“You need a reason to help me, no?” I sit back in the booth, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Sure.” His smile returns fully, and I try, yet again, not to stare at his mouth. It really is . . . at the peak of its power when he smiles like that. “But that reason could be a lot simpler than you’re making it: you need help, I’m in a position to offer help. It’s the right thing to do.”
I am actually speechless. Is this “Aw, shucks, I’m just so decent” thing part of his aspiring Hollywood heartthrob persona?
“I’ll help you,” Henry says simply.
“Okaaay,” I say, my eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And what do you want in return?”
He hesitates for a long moment, then finally says: “How about some more cheese katsu?”
“I can do that,” I say.
“You remind me of her,” he says abruptly.
I shake my head. “What?”
He leans in, his eyes searching my face. I squirm a little, even though it’s not an intense kind of searching—more like he’s trying to memorize my features, to map them to hers.
Hmm. Actually, that is kind of intense.
“You remind me of Grace,” he says.
And goddammit, my eyes fill with unexpected tears.
“Because I’m angry?” I manage.
“Because you’re passionate,” he says. Then he gives me a mellow smile—as if he’s trying to take us back to a casual vibe, as if he knows anything more is too much for me to take right now. “So, do we have a deal?”
I nod and gesture to Auntie Och to bring more katsu, blinking away my tears. I don’t trust myself to speak.
I can’t make whatever happens next mean anything less than everything.
SEVEN
You would think that what happens next would be super dramatic, stuffed full of intrigue and mystery.
Instead, smug-ass Henry Chen insists on butting in on the Nikkei Week mochi demonstration.
It’s the day after our lunch at Katsu That. We left it like this: Henry would put some feelers out in Asian Hollywood to see if anyone had more information on Grace’s whereabouts. I’d see if I could find anything in our apartment from the past, anything at all that might give me a clue about what happened all those years ago, when my mom fake-died. But Rory’s super-sleuth lock-picking skills didn’t yield any new information. The birth certificate and the photo appear to be the only remnants of Grace’s presence on the apartment premises.
It’s like Grace herself is the onryo, the ghost. She’d vanished into the mists of tragedy all those years ago, only to reemerge as something more powerful, ready to wreak vengeance on all who wronged her. Or that’s what the onryo would do, anyway. I don’t know what Grace would do. Because I still don’t know my mother at all.
I didn’t tell Belle and Rory about my new . . . hmm, I guess “partnership” with Henry. I just said I’m “making inroads with people connected to Grace” and we should still keep our investigation from the Aunties. They didn’t protest, I think because their Nikkei Week court duties are now kicking into high gear.
Today is the mochi demonstration, wherein all the princesses gather in the big room connected to the garden at the Japanese American Community and Cultural Center, and Uncle Hikaru leads them in a demo of wrapping fresh mochi around blobs of anko—red bean paste—and then rolling it into balls.
The modest crowd that gathers is mostly old Aunties who relish telling the princesses they’re doing it wrong, with a couple of white girls who are “so into Japanese culture” sprinkled in. I make a note to sit on the opposite side of the room so none of the Beckys will try to talk to me in loud, halting Japanese or ask me where I’m really from or explain why they just feel “so Asian” on the inside.
As I’m heading over to that side of the room, though, I notice yet another person I don’t want to deal with—Craig Shimizu, the biggest asshole at Belle’s and my school. Well, actually he graduated two years ago. These days he makes a lot of noise about going to “business school,” but mostly he works for his father, who does some kind of fancy investment banking and heads up the Nikkei Week board—the committee that organizes, manages, and administers the festival every year. The Shimizus wield a lot of power in the community, and Craig likes to make sure everyone knows it.
He’s actually the kid I bit in judo when I was eight, and I’m still not sorry (unlike Auntie Suzy, who reminded me once again that I needed to try my hardest to not rock the boat and not cause disruptions and not stand out in a bad way). That incident really kicked the Legend of Rika the Biter and Her Uncontrollable Kaiju-Temper into the stratosphere, tripling the intensity of all the disapproving looks and whispers that were already being thrown my way. Like Craig was some noble prince, unfairly attacked by a vicious monster.
I change course and scuttle to the very back of the room, wedging myself between two Aunties. Belle told me I should at least act like I’m participating in Nikkei Week activities so Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och don’t get suspicious. So here I am. Participating.
Before things can even begin, Uncle Hikaru is pissed off at Belle because she’s insisted on bringing Nak.
“No dogs,” he says, slicing a hand through the air. “Unsanitary. Plus, no dogs allowed in the JACCC, period, so you’re double breaking the rules, Belle Rakuyama.”
“Nak is part of my royal entourage,” Belle says, drawing herself up tall and pulling the dog more tightly to her chest. Nak lifts his nose in the air and stares Uncle Hikaru down, as if trying to prove Belle’s point. “And I am the Nikkei Week Queen, am I not?”
I can’t help but admire Belle’s willingness—I
