might have appreciated such a gender-exclusive transit luxury. I thought of her now in a jail cell while I was traipsing around Tokyo with a girl from a fashion magazine, and my heart clenched.
“You okay?” Imogen asked me as she led the way through the train station. She took hold of my arm. “I’m sure Tokyo is intimidating at first, but you’ll get used to it. Why the sad face? Boyfriend you left behind in America?”
“Hardly,” I said. I’d barely even kissed a boy. Not that I’d ever say that to this worldly force of nature. “My best friend back home is a guy, but he’s more like a big brother.”
“Photo evidence, please.” I took my phone from my pocket and showed Imogen a picture of Reg and me, sitting on a diving board together after swim practice, two years earlier. “Boyfriend potential,” Imogen announced.
“I’d be too scared we’d ruin our friendship like that. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Not this week.”
We walked through the crowded train station toward a set of doors leading into a big department store. Just inside, a set of uniformed women wearing fashionable skirts, jackets, and hats—looking rather like flight attendants, I thought—bo
wed to customers as they walked in from the subway station. “What’s that about?” I asked Imogen.
“They’re thanking customers for coming to this store. You’ll see that a lot here.”
“All the bowing feels weird,” I admitted.
“Dude, don’t hate. Japanese people have cultivated thousands of years of rules and protocol to protect the wa.”
“Wa . . . what?”
“The wa is, like, the system of social harmony in Japanese culture. Did you notice how smooth and easy that subway ride was, even with packed cars and crowded platforms?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the wa.”
“That’s wa-nderful,” I joked.
“Don’t be punny,” Imogen said. We entered the Takashimaya department store through the basement level, and my eyes were joyfully assaulted by the sight of an epic number of beautiful food stalls lining the store aisles. “This is called a depachika—a Japanese food hall.”
The depachika was like the Ikebana Café with all its different food types, but times a zillion, with confectionaries selling chocolates and cakes and sweets that looked like dumplings, and food counters offering dazzling displays of seafood, meats, salads, candies, and juices. There was even a grocery store, with exquisite-looking fruit individually wrapped and cushioned, flawless in appearance. The workers in each stall wore different uniforms, some with matching hats, and they called out “Konichiwa!” to passersby. I loved watching each counter’s workers delicately wrap the purchases and hand them over to customers as if presenting a gift rather than just, say, a sandwich or a chocolate treat. As I marveled at the display cases of sweets—with so many varieties of chocolates, cakes, and candies—Imogen said, “The traditional Japanese sweets are called wagashi, which is stuff like mochi—rice flour cakes filled with sweet pastes—and jellied candies that look more like works of art than something you’d actually eat, and cookies that look gorgeous but usually taste bland.”
“The cookie tins are so beautiful!” I marveled, admiring a case of tins with prints so intricate they looked like they could double as designer handbags.