Dad took a step toward us. And I braced myself for him to come over and ask what the hell we were doing there, sipping on alcoholic drinks.
I didn’t mind getting caught. Clubbing with Byron had been more fun than I’d anticipated. We’d gotten tipsy on Grasshoppers and danced ourselves silly before Dad showed up. I’d figured getting grounded for at least a month wasn’t so bad a price to pay for the awesome night we had.
I liked staying home most Saturday nights anyway. My mom pressed me so hard about my schoolwork, it was usually the only chance I got during the week, outside of art club, to dedicate some serious time to making art.
I'd only come out with Byron that night to help him feel better about having to return to Tokyo Progressive—or ToProg as all the students called it—for a second term after what happened with Jake toward the end of the first one. And the truth was, I was getting tired. I wouldn’t have minded if Dad told us right then and there that it was time to call it a night.
But before he could come towards us, one of the older guys coming down the stairs beckoned Dad over.
He looked to be around the same age as my dad but with a lot more salt in his otherwise ink black hair. I had a feeling he wasn’t one of Mr. Nakamura’s guys. He came off a lot more intimidating than a minion, and he had a lot more visible tattoos. They crawled above the closed collar of his shirt and over the hand he’d beckoned my father with for what looked like a short conference.
I probably should have chosen that moment to leave. Byron had been tugging on my arm, clearly ready to ghost. But something had kept me there, rooted to the spot. I’d had this weird feeling that they were talking about me.
A feeling that had been semi-confirmed when Dad glanced back at me, then nodded at the super-tatted Asian guy who’d been doing most of the talking.
And then…
Well, nothing. In the end, Dad had just walked out with his group.
He never confronted us. And to our relief, he didn't bring it up to our mom, who would've lost her shit if she'd known we’d been out clubbing, not studying with mutual friends like we’d told her.
That was five days ago. And now, here was Dad saying he needed a favor for an associate of Mr. Nakamura’s who lived in the same expensive district where he’d caught us underage clubbing.
As we walked toward a station with trains that only went in the opposite direction of our apartment in one of Tokyo’s less expensive wards, I had to ask, "What would a friend of Mr. Nakamura’s want from me?"
"It's the son of Mr. Nakamura’s associate, actually,” Dad answered as we stepped onto the station’s down escalator. “He needs some ASL tutoring."
"Tutoring?" I repeated. "Is he Japanese?"
That would sort of make sense. Back when Byron was still popular, the other kids in his Deaf Studies track were always asking him to teach them bits of American sign language.
"No, he's a Chinese boy, hoping to go to college in America someday. He already has a private tutor for everything else, but his guy can't teach him ASL.”
"Why ASL? Is he hard of hearing like Byron and mom?"
Dad made an agitated sound like I was asking him too many questions. "He doesn't talk. That's all I know."
Okay…like Alice said in that Lewis Carroll book I’d had to read last year for English class, “curiouser and curiouser.”
"So, you actually met this kid?" I asked my dad.
"Briefly," he answered.
One terse word.
He wanted me to let this go. I could tell. Dad never talked about work. Ever. But I had to ask, "Shouldn't Byron teach him since he's a boy too?"
"This is an important associate of Mr. Nakamura’s. Byron wouldn't be a good fit. I need somebody who would take the job seriously."
I guess Dad had a point. Byron was the one who would eventually lose most of his hearing to the same genetic condition as Mom, but he believed that science would magically work everything out for him. He barely kept up with his special deaf classes at school since he figured he wouldn’t need JSL after leaving Japan. And he had absolutely no interest in learning how to read lips. He probably wouldn’t have retained his ASL as well as he had if not for us signing with Mom every day. The truth was, I took ASL way more seriously than he did.
The train whooshed into the station soon after Dad and I stepped onto the platform for the line headed toward the Roppongi district. Dad hustled me inside. He was no longer in the Army, but he always acted like grabbing a seat was some kind of special-ops mission.
I guess there weren't too many people headed toward one of Tokyo’s most popular nightlife destinations this early in the day, though. We easily found two seats right by the door.
"I'm a little worried about teaching a kid," I admitted to my father after we sat down. "I've never tutored anybody before. And I don't want to embarrass your boss."
"Don't worry too much about it. This is just a meet-and-greet to see if the boy likes you. If he doesn't want you to be his teacher, that's okay. The point is, we have to try because it's a special request from Mr. Nakamura’s associate. But you know, if the boy says anything to you. Anything I should know. Then make sure to tell me."
Well, that took some of the pressure off. But I had to wonder, "Anything like what?"
That agitated look came over Dad's face again. "Just take the meeting. Probably won’t anything come of it. Sometimes guys
