From Little Tokyo, With Love Read online

  “Well, get ready, because there’s way more where that came from,” I say, gesturing to the gloriously clear early evening sky. “Once we get to the old zoo, I’m expecting you to be fully dazzled.”

  I have to say, this amorphous stretch between day and night always feels extra weird during the summer, when the sun hovers in the sky for longer and the light fights off the encroaching darkness for a few extra hours, refusing to give an inch. The heat also lingers, although out here it’s not quite as blistering as downtown. All the green tempers it—there’s that scrap of shade from a lazy palm frond, that soft breeze feathering over our skin. I know summer is a time a lot of people associate with pure fun—freedom and possibility, a season when things both end and begin. But I’ve always seen it as hopelessly melancholy. The sun and the heat try so hard to stay, to hang on to those last gasps of daylight before sliding into the cool gloom of fall.

  It’s not just summer that’s weird and melancholy right now, though—there’s also this off-kilter energy between me and Henry. After Craig stormed out, things mostly got back to normal—whatever this afternoon’s version of “normal” is. We cycled through our customers, Henry took pictures with all his fans, and we left Auntie Och gleefully tallying up the day’s impressive earnings.

  And Henry and I have snapped back to our usual dynamic—his happy-puppy energy bouncing off my permanent scowl and resulting in snipey bickering. But right now there’s something about it that feels hollow, like we’re playacting exaggerated versions of ourselves, wearing costumes that suddenly feel too big.

  I can’t help but flash back to our afternoon at Katsu That, to that moment when he met my eyes and very seriously asked if I was okay—

  “Rika, is everything all right?” Henry says, as if reading my mind.

  And those simple words bring up that wild swirl of untamed feelings all over again. I feel my face get hot, my chest tighten. I don’t know why I’m having all these emotions over such a basic question.

  “Fine,” I say briskly, quickening my step.

  God, we’re about to be late. Part of me wants to turn around and go home. There’s no way she’ll wait for very long—is there? Will she fight as hard as the sun to stay here? Will she fight as hard . . . for me?

  I can’t stop that tiny flutter of hope skittering through my gut, wanting so desperately to believe that we’ll arrive at those jagged rock formations and see Grace Kimura, her brilliant smile lighting up the whole damn park as she throws her arms wide to greet me. “We’re coming up on seven way too fast, and since she never responded to your texts, we have no real way of communicating with her, and I just . . . I hope . . .” I trail off, the words thickening in my throat. I can’t even vocalize my hope. It feels too much like . . . well, a fairy tale.

  “She’ll be there,” Henry says, the sureness in his voice sending a flash of warmth through me that has nothing to do with the hazy sun. “But I meant, like, are you all right after what happened with that rude asshole—Craig?”

  “Oh,” I say, my voice tipping up in surprise. “I mean . . . yeah. Of course. He’s always doing shit like that—saying shit like that. I’m used to it.”

  That last bit comes out way snappier than I intend, and I bite my lip, as if trying to stuff all the words back into my mouth. Henry’s quiet for a long moment, and the only sounds are our feet rustling against the soft cushion of the grass as we continue to tramp toward the abandoned zoo.

  When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, I have to strain to hear it.

  “That doesn’t make what he said okay.”

  I . . . what? I have no idea what to do with that, so now it’s my turn to be silent. I find myself walking faster, moving ahead of him. Like I’m trying to outrun both the slow set of the sun and any further conversation.

  But Henry being Henry, that’s not the end of it.

  “That guy’s a dick,” Henry says with great conviction. “And you’re so you—”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I say, my face flaming.

  “Just . . . you never have any problem telling me when I’ve done something . . . displeasing,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.

  I walk even faster, farther ahead of him, my face getting hotter with every step. I don’t want him to see how red I’m getting.

  “So why don’t you let that Craig dipshit have it?” Henry continues.

  “I did—once,” I say. “Well, two times. When we were kids in judo together. I was eight, he was ten.”

  “I definitely need to know this story,” Henry says.

  “That’s basically it. The first time, we were sparring, and he didn’t release me when I tapped out—so I bit him. The other time, he was being obnoxious, saying a bunch of shit about my family. He made Belle cry. I saw red, and I charged him. I don’t know what I was thinking—he was so much bigger than me. Auntie Suzy scooped me up by the back of my judogi before I even got to him.”

  “I can picture exactly what you must have looked like,” he says—and I swear I can hear his smile. “So small, yet so fierce.”

  “People in the community didn’t see it in quite such an adorable way,” I counter, keeping my steps brisk. “I almost got kicked out of the dojo over the biting—the whole Rakuyama clan nearly did. And that’s how the Legend of Rika the Biter and Her Uncontrollable Kaiju-Temper got started in Little Tokyo.” I try to revert to a lighter, more jokey tone. Like I’m delivering an especially epic movie trailer voiceover instead of talking about myself.

  But Henry doesn’t laugh.

  “I dunno,” he says. “It sounds like Rika the Biter was provoked. By an older kid who wasn’t playing even close to fair. Maybe that incident should’ve started the Legend of Craig the Big Bully Asshole instead.”

  “Not how the story goes,” I say, waving a hand. “But it’s cool. I aspire to one day transform from Rika the Biter to full nure-onna.”

  “Nure-onna?” he says. Perfect rolled r again.

  “She’s a mythical creature from Japanese folklore—a badass snake-woman,” I say. “Only she’s able to be calculated in her lashing out. I . . . my temper. It destroys things. It’s like this monster, living inside me. I have to shove it down, keep it all chained up. I already bring a lot of the wrong kind of attention to my family just by existing. If I let loose on Craig, if I totally let the monster out . . .” I shake my head. “The consequences could be a lot. His father is really powerful in the community—they could get people to boycott my Aunties’ restaurant if they really wanted to, or ban all the Rakuyamas from Nikkei Week.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?” he asks, his tone genuinely curious. “A monster?”

  “Always,” I say. “When I get into a rage about something, it’s bad. It’s like this thing, pounding against my chest, dying to get out. And when it does get out, it wants to bite things. Dump full cans of soda on people. Or . . . see that family over there?” I gesture to a happy family lounging in a picnic area: Mom, Dad, two little daughters. All perfect and blonde and wearing coordinating outfits. The girls both have red balloons, floating lazily above their heads. “When I was a kid, we were out on the Japanese Village Plaza one day, and I saw a picture-perfect family like that with these two little blonde white girls holding Hello Kitty balloons. They were about the same age as me and Belle. Belle really wanted a balloon—it was pink and sparkly, after all—and Auntie Och said no, it was a waste of money. Somehow, those white girls overheard and started making fun of Belle. Talking about how she couldn’t even afford a freakin’ balloon, laughing at her little homemade princess dress. They said she couldn’t be a real princess anyway, because she didn’t look like one.”

  “Because Asian,” Henry murmurs.

  “Yeah. They started calling her Mulan. In a way that was definitely not meant as a compliment—and Belle always wanted to be Cinderella anyway, so she started cryi
ng. So I, um . . . I popped their balloons.”

  “What?” Henry hoots, shaking his head. “Just like that?”

  “I mean, they were already deflating, getting lower to the ground—it wasn’t that much work to run over and stomp on them. That ‘pop’ was so satisfying. Of course they started crying, and I got in huge trouble, and Auntie Och hustled us back home. Belle was pissed at me for ruining the day.”

  “Sounds like she should have thanked you,” Henry says. “You were a brave little knight, swooping in to avenge her honor. Personally, I think your inner nure-onna should be proud of that.”

  “Belle definitely did not see it that way,” I say, my voice wry. “I was destructive. An angry monster, ready to attack, fangs bared.”

  I quicken my pace, wanting to get away from the perfect blonde family. Will my mother also see a monster? Or will she understand? She’s a beautiful princess, a queen—and yet I swear I saw something so familiar in her eyes that day at the parade.

  I’m so set on my determined march—eyes forward, not looking at Henry at all, focused on getting to Grace—that I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel his hand grab mine.

  I freeze in my tracks. Like if I pretend to be invisible, I won’t feel that crackle of energy running up my arm.

  I’m still in front of him, my arm stretched out behind me, and he catches up so he’s standing right next to me. Now our arms dangle between us, loosely connected at the point where he’s taken my hand.

  “You keep talking about your temper—and it seems like people in your family, your community like to bring it up a lot, too,” he says. I’m still frozen in place, my eyes trained straight ahead, not looking at him. It feels deeply weird. It also feels like moving so much as a millimeter would be even weirder.

  So I just keep looking off into the distance.

  “I . . . I don’t really see anger,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. For some reason, I think he’s flushing, too, and that only makes me flush more. “I see passion. I see that you care so much about things—about your family, protecting the people you love, not wanting to hurt them in any way. But I think sometimes that’s hurting you.”

  Tears spring to my eyes, unbidden. I definitely can’t move now.

  “What that Craig guy said to you wasn’t just, like, teasing,” he continues. “It was cruel. You said you’re worried about destroying things, but some things need to be destroyed. That doesn’t make you a monster. Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

  We stand there for a moment, frozen in time. I am acutely conscious of the sun beating down on us, the sweat beading the back of my neck, the scent of jacaranda wafting through the air. And, of course, of his hand holding mine. His touch is light, his grip is loose—I could easily pull away if I wanted to.

  And yet, I don’t.

  Henry’s the one who finally breaks the spell, giving my hand a little tug forward, then dropping it.

  “We should get moving,” he says, his voice overly bright—back to wearing that too-big costume. He walks ahead of me, his stride long, his steps jaunty. I almost expect him to start whistling. “I have no idea where I’m going,” he calls over his shoulder. “You gotta take the lead again.”

  I shake myself out of my frozen stupor—as if an evil witch has released me from her curse—and jog back in front of him, self-consciously brushing my unruly hair forward so that, once again, he can’t see my face.

  * * *

  It takes us ten minutes more to reach the site of the old zoo, but it feels like ten years. We’re definitely about to be late. The sun is hazy in the sky now, the full power of its brightness beginning to dim. It bounces off those jagged rock formations in dreamy patches of light.

  This old site has always fascinated me—there’s a sense of abandonment and decay, all too apparent from the fading slashes of graffiti sweeping over some of the old sun-bleached orange-brown animal enclosures and the rickety picnic tables covered in the gossamer film of spiderwebs. And yet, there is also something about it that’s indisputably alive—the air feels heavier when you enter the space, the chorus of bug chitterings seems to get louder, and I always half expect all that graffiti to come to life, leap off those surfaces, and envelop everything in its bright web of jagged lines.

  It’s almost like the old zoo is begging not to be forgotten, even though it no longer serves its original purpose and never will again.

  The area is fairly deserted as Henry and I approach—there’s a mom trying to get her kids packed up and outta there, an old man taking a meandering walk with a sack of oranges slung over his shoulder . . .

  And then the old man moves out of the way to reveal a slim figure in a wispy white summer dress with a flowing mane of raven hair. Her back is to us, and she’s standing very still.

  Waiting.

  My footsteps slow, even as my heart speeds up. And I swear a glow surrounds this figure, calling out to me. My heartbeat is so loud, I can hear it in my ears, pounding relentlessly through my bloodstream, syncing with each step forward.

  I imagine mere milliseconds into the future, the figure turning and seeing me, her eyes lighting up as the glow emanating from her surrounds us both—

  “Rika,” Henry says—and he sounds as excited as I feel. “I think that’s . . .”

  Then she actually does turn. And her face does light up—for the man rushing toward her and sweeping her into a romantic embrace.

  It’s not her.

  It’s not Grace.

  My head gets the message before my heart does, stopping me dead in my tracks once again.

  And then my heart gets it, too, plummeting back through my chest, my stomach, right down to my shoes.

  It’s not her.

  “Oops, false alarm,” Henry says. “It really looked like her from the back, though.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, my voice spilling out in a way that I want to be brisk and businesslike but sounds way too much like I’m trying not to cry. “It . . . it’s just like I thought. We’re too late, she’s not here, and . . . I already knew she wouldn’t be, I don’t know why I let myself . . . hope . . .”

  “Hey.” Henry moves in front of me so I have to look at him instead of remaining fixated on Not Grace off in the distance. “Just because that’s not her doesn’t mean she isn’t here, period. I did some research into the old zoo last night—aren’t there other areas, like . . .” He gestures at the rock formations. “Inside? Or behind? That we can explore?”

  “Yes,” I say, forcing my mind to focus, to stop my heart from wailing at me about its dashed hopes. “But why would she go deeper inside if the whole purpose is to meet up with me? Why would she hide?”

  Henry purses his lips and turns to the rock formations, assessing their every crevice. “Maybe she doesn’t want anyone else to see her—since she’s gone off the grid and all. But also, this whole situation is weird, right?” he says. “Just flat-out, does not make sense, sounds like a totally made-up story weird. I don’t think we can apply logic to any of it. You said the zoo is like LA’s ancient ruins. So we have to consider ourselves true adventurers—explore every possibility.”

  He grins at me—and his gaze is so earnest, I can’t help but feel that little flutter of hope rise in my chest again.

  “I . . . okay,” I say, turning back to the rock formations. “So, yes, there are more parts of this we can explore. These enclosures were kind of built into a giant hill, and there’s this area that’s sort of inside the formations, that leads you to the upper part of the hiking trail—that’s where the graffiti game really comes out. It’s kinda hard to maneuver in, though—you might be a little, um . . . tall . . .”

  Why does a word as mundane as “tall” make me blush all of a sudden? What is wrong with me?

  “I can handle it,” he says, his grin turning sly. “I’ve got moves, remember?”

  And
then he dances ahead of me, that balletic grace of his on full display. The kids being swept off by their mom titter among themselves, pointing in his direction. He notices, makes a goofy face at them—and dances even more.

  I find myself laughing, too, as I jog to catch up with him, wondering how someone can be so . . . unrestrained. Unselfconscious. I am always so aware of how my body is positioned, what I look like, what people might say about me.

  But he doesn’t care. He is so utterly and completely himself.

  “It’s this way,” I say, jogging ahead so I can lead him. I gesture to the entryway of one of the formations—a big jagged-edged hole that looks like a gaping mouth. “See, I think this entryway used to be covered in glass, so you could see lions roaming around inside. And then we go over here . . .” I step inside the formation, into the cavernous darkness. In front of us is another, much smaller hole revealing a narrow series of concrete steps bordered on each side by rocky stone walls—a tunnel, basically. A set of iron bars hovers over the entrance to the steps, presenting an additional challenge—the space we have to crawl through to get to the steps is so tiny, we’ll both have to crouch down. And Henry will have to crouch down so much more.

  Because, you know . . . he’s so tall.

  “Really—we can go in?” Henry says, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. “This looks like the kind of forbidden area kids sneak into in movies and then end up either getting arrested or dying horrifically after awakening some kind of ancient curse.”

  “I love how those are our only choices,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But, no, this is safe—part of the ruins that people explore all the time. These steps are what leads us to the upper part of the trail—see how the sunlight is coming through? And if you get really scared, I’ll protect you.”

  I half expect him to protest, all manly-like, but that’s not Henry—he just grins and gestures for me to go first.

  I crouch under the iron bars, crawl through the opening, and carefully begin making my way up the concrete staircase—another portal, transporting me to another magical part of Griffith Park. I spare a glance behind me and see Henry ducking under the bars, graceful as a cat.