From Little Tokyo, With Love

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Viking,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Kuhn

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  Hardcover edition ISBN 9780593327487

  International edition ISBN 9780593403082

  Ebook ISBN 9780593327494

  Cover illustration © 2021 by Marcos Chin • Cover design by Tony Sahara

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  For everyone in Halfie Club—

  I believe in your happily ever after.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Once upon a time, a beautiful princess lived in the magical kingdom of Los Angeles. Always alone, she belonged to no one—and no one belonged to her. She dreamed of one day finding someone who shared her passions, a handsome prince obsessed with monstrous mythical creatures and exploring all the weirdest corners of her kingdom.

  Or alternately, she dreamed of kicking ass and winning the regional judo championship, which came with a really awesome trophy.

  Neither of these things happened, so she revealed herself to be a nure-onna (an actual monstrous mythical creature), transformed into a snake, and ate everyone’s faces off.

  The end.

  ONE

  Never argue with the Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo.

  Auntie Suzy gifted me with this advice when I was six, and I probably should’ve taken it to heart. But “never” sounds like a long time when you’re six, and I must have known deep down that there would be so many things I’d want to argue about.

  “Ugh, Rika-chan, why won’t you just stop fighting with me!” My sister Belle—the current Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo—gives me an impressively regal glower. “You have the worst temper in the whole entire world.”

  “False,” I say, even though it’s kind of true. “I’m actually suppressing my kaiju-temper extra hard because I’m trying not to fight with you. Even though you’re the one who’s blocking my bedroom door and waving random bits of fabric in my face.”

  “It’s a scarf!” she proclaims, flapping the floaty bit of cloth she’s been trying to tie around my neck for the last five minutes. “And you need it.”

  “I do not need a scarf,” I retort, batting her hands away. “We live in LA—no one ever needs a scarf.”

  “It’s decorative,” she crows, her face screwing into that look that means I’m being a total pain the ass.

  I would argue—see, again with the arguing—that she’s the one being the pain in the ass, since she’s keeping me from what I actually need to do. I have to get over to the dojo, where my fellow judoka are preparing for our big martial arts demonstration today. We always put on a show at the parade that kicks off Nikkei Week, the annual festival in Los Angeles’s downtown neighborhood of Little Tokyo celebrating all things Japanese and Japanese American.

  I’m really trying not to deploy my temper—Auntie Och calls it “Rika-chan’s kaiju,” or giant monster, after all the Japanese creature movies she watches on “the YouTube,” holding her phone screen way too close to her face. I’d swear her tone sounds almost . . . admiring? But the truth is, my temper always gets me in trouble. It’s somehow even more monstrous than Godzilla or Mothra or any of the titans rampaging across Auntie Och’s screen, destroying entire miniature cities. It’s one of the snarling beasts in the Japanese folklore stories I’ve been obsessed with since I was a kid, clawing through my blood and rattling against my rib cage, dying to escape and gobble up those who insist on provoking it.

  Like the guy who thought it would be funny to “pretend choke” me after I tapped out during a sparring session in judo. I was only eight, so I bit him—and almost got kicked out of the dojo over it. Or the anime-obsessed white girls who frequent my Aunties’ katsu restaurant and order me to speak to them in “an authentic Japanese accent.” I once dumped a full can of Coke on Queen Becky, the Ultimate White Girl Who Just, Like, Loves Asian Culture, and it felt so good—until that particular Becky’s mother started an online petition to shut down the restaurant, and Auntie Suzy wearily explained to me the need for our family to appear “respectable.” (That one . . . did not happen when I was eight, by the way. That was last week.)

  I don’t want to be in trouble all the time, so I try to keep my kaiju-temper leashed.

  But my kaiju-temper doesn’t care about what I want.

  Even now, I can feel it rising up, swirling through my bloodstream, tempted to bite at Belle for derailing what should be a big day for both of us simply because she hates my outfit.

  Oh yes, that’s what started this—my sister hates my outfit.

  “Rika.” Belle brandishes her decorative scarf again and gives me the imperious look that’s made her the benevolent but unchallenged leader of the cool kid crew at Tataki High. “Seriously. All eyes are about to be on you at this parade and that’s what you want to wear?”

  “All eyes are about to be on you,” I counter. “You’re temporary royalty, ruling over the glorious smog of downtown LA. I’m merely one of your subjects—”

  “—who just happens to be the reigning judo star of the Little Tokyo Dojo, about to kick every available ass in the Nikkei Week parade’s demonstration.” She gives me that imperious look again. “Don’t act all modest, Rika-chan, I know you’re proud of your fighty abilities.”

  Even though my temper’s still simmering, a burst of warmth pokes through—like a tiny sparkle of a fairy trying to distract my kaiju. She’s right, I am proud. I’m sparring in today’s centerpiece match, the crown jewel of my dojo’s demonstration. It’s a chance to be part of the parade’s magic—in a way that fee
ls like me, rather than what my scarf-obsessed sister might want—and I can’t even pretend I’m not thrilled.

  “The dojo is the one place where I can be proud of my fighty abilities,” I say, giving her a half smile. “And I’m excited about today—for both of us.”

  Belle has dreamed of being crowned Nikkei Week Queen since she was old enough to say “tiara.” Every year, six Japanese American girls are chosen from the local high schools and two from the middle schools and one is crowned queen. Belle was a junior princess in sixth grade, a princess-princess the summer before our junior year, and now that we’re about to be seniors, she’s achieved her dream. And as for me . . . well, I’ve worked my ass off to ascend from Rika the Biter to the top-ranked spot in my dojo, have pretty much made it my goal ever since Auntie Suzy put me in judo in order to channel my “aggressive tendencies” into something productive. I love the precision, strategy, and control of judo—they help me tame my kaiju-temper, or at least focus it on doing something useful.

  “Belle-chan,” I say through gritted teeth. “My outfit will be totally covered by my judogi anyway, so what does it matter?”

  “You need! The! Scarf!” she cries, her voice twisting in that high-pitched way that always makes Auntie Och’s ears hurt.

  “Why is this scarf so important?” I snap, snatching it from her grasp and unfolding it to reveal . . . huh. It’s a pattern, some kind of colorful embroidery forming a vague shape that kind of resembles—

  “Wait a minute,” I say, scrutinizing the embroidery. “Is this supposed to be Nak?”

  “Yes, it’s my precious puppy,” Belle says, jabbing at the embroidery with her index finger. I can now sort of see that Nak (short for “sunakku,” which means “snack” in Japanese), her tiny mutt of a dog, is embedded in some kind of pattern of interlocking swirls. “He’s my mondokoro, my crest—I designed it myself. You should wear it during your match—it will make you look so regal. And it will give you a meaningful way to represent—”

  “I am representing in a meaningful way,” I protest, gesturing to the ratty T-shirt I’m wearing, the one she hates so much. “This is my mondokoro.”

  My T-shirt bears an illustration of a nure-onna, one of my favorite monsters from Japanese folklore. She has the head of a woman and the body of a snake and bloody fangs, like she’s just indulged in a feast of tasty humans. The nure-onna is my aspirational monster—she totally eats people, but she’s cunning about it. She plots and plans before she strikes; she doesn’t let her temper sweep her away and fuck everything up.

  I still haven’t mastered that part yet. But while Belle was dreaming about all the princess things when we were kids, I was dreaming about being the nure-onna.

  I bought the shirt for five dollars at Bunkado, a neighborhood gift shop that’s been around for decades and is still run by the same family that opened it when they returned home after the Japanese American incarceration of World War II. Its eclectic shelves are crammed with stationery and teapots and vintage Japanese vinyl—and this amazing T-shirt, which was the only one of its kind. The saleslady gave me a major discount because she could tell I just had to have it.

  I thought wearing this nure-onna shirt would show off my Little Tokyo pride. Totally appropriate for the parade. I’ve completed my look with roomy basketball shorts (excellent ventilation to keep me cool in the blazing late-August heat) and gold Adidas that are waiting for me by the door (kinda royal in their own way, no?).

  I can tell from Belle’s expression that she’s not really seeing the crest-like power of the nure-onna, though.

  “Listen,” she says, rolling her eyes, “wearing this scarf is kind of the least you can do, since you straight-up refused to be in my court—”

  “Oh—oh no!” I sputter. “I should have known: this is about princess shit!”

  “Everything is about princess shit!” Belle explodes. “And every girl wants to be in the Nikkei Week court. The fact that you spat on that honor—even though you could have performed princess duties in addition to your judo demo—is . . . just . . .” She shakes her head, like she’s a robot short-circuiting.

  “I’m not princess material,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at her. “We all know this.”

  “But you could be,” Belle asserts—and now she’s back to waving the scarf around. “If you would just be open to letting me do you up, like Cinderella—”

  “Cinderella’s stepsisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper,” I fire back. “That’s the real story—not exactly happily ever after.”

  “Do. Not,” Belle says, thwacking me on the arm with her scarf. “Cinderella’s my main bitch.”

  I release a long breath, trying to shove down my temper—which is now slamming itself against my breastbone, wanting more than anything to get out.

  It’s not that I want Belle to give up on her fairy tales, with their sanitized happy endings. It’s just that I want her to open up to my version of fairy tales, my melancholy stories from Japanese folklore. Where the endings are often bittersweet—emphasis on the “bitter.” Where it’s possible for, say, a girl with a dead mom and a deadbeat dad to triumph somehow, even if it means casting aside idealized notions of love and turning into a monster.

  The nure-onna, after all, always gets a certain kind of happy ending—really, the only kind I can see for myself. Solitary yet satisfied. Fighty abilities top-notch. No prince in sight.

  You’d think Belle would be open to all that after her umpteenth overly dramatic relationship imploded. (Belle dates, in her words, “hot people of all genders,” but still hasn’t found anyone who can successfully execute an Instagram-worthy promposal.)

  “Why are you guys yelling?” Rory, our twelve-year-old sister, stomps into Belle’s room. I’ve never seen someone stomp quite like Rory, who walks everywhere like she’s trying to shake the ground. She insists this is her natural gait—all the more impressive when you consider her minuscule frame. “I can hear you all the way down the hall,” she continues, cannonballing herself onto my bed. She lands with a whump.

  “Ugh, you can hear everything in this apartment,” Belle says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Why bother having walls at all?”

  “Rika, what are you wearing?” Rory sits up in bed, her cute little eyebrows drawing together.

  “See!” Belle whirls around, her bright pink fingernails whipping toward Rory. “Rory thinks you should dress up more, too.”

  “Rory didn’t actually offer an opinion, just a question,” I say.

  “Rory thinks the outfit is bad,” Rory says. “Opinion given, no questions.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Aurora,” I say, calling her by the full name that only gets dragged out when she’s in trouble or when people feel like being overly proper. Sometimes I can count on her to form an alliance with me against Belle. As a math genius who hasn’t felt challenged by the curriculum since kindergarten, Rory tends to be more practical-minded.

  “You should look like a princess, too,” Rory says. “To match us.”

  Oh, right. Even with the genius-based practicality, Rory still buys into that princess shit—she’s a junior princess in Belle’s court. Whenever she and Belle form their own alliance (#TeamPrincess), I get a little twinge that reminds me they’re technically not my sisters—they’re my cousins. Peas in a pod who were named after actual Disney princesses. I’m always supposed to match them, not the other way around.

  Even though they’re built differently—Belle is all generous curves to Rory’s spindly limbs—they both have the same perfectly straight manes of black hair and flashing dark eyes, the same flawless creamy skin, the same cute little round noses. When they stand next to each other, the effect is almost comical: as if Belle has somehow manifested a smaller, more serious-faced version of herself.

  I, meanwhile, have always looked like the outcast cousin—so much so that Belle�
�s and my teacher on the first day of second grade asked Auntie Suzy if she was “sure” we were both hers, giving me the suspicious side-eye, like I was trying to con my way into going home with people I didn’t belong to.

  “She’s half!” Belle had declared, stomping her foot at the teacher as if that settled it. “And we claim her as a whole Asian!”

  I have wavy, tangled hair a few shades lighter than the rest of my family—sometimes picking up brassy glints of red in the sun. And smatterings of freckles in various places, including across my wider bump of a nose. I do look Japanese (especially to all those Beckys who want to hear my accent, I guess), but it’s in that way where, as I accidentally overheard the confused second-grade teacher say later, “You can tell there’s . . . something else going on.” When we were younger and less aware of stuff, Belle dubbed me “Asian Lite.” We both thought this was funny until Auntie Suzy wearily informed us that it was not.

  Auntie Suzy is Belle and Rory’s actual mom, and she took me in after my mother—her sister—died in childbirth and my “white devil” father took off for who knows where. Belle was still a baby when all this happened, only six months older than me. To this day, the murmurs still run through Little Tokyo. How Auntie Suzy did her Good Asian Duty by taking care of family. How my mother was such a tragedy, she’d had such potential before she got pregnant at fifteen—so beautiful and charismatic, able to charm the pants off of anyone she met with a smile. How it must be tough on the remaining Rakuyamas since I look so . . . different. There’s always that weird pause before “different,” as if the greater community of gossiping Little Tokyo Aunties and Uncles are carefully assessing my appearance, clocking all the ways I look . . . well, Asian Lite.

  Some of them simply refer to me as “a mistake.” I’m not sure which is worse.

  I refuse to buy into their Tragic Hafu narrative. But that’s another reason I don’t want to be a princess—because I’d definitely be the worst princess ever, and I don’t need to stand out even more than I already do by being that bad at something. I know some of those gossip-mongers would have no trouble gossiping extra loud from the sidelines, vocalizing the thing that’s always dancing around the back of my head: