1
Once a year, in late August, the Asian Girl Gang conducts its annual meeting. Attendance is mandatory. The agenda is preset. It is a closed-door event; only those sworn to uphold the five covenants of the AGG are permitted to attend:
ABS—always be snacking.Secrets make the bond healthier. (One of us writes Jonas Brothers fan fiction. One of us shaves our toes. And another clogged the school bathroom toilet so terribly with a pad that an outside plumbing company had to be called, after which the principal was prompted to hold a female-students-only assembly on the proper disposal of feminine products—it was me; that girl was me.)Motivate and encourage one another.My clothes are your clothes.And, I’ll do it if you do it.I stare at my three friends—Noora, Glory, and Hansani— on the computer screen. It is the first time we’ve conducted the meeting in separate locations, scattered all over the world in different time zones.
It’s eight p.m. here. I’m all the way in Tokyo, by far the farthest away from home. In Togu Palace, in my new room, which is all soft whites and earthy wood tones that could easily be featured in Japan’s Architectural Digest. It’s early morning in New York, where Noora is. She arrived a few days ago to move into the dorms at Columbia University. And even earlier for Glory and Hansani, four a.m. (they drew the short straw on time). Both are on the West Coast. Glory is visiting her dad in Portland before heading to the University of Oregon tomorrow. And Hansani is still in Mount Shasta but at a twenty-four-hour diner because she lives in the boonies and her father refuses to pay for the company to wire for the internet at home. She’ll leave in a couple days and be off to UC Berkeley. Among the three of them, my best friends are always the smartest people in the room. There is nothing these ladies can’t do. Hand to God, Glory can even field dress a deer. Their futures are set.
And mine?
Well, I’m trying to figure things out. My world teetered and turned upside down when I learned spring of my senior year that my father was the Crown Prince of Japan. Overnight I became a princess. It’s hard to believe and I’m still adjusting. I’ve been pretty much living in Tokyo (with one brief jaunt home, to Mount Shasta, after my relationship with my bodyguard was splashed all over the media). And my only goal has been to continue to get to know my father. That’s it.
Only …
Mr. Fuchigami, palace chamberlain and ruthless overlord, has been leaving catalogs to Japan’s elite schools all over the rooms I frequent in the palace. He’s even wrangled me into touring University of Tokyo tomorrow. Just my father’s and my grandfather, the emperor’s, undergraduate alma mater. No pressure. Only some pressure. I am standing in the past royals’ shadows. It’s far from a done deal. And I’ve made it clear I’m considering my options. So the question is: Gap year or school? The answer: I don’t know. Each option represents a different path. School in Japan leads me further down the princess conveyor belt. A gap year, further away from it—I’d be the first imperial princess in one hundred years not to go to school right away.
I pull Tamagotchi from his stinky nest at the foot of my bed and sink my nose into his wiry hair. He squirms from my embrace, planting himself farther down on the bed. Dumb dog. All I want to do is love him and be loved in return. Granted, he’s been a little out of sorts after arriving in Japan and being quarantined for fourteen days.
A server approaches Hansani and pours her a fresh cup of coffee. The mug steams, and she wraps her hands around it. “Thanks,” Hansani says to the server, smiling unsurely. “I’m sorry, I’ve been here so long. I promise I’ll tip you a lot.” The server says to take all the time she needs.
Hansani is like that. She projects an I’ll-mow-your-lawn-for-free vibe. Parents love her. She waits a beat for the server to leave, then stares directly into the camera and stage-whispers, “I barely have enough cash to cover this coffee. We need to end this now.”
“We’re almost done,” Noora pipes in. Behind her, there is a calendar with neon stickies. Already she’s enshrined in schedules and notes—it’s her happy place.
So far, we’ve covered: One, how we’ll keep in touch while out of state/country and in different time zones—it’s open season on texting; whoever is available will reply. Two, we all agree we must support each other emotionally during this transitional time. Three, when we will reunite—sadly, not until next summer at the earliest. But Noora will be visiting me in Japan during her winter break. I’ll be playing hostess, showing her the Tokyo sights.
“We have one last item to discuss,” Noora imparts.
“This is silly,” Glory grouches. “We don’t need to talk about number four on the list.” She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms.
Noora gives Glory the stink eye. “Last item on the agenda—”
“We are not going to spend our final meeting minutes going through which movie with a couple should be recast with two men or two women as leads,” Glory cuts in. She turns her cheek and says under her breath, “Titanic.”
“Honestly, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. Mine would be Dirty Dancing,” Hansani says. “The scene in the river? C’mon.”
Movement in the hall catches my eye. “Ladies,” I say. “I hate to cut this groundbreaking conversation short, but I have to go.”
“What?” Noora whines. “I haven’t even put forth my nomination. I had a whole five-page essay on my choice, The Notebook, prepared.” She holds up a stack of papers.
“I love you all.” I blow them a kiss. “But you’re all wrong. The correct answer is Pride and Prejudice.” I slam my laptop shut and scoot from the lavish bed and into the hall, Tamagotchi at my heels.
Mom whips around, startled. “Izumi. Hi. I thought you were with Akio.”
“He’ll be here soon.” I eye her carefully. Tamagotchi sits and twists his body to suck on his toes. “What are you doing?” The only room past mine is Dad’s.
She splays a hand against her chest as if surprised and offended. “Me? What am I doing?” she asks, clearly buying time. “Nothing. I was going to your father’s room. He wanted to show me something … a, uh, a plant?”
I purse my lips and cross my arms. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
She places a hand on her hip and huffs. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. If I want to have—”
I hold out a hand. “For my mental health, I’m going to need you to stop.” I try to think of non-sexy things. Baseball. Cultivating wheat. Socks with sandals.
Mom bites back a sigh. “I’m a grown woman.”
This is Mom’s second trip to Tokyo. The first had been in June and we’d been in semi–crisis mode (that whole bodyguard-scandal thing). Despite the chaos, it was obvious there was still a spark between her and my dad. After seeing me safe and secure, she’d left with a promise to return. I’d campaigned hard for her to come back sooner. Spend the summer with me in Tokyo. You won’t be teaching anyway. Say you will. Say you will. SAY YOU WILL. Of course, she did. She arrived the first week of July. Dad and I picked her up at the airport. As soon as I saw her, I skipped over. “Oof,” she said as I squeezed the life out of her. We disengaged and Dad swept into a bow. She did the same.
“Mak,” she said breathily, using his college nickname, short for Makotonomiya.
“Hanako,” he said, his smile reserved. “I am deeply pleased to see you again.”
By the time we hit the outskirts of Tokyo, Mom’s hand had inched across the car seat to hold Dad’s. Their little spark had become a tiny flame. She’d intended to stay at a nearby hotel, but the press quickly became unbearable. Safety was a concern. Hers and mine. It was decided, mostly by Dad, that she should move to the palace. A guest suite was prepared in a separate wing. She extended her trip from two weeks to three, then finally, to the rest of the summer.
There you have it.
Ever since, my parents have been full-on, absolute lovesick delinquents—a raging inferno. Morning walks in the garden. Cozy evening meals in corner booths. I even caught them in the pantry canoodling. And now this, a midnight rendezvous. Well, not quite midnight, eight p.m., close enough. All in all, it’s been a trip watching my pragmatic mother blush, swoon, and throw caution to the wind. I’m happy for her. And for me.
We’ve settled into a routine. Mom, Dad, and I have breakfast together. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of. Sitting down at the table, discussing our day—where we’ll be going, who we’ll be seeing, what needs to be done, then rushing off to our separate lives. My father and I to our imperial duties. Mom to read or relax since she’s on vacation. We come back together for dinner most nights. Staying long after the table has been cleared, Mom and Dad regale me with stories from their school days. How they met at a senior mixer. How Dad fetched a chair for Mom because he was concerned her feet might be hurting. “It was her shoes. The thick soles, I thought she had the same painful condition as my great-uncle who wore similar heels,” Dad confessed with a dry smile.
“They were platforms.” Mom frowned. “I bought them because they made me taller.”
I grinned broadly, the words go and on shining in my eyes.
Dad turned to her. “You were very cross with me.”
“I thought you were being deliberately rude. You insulted me, then wouldn’t look me in the eye,” Mom replied, leaning into him. I’ve noticed they naturally drift toward each other, like a tide to its beach.
“I was trying to be chivalrous and not stare at you. I found you … absolutely fascinating,” he said with wonder.
Moments like these are a balm to an ever-present ache. I blink and see the family portrait I drew in the second grade. There was Mom, me, and a purple amorphous blob as my father. I swallow. I’d thought knowing who my father was would be enough. But it’s not. There is still a void. I want us. I want the whole family.
The ache has doubled since yesterday. Mom booked a ticket home. She leaves in five days. She has to be back before school starts at College of the Siskiyous, where she teaches biology. I’m trying not to dwell on her departure. How much I’ll miss her. How much Dad will miss her.
Now, Mom’s eyes light on something behind me. “Akio,” she says warmly, a little too saccharine. “Hi. Nice to see you.”
I turn. He is at the mouth of the hall. For a moment, I stare. Bask in him. Six feet of perfection. Broad-shouldered. Cheekbones carved from granite. Piercing deep-set hooded eyes that burn right through me. Truly, Japan’s finest. Akio. His favorite movie is Die Hard. He exclusively reads nonfiction. And he most definitely has a future measuring the grass in his yard to ensure each blade is precisely five inches high. Sigh. I don’t know why, but I find all this enormously appealing. Once upon a time, Akio was my bodyguard. Now he’s just mine.
Growl.
Tamagotchi stands in front of me and bares his teeth. His hatred for Akio is directly proportional to my love for him. Love. Do I love Akio? I don’t know. I know I care for him. And I know Akio feels like home. Safe. Comfortable. Secure. No matter where I go or what I do, I am a boomerang; it’s him I think of; it’s him I want to return to. Is that love?
Tamagotchi shifts his weight forward. His hackles rise. Akio narrows his eyes at the dog.
Mom scoops up Tamagotchi. “Shush. You’re an awful dog,” she croons to him in a sweet voice. He squirms, but she keeps a hold.
Akio sweeps into a bow. “Ms. Tanaka.” Slowly he rises and moves forward, his steps quiet. Stealthy.
“Well,” Mom says. “I’ll just leave you two here. Have a nice evening.” She escapes with Tamagotchi around a bend in the hall.
Akio stops an inch short of me. “Are you certain that dog has had all his shots? And is your mother okay?”
“Tamagotchi is fine. And so is my mom,” I say, smoothing my hands over his lapels. He owns less formal clothing, but he wears a jacket and collared shirt every time he visits me in the palace.
Copyright © 2022 by Emiko Jean
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