From Little Tokyo, With Love Page 10

  I reach up to touch my cheek and realize it’s even warmer than Katsu That’s un-air-conditioned kitchen. Actually, my whole body feels warm, suffused with an inexplicable flush that’s crept from my toes to the roots of my brassy hair, which is currently contained in my brand-new LAPL baseball cap.

  “Are you sick?” Belle reaches over to feel my forehead, and I bat her hand away.

  “Not sick,” I insist. “Just . . .” I trail off, trying to think of what lie I can tell her. Because I definitely do not want to say: Just can’t stop randomly thinking about this maddening boy who’s helping me find my long-lost mother and how it felt when he sort of touched me—not really in a sexy way, it was all very accidental, yet my brain cannot seem to stop itself from playing these three seconds of footage over and over and—

  “Ah, of course,” Belle says, snapping her fingers. “You’re preoccupied with your Mom Quest! I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to help much the past couple days, Rika-chan. My queen duties have been keeping me so busy, but rest assured I’m still ready for your entrée into Asian Hollywood—”

  “Rika!” Auntie Och strides into the kitchen, her bushy eyebrows drawn together. Belle’s and my heads snap up from the half-finished katsu sauce. I feel a little flutter of something deep in my gut—and am surprised to realize it’s disappointment that Belle didn’t guess what I was actually thinking.

  But . . . why? Did I want us to have some kind of sisterly bonding moment over my obsessive thoughts, which sound like they belong in a rom-com? Don’t I hate rom-coms?

  That confuses me and sends me down all sorts of spiraling thought paths I definitely do not like, so I focus on Auntie Och. “Go take table four’s order,” she says, jerking her formidable mane of hair toward the dining room. “They asking for you.”

  “Me?” I say, my brow furrowing in consternation. Has the queen of the Beckys, the one I dumped soda on last week, returned for her ultimate revenge?

  “They want ‘the girl with the red hair,’” Auntie Och says, her tone brusque. “That must be you, ne?”

  “I . . . right,” I say, exchanging a puzzled look with Belle. “Okay, then.”

  I dutifully straighten my apron, make sure my hair’s tucked securely under my hat, and check my watch. It’s only a few minutes to five—I can make this my final task of the shift. And even if it involves the Return of Queen Becky, well, I can suck it up, grit my teeth, and ignore her pleas for an “authentic Japanese accent.” Because right after that, I’ll be set free—ready for the fateful meeting with my mother. I imagine myself as a princess escaping the suffocating confines of her castle, gleefully tearing through the woods, her long thicket of hair streaming behind her—

  Wait, why am I imagining myself as a princess? I have literally never been able to get that image to appear in my mind. Not even when I was little and had a very brief moment of wanting to join Belle on #TeamPrincess.

  I glance at my reflection in the big metal doors leading out to the dining room. I still see the nure-onna: fangs bared, ruby eyes flashing. Ready to snap at anyone who looks at her funny. I pause as the image shimmers in and out, those brilliant eyes staring back at me.

  And I’m not sure why, but that weird sense of disappointment flashes through me again. Like maybe I was hoping to see something different this time?

  I shake it off, stuffing that wild curl of red hair that keeps escaping back under my baseball cap. Then I reach into my pocket and touch the three photos I’ve stored there: the pictures of young Grace and Auntie Suzy and the one of baby me being held by new-mom Grace. They’re like a talisman, calming me. Reminding me of my ultimate goal.

  I imagine my nure-onna armor rising up and enveloping me, that essential layer of protection. Then I straighten my spine and push through the double doors, emerging into the chaos of the dining room.

  The long table in the middle is taken up by the usual assortment of raucous Uncles, who come in every week for brunch and spend endless hours gossiping, downing Sapporos, and commending Auntie Och for weaseling a liquor license from the city’s nefarious clutches. This is, quite honestly, all part of Auntie Och’s brilliance—she knows the Uncles love to spend their days getting absolutely tanked, and an abundance of Sapporo gives Katsu That a huge advantage over other would-be brunch places.

  But the Uncles aren’t the only ones causing a ruckus today. Every booth is packed. And as I scan the faces, I realize I don’t recognize most of them.

  That’s odd. We usually get a handful of new folks popping in during Nikkei Week, but for the most part, I know all the clientele.

  “What’s this, people waiting?” Auntie Och emerges from the kitchen, nearly barreling right into me. My gaze follows hers to the front of the restaurant, where a small line has formed. “Hmm.” Her brow furrows. “Strange. But good, ne? I will go start a list!” I watch as she bustles toward the front, ready for battle. It is strange. We’re usually busy, but not so much that we need a wait list. What on earth—

  “Rika-chan!” Auntie Och barks over her shoulder. “Table four!”

  “Right,” I say, snapping out of my reverie and aiming myself at table four, a cozy booth stuffed in the back right-hand corner.

  I scan the customers as I approach, activating my nure-onna armor even more. Three white girls have crammed themselves into the booth, which is really more of a two-person situation. They’re looking at their phones, whispering among themselves, giggling. As I approach, one of them glances my way and her eyes get all big. She whispers something to the girl she’s crammed next to, and then they’re all looking at me and . . .

  What the hell is going on?

  I don’t recognize any of these girls—why are they already laughing at me? Did Queen Becky warn them about Rika the Soda-Dumping Bandit? Or was it Craig Shimizu, who loves nothing more than recounting the long-ago tale of Rika the Biter?

  Angry heat creeps up the back of my neck, and I shove it down. I cannot unleash the rage right now—not when I’m so close to something I want so badly. I have to be the nure-onna before she strikes, strategic and cunning. I only have to get through this last table, and then I can go find my mother.

  I touch the photos in my pocket again.

  Then I force my face to be pleasant, eager smile in place.

  Just. One. Table.

  The whispering and giggling quiets as I reach the table and take out my order pad, but they’re all still staring at me with big saucer eyes, unsettling grins in place. They’re like tricksters, ready to present me with three riddles—get all three right and I win a pot of gold. Get one wrong and I die.

  When you get down to it, all fairy tales are pretty savage.

  “Hi there,” I say, pencil poised over pad. I am relieved to hear my voice sounding smooth, helpful. “What can I get for you?”

  “Ummmm.” One of the girls flashes me a big toothy grin and glances down at the menu as if she’s seeing it for the first time. “I’ll have the, um, chicken.”

  “Breast, thigh, or karaage?” I say, pencil still poised.

  “Oh, um . . .” The girl looks at the menu again, frowning. Like she had no idea that question was coming. The girl sitting next to her whispers something in her ear, and they giggle again, sneaking glances at me as they pretend to study the menu.

  I clench my teeth into a pleasant expression and tighten my grip around the pencil. What is up with these girls? They’re acting like I’m some kind of zoo attraction. I clench my teeth harder, try to make my smile even brighter. Tell my kaiju-temper to stay put . . .

  And it’s right then that I turn a little to the left and see the third girl at the table trying to surreptitiously take my picture.

  “Hey!” I spit out before I can stop myself. That heat blazes through my entire body now, kindling that’s burst into wild flame. “What do you think you’re doing—”

  “Rika!”

&n
bsp; I whip around to see Rory stomping through the restaurant, waving her phone around. The rest of the chaos quiets as everyone turns to look at her. Even the brunching Uncles pause, sweaty bottles of Sapporo clutched in their fists. Auntie Och frowns in our direction—and even though Rory’s the one making all the noise with her stompy little feet, I can’t help but feel most of that frown is for me. The center of attention in a bad way, yet again.

  Rory comes to a stop in front of me and brandishes her phone.

  “Rika,” she says again—and the restaurant has gone so quiet, her voice seems to reverberate off the walls. “What. Is. This?!”

  I take the phone from her, trying to ignore the flush that’s creeping up the back of my neck again—only now it’s not angry, it’s embarrassed. I can feel the stares of every single person in this restaurant, including my table of bad orderers, who are snapping pic after pic with their phones.

  I wish my fairy godmother would swoop in and save me.

  Not that the nure-onna needs saving.

  But maybe just this once?

  Rory’s screen displays an Instagram post, a blurry photo of . . . oh god. It’s me and Henry. At the library, right before we made our daring escape. We’re standing in the rotunda as the crowd presses in on us. I look angry, of course, my face screwed into an expression that’s somewhere between confusion and total fury. My hair is flying everywhere, that blazing red lock unfurled like a flag of pure rage. Henry stands a bit behind me: his face pale, his expression verging on terror. I am a wild monster girl, protecting a handsome prince.

  I look up from the phone, my gaze sweeping over Rory’s indignant expression to the rest of the restaurant. They’re all just staring at me now, and I want to sink into the ground. A smattering of whispers bubbles up, each word scraping against my skin like sandpaper.

  “That’s her . . . the girl with Hank Chen . . .”

  “Are they a thing?”

  “Why would he be a thing with a waitress . . .”

  “Rika!” Rory hisses, snapping my attention back to her. She taps the phone screen with her index finger. “This post says you were with freaking Hank Chen at the library yesterday—and someone in the comments figured out who you are and where you work and . . .” Her gaze shifts to the table of white girls, who are still taking photos of me. To the Sapporo-loving Uncles, who are openly watching us. And to Katsu That’s entrance, where a line has started to form and is already snaking its way down the block . . .

  The rage that was rising up inside of me morphs into a small, hard knot in my stomach.

  This is the third day this week I’ve managed to make a complete spectacle of myself—all while I’m trying to discreetly find my mother and keep my Aunties from learning about my quest and—

  I’m jolted out of my thoughts by an earsplitting scream from the street. Auntie Och instantly snaps to attention, narrowing her eyes at the increasingly unruly line outside.

  The thing is, that didn’t sound like a scream of distress, it sounded more like . . . excitement? Like—

  “Sorry, no, I’m just trying to get inside, I—”

  Suddenly, Henry Chen is . . . well, some combination of falling and being shoved through Katsu That’s front door. His face is flushed, his expression flustered. His incognito baseball cap has been knocked askew and is doing nothing to hide his too-cute face.

  A scandalized murmur runs through the crowd. The bad orderers at table four actually gasp. And the line out front—which is very quickly turning into a mob—presses itself up against the window, snapping pictures and screaming for Hank Chen.

  Auntie Och plants herself in front of Henry, hands on her hips.

  “Hey! You! Gotta wait in line like everyone else, ne?” she barks, making a shooing motion. “No cuts.”

  “Auntie Och!” Rory waves her spindly arms around, her face lit with more excitement than I’ve ever seen on her. “No! He’s, like . . . he’s . . .”

  “He’s coming with me,” I blurt out, finally unfreezing from the temporary spell the sheer absurdity of this situation has cast over me and marching authoritatively to the front of the restaurant. I try to block out all the whispers, all the stares. All the attention that’s pressing down on me, making me feel like the walls are closing in.

  I find myself focusing on Henry—his perplexed dark eyes, his flop of mussed hair, his terribly interesting mouth, now quirked into an expression of total confusion. Focusing on him and only him . . . it grounds me in a weird way. Makes me feel like nothing else matters.

  This is not something the nure-onna approves of, but it works for now.

  I reach him, grab his hand, and tow him toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, waitress—red-haired waitress!” one of the girls from table four yells. “You didn’t finish taking our order!”

  “I’ll take your order when you stop whispering about me and taking my picture and figure out which kind of freaking chicken you want!” I snarl, dragging Henry through the kitchen doors. “There are only three kinds—it’s not. That. Hard!”

  “Wow, rude!” one of them calls after me.

  “There you are,” Belle says, as I storm back into the kitchen. “I was starting to wonder if the Beckys had managed to take you down, but to be honest, I can imagine no possible scenario where that . . . happens . . .”

  Her mouth falls open as she zeroes in on the boy I’ve dragged in behind me.

  And, for perhaps the first time in the seventeen years she’s been on this planet, Belle Rakuyama is rendered speechless.

  Auntie Och and Rory bustle in after us, talking over each other.

  “Rika-chan, why you insult customers like that? We cannot afford—”

  “Hank. Chen. The Hank Chen?! God, I have so many questions—”

  “Everyone stop talking!” I yell, waving my hands around.

  Surprisingly, they listen. The kitchen goes absolutely quiet—which only makes it easier to hear the chaos from the dining room.

  I take a deep breath. Look at each of them in turn. Try to think of what comes next.

  I finally settle for: “This is Henry. Henry Chen. And he’s kind of famous.”

  Auntie Och’s eyes narrow as she steps closer to Henry, sizing him up. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch.

  “You’re that boy from the other day,” she says slowly, like she’s some kind of TV detective putting all the pieces together. “The one doing extra credit with Rika.”

  “No, Ma Och,” Rory hisses through gritted teeth. Her little face has gone all red and she looks like she’s about ready to die of embarrassment. “He was on Dance! Off!, remember? He won!”

  Henry gives Rory a small smile—and she looks like she’s about to disintegrate into a pile of heart emojis. Something about his smile tugs at my heart, too—and I realize it’s because the primary feeling he’s beaming out is grateful. Like he’s thanking Rory for saving him from Auntie Och, even though he doesn’t exactly need anyone to save him here, especially not a moony-eyed twelve-year-old.

  “Um, yes,” I say hastily, snapping myself back to the present. “I mean. Both of those things are true. Henry just moved here for an acting gig, and he’s going to be starting school with us in the fall, so he asked me to, um, tutor him.”

  I studiously avoid Henry’s gaze, because I just know he’s looking at me with one of his smiles. I don’t know which one—smug? Earnest? Thankful?—and if I look at him, I’ll get too caught up in deciphering that, which is 100 percent not productive right now.

  “And then I guess some people saw us in the library while we were, um, studying, and they figured out where I work and . . . well . . .” I gesture toward the dining room.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rory sidling up to Belle and showing her the phone screen, the picture of Henry and me.

  “Rika went viral,” Rory murmurs, her voice full of a
we. “Twice if you count the Grace photo, but no one was really focusing so much on Rika-chan in that one.”

  “Wow, you guys are studying really hard,” Belle says, arching an eyebrow as she looks at the picture. I can practically see the gears in her brain turning—remembering how I was so flushed and out of it earlier, trying to speculate on the reason for my spacinesss . . .

  Thinking about that only makes me flush more. I try to shove it down, to will my cheeks to not turn bright pink.

  “Yeah, so,” I say, trying to make my voice as nonchalant as possible, “my shift’s about over, and we actually need to go study some more—”

  “No.” Auntie Och shakes her head vehemently, her laser-like gaze homing in on me. “Rika-chan, we have way too many customer, we need you to stay! Suzy is at the weekly Little Tokyo business owners meeting, and those things always last forever because George Watanabe drone on and on and on.”

  “But . . .” I shake my head and try to calm the flash of temper that’s already rising in my chest. I have a plan. I can’t let anything mess it up, not when I’m so close. “My shift is over. And I really need to study. You’ve got Belle and Rory—”

  “I’m really good at making the salad,” Rory boasts, grinning eagerly at Henry. “It’s kind of my specialty.”

  “Surely you can handle . . .” I spare a glance out the kitchen door’s tiny window, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Henry’s adoring public has apparently tired of waiting outside, and the massive line is trying to pack itself into Katsu That. We’re in serious danger of violating the fire code. And maybe some other codes as well.

  “W-we have to close,” I sputter. “We can’t handle this. I’m not sure we even have enough panko for this crowd—”

  “No.” Auntie Och glares at me. “We cannot turn away customers, Rika-chan, we must rise to the occasion. This kind of . . . mmm, what you call it? Publicity. Doesn’t come around very often.”

  “But . . .” My voice is plaintive, desperate. My rage has somehow morphed into panic, the realization that I could get stuck here and miss Grace flashing through me like a lightning bolt hitting me square in the chest.