“All eyes are about to be on you,” I counter. “You’re temporary royalty, ruling over the glorious smog of downtown LA. I’m merely one of your subjects—”
“—who just happens to be the reigning judo star of the Little Tokyo Dojo, about to kick every available ass in the Nikkei Week parade’s demonstration.” She gives me that imperious look again. “Don’t act all modest, Rika-chan, I know you’re proud of your fighty abilities.”
Even though my temper’s still simmering, a burst of warmth pokes through—like a tiny sparkle of a fairy trying to distract my kaiju. She’s right, I am proud. I’m sparring in today’s centerpiece match, the crown jewel of my dojo’s demonstration. It’s a chance to be part of the parade’s magic—in a way that feels like me, rather than what my scarf-obsessed sister might want—and I can’t even pretend I’m not thrilled.
“The dojo is the one place where I can be proud of my fighty abilities,” I say, giving her a half smile. “And I’m excited about today—for both of us.”
Belle has dreamed of being crowned Nikkei Week Queen since she was old enough to say “tiara.” Every year, six Japanese American girls are chosen from the local high schools and two from the middle schools and one is crowned queen. Belle was a junior princess in sixth grade, a princess-princess the summer before our junior year, and now that we’re about to be seniors, she’s achieved her dream. And as for me . . . well, I’ve worked my ass off to ascend from Rika the Biter to the top-ranked spot in my dojo, have pretty much made it my goal ever since Auntie Suzy put me in judo in order to channel my “aggressive tendencies” into something productive. I love the precision, strategy, and control of judo—they help me tame my kaiju-temper, or at least focus it on doing something useful.
“Belle-chan,” I say through gritted teeth. “My outfit will be totally covered by my judogi anyway, so what does it matter?”
“You need! The! Scarf!” she cries, her voice twisting in that high-pitched way that always makes Auntie Och’s ears hurt.
“Why is this scarf so important?” I snap, snatching it from her grasp and unfolding it to reveal . . . huh. It’s a pattern, some kind of colorful embroidery forming a vague shape that kind of resembles—
“Wait a minute,” I say, scrutinizing the embroidery. “Is this supposed to be Nak?”
“Yes, it’s my precious puppy,” Belle says, jabbing at the embroidery with her index finger. I can now sort of see that Nak (short for “sunakku,” which means “snack” in Japanese), her tiny mutt of a dog, is embedded in some kind of pattern of interlocking swirls. “He’s my mondokoro, my crest—I designed it myself. You should wear it during your match—it will make you look so regal. And it will give you a meaningful way to represent—”
“I am representing in a meaningful way,” I protest, gesturing to the ratty T-shirt I’m wearing, the one she hates so much. “This is my mondokoro.”
My T-shirt bears an illustration of a nure-onna, one of my favorite monsters from Japanese folklore. She has the head of a woman and the body of a snake and bloody fangs, like she’s just indulged in a feast of tasty humans. The nure-onna is my aspirational monster—she totally eats people, but she’s cunning about it. She plots and plans before she strikes; she doesn’t let her temper sweep her away and fuck everything up.
I still haven’t mastered that part yet. But while Belle was dreaming about all the princess things when we were kids, I was dreaming about being the nure-onna.
I bought the shirt for five dollars at Bunkado, a neighborhood gift shop that’s been around for decades and is still run by the same family that opened it when they returned home after the Japanese American incarceration of World War II. Its eclectic shelves are crammed with stationery and teapots and vintage Japanese vinyl—and this amazing T-shirt, which was the only one of its kind. The saleslady gave me a major discount because she could tell I just had to have it.
I thought wearing this nure-onna shirt would show off my Little Tokyo pride. Totally appropriate for the parade. I’ve completed my look with roomy basketball shorts (excellent ventilation to keep me cool in the blazing late-August heat) and gold Adidas that are waiting for me by the door (kinda royal in their own way, no?).
I can tell from Belle’s expression that she’s not really seeing the crest-like power of the nure-onna, though.
“Listen,” she says, rolling her eyes, “wearing this scarf is kind of the least you can do, since you straight-up refused to be in my court—”
“Oh—oh no!” I sputter. “I should have known: this is about princess shit!”
“Everything is about princess shit!” Belle explodes. “And every girl wants to be in the Nikkei Week court. The fact that you spat on that honor—even though you could have performed princess duties in addition to your judo demo—is . . . just . . .” She shakes her head, like she’s a robot short-circuiting.
“I’m not princess material,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at her. “We all know this.”
“But you could be,” Belle asserts—and now she’s back to waving the scarf around. “If you would just be open to letting me do you up, like Cinderella—”
“Cinderella’s stepsisters cut off their toes to fit into the glass slipper,” I fire back. “That’s the real story—not exactly happily ever after.”
“Do. Not,” Belle says, thwacking me on the arm with her scarf. “Cinderella’s my main bitch.”
I release a long breath, trying to shove down my temper—which is now slamming itself against my breastbone, wanting more than anything to get out.
It’s not that I want Belle to give up on her fairy tales, with their sanitized happy endings. It’s just that I want her to open up to my version of fairy tales, my melancholy stories from Japanese folklore.
