by Sarah Kuhn
“As satisfying as actual mochi … I gobbled it up.”
—Maurene Goo, author of The Way You Make Me Feel
“This book is a dish you want to keep devouring.”
—Keiko Agena, actress and author of No Mistakes
“Adorably perfect!”
—Kasie West, author of P.S. I Like You
“Whimsically fresh, funny, and heartfelt!”
—Ally Maki, actress on Cloak & Dagger and Wrecked
“A delightful, tender romance full of humor and humanity.”
—Britta Lundin, author of Ship It and writer on The CW’s Riverdale
“I connected with this book so mochi!”
—Gloria Chao, author of American Panda
“Sarah Kuhn is a bright new voice in YA.”
—Cecil Castellucci, New York Times bestselling author of Don’t Cosplay With My Heart
“A deft, fun, and heartfelt coming-of-age story.”
—Amber Benson, actress, director, and author of The Witches of Echo Park series
“I wish I could travel back in time to gift this book to my teenage self.”
—Yumi Sakugawa, author of The Little Book of Life Hacks
For Jeff Chen—I love you so … well, you know the rest
Praise for I Love You So Mochi
Title Page
Map of Kyoto
Map of Nara
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
I’m supposed to be embarking on a quest of self-discovery, but I keep getting lost. I don’t mean that in the super introspective, “let’s talk about my feelings” kind of way. I mean I literally don’t know where I am.
It’s my first day as a spring break tourist in Japan (on a Super Important Quest of Self-Discovery) and I’ve taken the train from my grandparents’ tiny town to Kyoto, hoping to walk something called Philosopher’s Path. That sounded peaceful and contemplative and like just the thing to do when you need to figure out your life. Instead I ended up wandering in the wrong direction because I saw a girl wearing a tiered skirt made out of two different kinds of material—wispy tulle contrasting with heavy wool—and she looked so incredibly cool, I just had to know where she was going. Then I got caught up studying the cherry blossoms overhead, a glorious canopy of pink and white fluff that seemed to go on forever. Now my distracted wanderings have led me to an outdoor market with food stands frying, steaming, and boiling everything from delectably salty squid to buttery sweet taiyaki.
There are tons of people jostling around these stands, and the burble of their excited chatter mingles with the hiss and sizzle of food cooking. The smells crash into each other, a mishmash of clashing scents that assaults my nostrils. I feel overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and the sheer mass of humanity.
“Irasshaimase!” a man bellows to people approaching the food stall I’m standing next to, and I let out a pathetic-sounding “Meep!” then shuffle awkwardly out of the way. But there’s not much room to shuffle and I bump into an elderly, stoop-shouldered lady in a giant sun hat.
“Sorry!” I blurt out. “I mean, um … pardon? I mean …” I realize that I have no idea how to apologize in Japanese. She gives me a classic Disapproving Auntie Stare and moves on to the next food stall.
I take a deep breath and stand still, trying to reorient myself. I don’t want to bust out my map; I’ll look like a tourist. (Okay, okay: even more like a tourist.) I could use my phone, but I’m still not entirely sure how the international data plan works, since Dad had to add it on last minute and all. I don’t want to run up a huge bill my first day here just because I accidentally wandered off.
You mean: Because you allowed yourself to get distracted by frivolous things instead of focusing on what you’re supposed to be doing, my mother says in my head. Get your head out of the clouds, Kimi-chan: You have important things to figure out.
I know, Mom.
I find a bench on the very edge of the market and plop myself down. I had high hopes for today when I got dressed this morning. I’d donned one of my favorite dresses—a midnight blue concoction of asymmetric layers and sparkly buttons that I’d constructed out of the bones of an old prom gown. Wearing it always gives me that extra shot of confidence when I’m feeling low. But right now, surrounded by the overwhelming bustle of the market, I just feel … well, lost.
I suppose I could try sketching. Sketching always soothes me. Sketching is what I meant to do on Philosopher’s Path, figuring all those peaceful drawings of nature would somehow spark major life revelations.
I reach into my messenger bag, pull out my sketchbook and pencils, and flip to a blank page. I spy the girl I saw before, the one in the tiered skirt. She’s met up with a whole group of friends and they’re all wearing awesomely creative street fashion: dramatic layers and unexpected materials and fun little accessories. They look like fashion superheroes, and if I were feeling braver and less out of place, I’d—well. Actually, I probably wouldn’t go talk to them.
Because, as my best friend Atsuko is fond of pointing out, it’s always easier for me to live in this space where I haven’t made something real yet. It’s easier for me to sit here and think about talking to those girls because that way it remains a perfect fantasy, where we laugh and exchange cool fashion ideas and I magically know perfect Japanese. The minute I make it a reality by actually talking to them … I’ll ruin it.
I take a deep breath and try to refocus on my quest of self-discovery. I came to Japan hoping to find answers to big, important questions. Like:
Who am I?
What am I supposed to do with my life?
What do I really want out of my future?
I thought arriving here would spark major revelations, but instead I’m sitting on some random bench, staring at a blank page. I press my pencil to paper, willing the revelations to come.
They don’t.
Crap. Did I really just travel halfway around the world on a whim to a place I know nothing about?
I may have just ruined everything.
One Week Earlier
I have to be honest—there was a moment when I regretted trying to make a dress out of candy wrappers.
It wasn’t because I’d spent a solid month collecting them: scouring the recycling bins in the cafeteria, squirreling away the remnants of Dad’s secret Twix stash, and (in a fit of impatience once I realized how long it actually takes to amass a whole bunch of candy wrappers) buying an economy-sized bag of Starburst and gnawing my way through endless fruit-flavored goodness during the more boring parts of Calculus. And it wasn’t because the process of making legitimately sewable fabric out of candy wrappers was more complicated than I’d originally thought, requiring hours of ironing the wrappers between sheets of newspaper, Mod Podging them onto muslin, and hand-stitching the ones that refused to stay put.
No, it came down
to this: When I presented my best friend Bex with her custom candy wrapper dress—a rainbow delight that I’d fashioned in a simple skater cut with tiny ruffle flourishes at the sleeves and the bottom of the skirt—one of her eyebrows twitched upward and the smallest of crinkles creased her brow. But no smile. No grin stretching from ear to ear, no exclamation of “Wow, Kimi!” or other discernable signs of pleasure, happiness, and/or excitement.
Now we’re standing in front of the big mirror in the Drama Club room and she’s wearing the dress and twisting this way and that, the wrappers crinkling softly as she examines every facet of her appearance.
I can’t tell if she likes it and it makes me feel like a rabid animal is chomping my insides.
I thought the bright colors and quirky material choice were perfect for Bex’s unicorn-and-sparkles-loving personality, that they would complement the flaming magenta she’s dyed her hair. That this dress would give her the confidence of the superheroines who star in her beloved comic books, finally allowing her to ask out her crush, Shelby Perkiss.
“Just leave it to me,” I’d said last month, waving a hand. I was wearing rings made out of tiny rocks twisted up in wild threads of metal and they gave my hand-wave an extra touch of drama. “I’ll make something for you, Bex. The perfect thing.”
“No makeovers, Kimi!” screeched our other best friend, Atsuko. We were sprawled all over our usual lunch “table,” a patch of grass hidden behind the library, just out of the way enough that no one ever bothered us. Atsuko was tapping away on her phone, composing her latest advice column. “I hate that movies never show the part after the makeover,” she continued. “You know, when that new look that’ll help land you a new honey—and the new personality you’ve suddenly gained along with it—becomes a pain in the butt to maintain and you go back to wearing sweats and flip-flops.”
“Bex doesn’t wear sweats in the first place,” I said, rolling my eyes and gesturing to Bex’s cute dress. It had a Peter Pan collar and a whimsical mermaid print. We’d all been especially excited when we found it because some of the mermaids actually look like us. There’s a tall Atsuko mermaid with long black hair and broad shoulders and a smattering of freckles; a curvy Bex mermaid with dark brown skin and a dreamy look on her face; and a shrimpy pipsqueak Kimi mermaid with messy bangs and intense dark eyes that look like they are always thinking just a little too hard about something. Or maybe we sort of projected some of those qualities onto them, since, as Atsuko noted, “most mermaid-fairy-elf-whatever prints are one hundred percent white, blonde girls and no percent everyone else, so you know, go this dress for being like ten percent Asian and Black and giving us some twee role models to call our own.”
“Anyway, I don’t believe in makeovers,” I added, poking Atsuko in the arm. She elbow-nudged me halfheartedly and kept thumb-typing her advice column. I turned to Bex, who was regarding me with a mixture of hope and trepidation. “I want to arm you with a dress that enhances your natural charm and style and gives you the confidence to finally ask out Shelby Perkiss. I want you to feel like, like … Ultimate Bex.”
“Ultimate Bex,” Bex said, her eyes lighting up. “Yes. I love that. It sounds like a superhero name. Like I’m Kamala Khan and you’re going to help me become Ms. Marvel. And Ultimate Bex will not get all flushed and weird and tongue-tied around Shelby Perkiss.”
“Exactly,” I said, grinning at her. “I’m gonna make you a Kimi Nakamura Original. Something that will make you feel like the best you.”
“You’ve really bumped up your Kimi Originals game this year,” Bex said. “Your outfit output is on point.”
I smiled back and tried not to think about the fact that my “output” increase had nothing to do with better productivity or a desire to make my senior year the best ever. It had everything to do with the fact that I dropped out of Advanced Fine Art after slamming my head against complete and total lack of inspiration when it came to painting anything new. Every time I picked up my brush, all I saw was endless blank canvas, mocking me. All I felt was the pressure that came with being accepted early admission to the Liu Fine Arts Academy, one of the best in the country. And all I heard was my mother’s voice, taking on that tone she likes to imagine is “soothing,” but is weighted with way too many expectations about me becoming a Great Asian American Artist to be anywhere near the “soothing” ballpark. “You should work on a new set of paintings before college starts, Kimi-chan,” she’d say. “Go in with a theme, a voice, a point of view. Every great artist needs a point of view.”
My current point of view is that I can’t paint to save my life, so I’ve spent senior year pouring my energy into things like designing costumes for the school play, adding to my overflowing wardrobe of thrift store finds and my own creations, and now … creating a Kimi Original for Bex. You know, fun things. But also—as my mother would be the first to remind me—goofing off–type things. Things that have nothing to do with the important art career I’m about to embark on.
“Atsy, are you down with this plan?” I said, nudging Atsuko. She was still glued to her phone. “Because we need your approval as Culver City High’s resident advice columnist to the love-challenged.”
“I approve,” Atsuko said. “But only if you both acknowledge that Shelby Perkiss could still say no, because when it comes to any romantic endeavors, it’s very important to prepare for all possible outcomes, to not build up your expectations, and—”
“Yes, yes, we get it,” Bex said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin. “And I fully accept that I may still be heading down the path of loser-dom, Madam Therapist.”
“That is not what I meant,” Atsuko huffed. “I just want to make sure you’re taking care of you first, because what most people don’t realize—”
This was the point where I tuned them out. My brain was already buzzing, fantasizing about color palettes and sweetheart necklines and a dreamy full skirt that would swish beautifully around Bex, making her into her wildest daydream of a superheroine.
But now that we’re standing in front of the mirror, now that the skirt is actually swishing beautifully around her … I can’t help but wonder if I miscalculated. Maybe the candy wrappers are too outrageous, too weird. Maybe Bex feels self-conscious, like the dress is overwhelming. Like the dress is wearing her.
“Bex,” I whisper, unable to contain myself any longer.
She’s swinging her hips side to side now, allowing the skirt to really swish. The effect of all those bright colors, shiny with Mod Podge, is beautiful to me. Like a kaleidoscope brought to life.
“So?” Atsuko sidles up next to us, munching on a handful of trail mix. She’s wearing baggy yoga pants, layered tank tops, and sneakers with satin ribbons for laces. Atsuko loves the athleisure trend because it allows her to basically wear pajamas in public. Bex is always teasing her because she doesn’t actually play any sports. “We ready to do this thing or what?”
“Bex?” I repeat, keeping my voice soft. She still hasn’t said a word. Not one single word. “Do you like it?”
Bex’s brow crinkles again as she regards her colorful form in the mirror, swishes the skirt around again. She’s silent and my heart sinks like a stone. Did I get it all wrong? Am I even failing at my goofing-off, having-fun attempts now?
Bex turns to face me, clasps my hands in hers, and meets my eyes. Her face is deathly serious. I’m already preparing my apology speech. Then she breaks into a giant grin.
“I. Love. It!” she yelps, her voice escalating with each word.
And just like that, my heart bounces back up again, a buoyant beam of light shooting through my chest. The dress is doing just what I hoped it would: Bex is standing up straighter, smiling brighter, and cocking her head in that way that indicates she’s feeling good about life in general. She looks ready to take on the world. Or at least to ask out the girl she’s been crushing on almost all of senior year.
“I’m ready,” she says, giving a determined nod.
Linking arms with Bex an
d Atsuko, I beam at my two best friends. “Let’s go ask out Shelby Perkiss.”
“So, have you talked to your mom yet?” Atsuko shoves another handful of trail mix in her mouth and kicks my foot. We’re camped out in one of the far corners of the quad, where most of the student body eats lunch, watching Bex swish her way over to Shelby Perkiss. There’s a concrete planter thing containing three teeny sprouts trying valiantly to become real plants and we’ve sprawled ourselves on the edge of that, sitting end to end so that our feet are touching.
“Excuse me, but why are we talking about this right now?” I say, inching my foot out of kicking reach. “Let’s focus on the mega-couple forming on the other side of the quad. Ooh, what should their ’ship name be? Shex? Belby?”
“We’re talking about this because your state of denial has reached epic levels of epicness,” Atsuko says, stretching her leg to kick me again. Damn her tallness. “Like, it’s a continent of freaking denial at this point. You dropped Advanced Fine Art a mere month into the spring semester. It’s freaking March. Spring break is in a week. Then we have finals. Then school is basically over. The longer it takes to tell your mom you dropped that class, the more she’s gonna blow like a full-on rage volcano. It’s Asian Mom Math, and you know I’m right about this.”
“Bleah,” I say, swinging my legs around so my feet are on the ground, no longer touching hers. I cross my arms over my chest and hunch, a pose that always makes Mom fret about my posture. “Don’t therapize me, Atsy. You’ve got plenty of our peers asking you for advice. Romantic advice, specifically. Meanwhile, I’m over here minding my own business, not asking for any kind of advice.”
“Actually, the romantic advice I’d give you is in the same general area,” Atsuko says, wriggling closer and poking my hip with her foot. She needs to stop with the foot. “What happened with that theater guy, Justin, again?”
“He enjoyed wearing the costumes I designed, said they really helped him get into character,” I say, my face getting hot. “Then he gave me a rock at the wrap party, which was a super strange thing to give someone, and then we never spoke again because we don’t have any classes together.”