What the hell?
I can’t even begin to think of the level of planning that went into this. Maybe Auntie Suzy is a witch after all.
“Okay,” Belle says, gesturing to the iPad. Her expression has shifted again—now she’s all business. “We need to discuss your future.”
“My what?” I look at the screen. Belle has assembled an Insta-worthy aesthetic collage of Grace Kimura photos. Grace in one of her most famous movie roles, running through the rain, eyes full of fake tears. Grace on the red carpet with a posse of other Asian American movie stars, smiling her most dazzling smile. Grace done up for a photo shoot as an actual princess, tiara sparkling against her raven hair.
These photos orbit the main attraction, though—a giant photo of me that Belle has placed in the center. She of course couldn’t find one where I’m smiling or even making a borderline attractive face. I’m looking at something off to the side, my face twisted into a scowl. I am the grouchy sun in this thoroughly weird solar system.
That has not stopped Belle from photoshopping a tiny crown onto my head.
“Rika,” Belle breathes, her voice reverent. “Don’t you see what this means? You’re Hollywood royalty. An actual princess. Which is hilarious, since you’re so opposed to all things princess—”
“Yes, ‘hilarious’ is definitely the word I would use,” I mutter.
“Grace is going to bring you into her world, you’ll be swept into the upper echelons of Asian Hollywood,” Belle crows. “That’s your happily ever after!”
Her eyes are lit with glee as she runs her bright pink nails over the collage, and I know she’s picturing all of this in her head, the sequence unspooling like the third act of her favorite movie. My skin airbrushed, my eyes wide and shiny with happy tears, my wardrobe suddenly brimming with fancy designers and diamond-encrusted headwear.
Before I can ponder that further, Rory stomps back in and triumphantly waves something over her head.
“Found it,” she says. “Proof.”
She marches over to the bed and inserts herself between Belle and me, passing me the two scraps of paper clasped in her hand. Nak grunts in protest, resettling himself.
One of the scraps is another faded photo—teenage Grace again, not much older than she is in the picture I stole from Suehiro. But this time she’s wearing a blah hospital gown instead of a yukata, and she’s holding a tiny smoosh-faced baby. She’s still smiling, though, that Grace Kimura dazzle on display even though she looks tired around the eyes. The other is a crumbling piece of paper that appears to be my birth certificate.
And right there in the mother column? Grace Rakuyama. Because of course Grace was once a Rakuyama, like us.
I feel light-headed again, the letters and numbers on the certificate blurring in and out.
“Where did you find this?” I finally manage.
“The locked drawer where Ma Och keeps her weed stash,” Rory says, sitting up proudly. “I taught myself how to pick all the locks in her dresser last week. Figured that most forbidden drawer is where the moms keep their most top secret documents.”
“Nice work, Aurora,” Belle says, giving her an appreciative nod. “Now that we’ve determined the facts, we need to talk about Rika’s future.”
“My future?” I spit out, my voice twisting on that last syllable. “Y’all, this is not . . . not . . .”
I shake my head, frustration welling in my chest. How do they not get that this isn’t some kind of fun game for me? It’s not a mystery for Sleuth Rory to solve. A fairy tale for Queen Belle to preside over. It’s learning that my entire existence is a lie. That the foundation of my life is something totally different than what I thought it was.
It feels like there’s an earthquake in my heart.
Once again, that wall goes up between me and my sisters. Cousins.
They’re exchanging looks now, looks that say they don’t understand why I’m freaking out, but they know they have to play it cool. They have to handle me, because I’m being difficult, as usual. Their undeniable connection snaps into place. They belong, as always, to each other, and communicate all of this through their sister telepathy.
“I don’t want to be a Hollywood princess,” I say, trying to make my voice measured, even. Still, it cracks. “I just want to . . .” To what? I gnaw on my lower lip, considering.
“To talk to her, right?” Rory says. “Get all the answers about the mystery of your existence.”
“Something like that,” I mumble.
“Then let’s figure that out,” Belle says, her demeanor back to all business. She gives me a sidelong look, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction. She still doesn’t understand why I’m freaking out. I guess if Belle found out Grace Kimura was her mother, she’d be too busy celebrating and posting Insta collages to think about anything else.
“Hmm,” Belle says. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Rory leans over, peering at the iPad in Belle’s lap. Belle has navigated away from her Asian Hollywood Royalty collage and is now tapping her way through various social apps so fast, her fingertips are a blur.
“All of Grace’s feeds are gone,” Belle says, her eyebrows drawing together. “No Insta, no Twitter. The usernames don’t exist anymore.”
“Maybe her, uh, people took them down,” I say. “After today’s disaster, doesn’t it make sense to go dark on social?”
“Go dark, yes,” Belle says, tapping her way over to TMZ. “But usually that means posting a hiatus message and leaving it be. Maybe locking, if you want to get extreme. But not deleting entirely.” Her brow furrows further as she scrolls through various news stories and paparazzi footage. “Even weirder: Grace’s reps still haven’t issued a statement. No one’s seen her since she fainted at the parade.”
“So she’s missing?” Rory says, her eyes widening at the hint of yet another mystery.
“Probably just lying low, but all of this is bizarre,” Belle says. “There should have been a statement by now, at the very least. Something about how she was exhausted and the sun got
