“No,” he finally says, drawing the word out slowly (which makes me stare a little too long at his mouth again). “I came to the parade to show her some support—my part of the movie’s wrapped, and I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. She did check in once last night with Asian Hollywood—”
“Asian . . . Hollywood?” I sputter, leaning in, trying to make sure I heard him right. “That’s a thing?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, cracking his charming smile. “We have a group chat.” He brandishes his phone. “Grace is usually on it a lot, actually. She’s Chiitan.”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Chiitan—the otter mascot from Japan? The one who’s always doing those wild stunts? That’s her avatar.” He shows me the phone screen, featuring a cascade of tiny avatars. One of them does indeed look like a cartoon otter wearing a devilish expression and a pink turtle for a hat. “She checked in late last night,” he continues. “Said she was okay and she didn’t want any of us to worry, but she has to go off the grid for a bit. I dunno how they’re working that out with the movie since she’s got a couple weeks of shooting left, but yeah.”
“And you just believed her?” I shake my head again. “What if she’s been kidnapped or something?! What if that’s her captor feeding you lies—”
“Whoa, what’s with the instant conspiracy theorizing?” He holds up his hands. “Or is this another one of your Citizens Patrol duties? She actually sent us this secret code we came up with in the group—the one that means ‘I’m okay.’ It’s a code no nefarious kidnapper could ever hope to get out of her.”
“And that is . . . ?”
He raises an eyebrow. Amused again. “A secret. Hence the name ‘secret code.’”
“Wh-why does Asian Hollywood need a secret code?” I say. “Is kidnapping that much of a regular occurrence?”
“It’s usually used in more mundane situations,” Henry says, chuckling a little. “It’s like a shorthand. Say you’re out at an event and some garbage story with big scandal potential breaks—like that you’re having an affair or your public meltdown was caught on camera or the paparazzi got a horribly unflattering photo of you cramming an entire Egg McMuffin down your throat—”
“That’s a scandal?!” I scoff.
He hesitates, something passing over his face that I can’t quite get a handle on. It’s the ghost of a shadow, a flicker of . . . uncertainty, maybe? No, that can’t be right. This boy has nothing to be uncertain about—that is the one thing I am sure of. Then he shrugs and presses on.
“Just an example. So anyway, everyone in that group is about to start spamming up the thread with ‘Are you okay?!’ messages. Instead of typing back some long-ass reassurance, you send that one little code word. This is also useful if you need to go off the grid and don’t feel like getting into all the gory details—but also want to make sure people aren’t worried about you. Seems like that’s what Grace is doing.” He shrugs again and pops the last bite of katsu into his mouth.
I crumple my napkin in my fist in frustration, curling my fingers tightly around it, feeling it get all hot against my palm.
“But still,” I say, “don’t you want to make sure? If she’s your friend and all?”
“She needs to do her own thing right now. I’m giving her space to do that. As a true friend would.” He flashes me a genial grin, and I ball my fist more tightly around the napkin. How can this infuriating stranger remain so calm?
My kaiju-temper claws at my insides, heat rising in my cheeks. He’s acting like this is no big deal, like for me it isn’t the biggest deal ever. I flash back to his easy smile from yesterday, me thinking about how everything must be easy for him. Is this how you act when it’s all just that easy for you, like you don’t have to worry about the fact that the mother you’ve imagined as a hazy, lost figment all these years might possibly be . . . found?
What do I have to say to get him to help me, to find the one person in the world who might . . . might . . .
“Won’t it be kind of disastrous for you if she stays MIA?” I press.
A ghost of a frown pulls at his lips. “What?”
“If she doesn’t come back, if she decides she likes being off the grid,” I say. “That movie you guys are doing—like you said, she’s not done yet. They need her to finish it?”
“Yes—”
“What if she doesn’t come back and they can’t finish it? It might never come out. And then you wouldn’t get your shot, right?”
His brow crinkles like he’s confused—but I can tell he knows what I mean.
“Your chance to prove yourself,” I continue. “To show the world that you’re more than a cute smile who can do the splits. If you are, in fact, more than a cute smile who can do the splits.”
That last bit sounds snarkier than I intend it to, but I can tell it hits. He leans back in his seat, his brow creasing further. His smug, carefree facade has dropped entirely now, and he looks downright perplexed. Well, good. Maybe I got him to see how serious this is. For me and him.
“You know,” he finally says, drawing each word out slowly, “you could’ve just asked for my help.”
Now it’s my turn to look perplexed. “What?”
He rests his chin on his hand, a hint of that self-assured smile returning. “You want to find your mom. That’s a very understandable thing.”
“But . . . I said that . . .”
“Right. And then you proceeded to run through various elaborate
