Honestly, I can’t either.
“It is a clue,” I say, scarcely able to believe it. “Maybe she wants to meet up with me and explain everything.”
“Then we have to go tomorrow!” he says, his goofy grin widening.
“I . . . wow.” I set the photo down and shake my head, trying to get a handle on the roller coaster of emotions rushing through me. Am I actually going to meet my mother? Who I didn’t even know was my mother until, like, two days ago?
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my whirlwind of emotions.
“Eliza?” Henry says, leaning over to read the name flashing on my phone screen. His breath tickles my ear, and I flush—then move the tiniest bit to the side, putting space between us. “The same pug-loving Eliza who gets panic attacks?”
“Yeah, she’s one of my best friends,” I say. “We do judo together.”
“You do judo? Oh, that’s right, you told me when you were not arresting me.” Henry gives me a teasing grin. “That’s so awesome. I’ve never studied any martial arts. What’s it like?”
“Um . . . it’s, uh, cool,” I say, scrutinizing the text.
Normally I could talk for hours about judo, but right now I can only feel the immense guilt that overtakes me whenever I think of the parade disaster that ruined everything with the demonstration and the UCLA scout and . . .
Eliza’s been texting me nonstop since the parade, but I’ve only responded a couple times to reassure her I’m fine, just busy with . . . things. I also sent Sensei Mary a bunch of excuses for missing practice this week. I’m not sure when or how I can face them—especially after all they’ve done for me. Maybe I can’t.
I dismiss the text.
“You’re ignoring a text from one of your best friends?” Henry says.
“Not ignoring it. Just, uh, I’ll respond later,” I say. I tap the photo of the old zoo. “Right now, my mind is way too occupied by our actual clue.”
“This clue calls for a celebration,” Henry says, slamming his palm on the tabletop, like he’s Thor or some shit. “You stay here, basking in the glow of the pickle. I’ll go get us food. Lots of food!”
He jumps to his feet, that dancer’s grace flowing through his every move. How can he make something so mundane look like I’m suddenly front row at the ballet?
“Wait!” I call out as he dances—like, literally dances—away. “You don’t know where anything is!”
“I’ll figure it out!” he calls back. “One of everything that looks good, right?”
“That means literally one of everything here,” I say. “We’ll be eating forever.”
He’s already too far away to hear me. But as I gaze down at the writing on the back of the photo once more, I realize I’m smiling too much to care.
Henry brings back . . . well, basically one of everything. Sizzling steak in garlicky sauce, lovingly ladled over a bed of sticky rice. A gooey egg sandwich, yolk perfectly runny. Handmade pasta with luscious, meaty Bolognese. Lumpia, fried to crisp deliciousness. And tacos so spicy, they’ll make you sweat.
I’m pretty sure the table’s about to collapse under the weight of all this food, and we haven’t even started exploring dessert options yet.
I notice Henry surreptitiously glance around before we start eating, pulling his baseball cap lower so it hides his face better. I look around, too, but everyone else still seems to be wrapped up in their own food adventures.
“We’re okay,” I reassure him, attempting to make my tone light. “No fan mobs.”
I expect him to flash me that easy grin, but he gives me a tense head-bob, scoops up a taco, and takes a very small bite.
And then the tension melts away as a look of pure bliss spreads over his face.
“Ugh, so good,” he groans, cramming the rest of the taco into his mouth with unabashed gusto. He chews and swallows, then gives me a sly smile. “I’ll concede these are way better than anything in New York.”
“Anything?” I challenge. “You’re really willing to forsake your beloved city over tacos?”
“They’re awesome tacos,” he says. “And all your talk about the ‘magic’ of LA is winning me over. Pretty soon I’ll have gone full Californian—wearing flip-flops as formalwear and talking about nothing but freeways for, like, hours.”
He lengthens his vowels on those last two words, affecting an exaggerated Valley girl–type voice.
“I never talk about freeways,” I say, trying to sound imperious—but an irrepressible smile’s playing around the corners of my mouth, and that just makes him smile even bigger. “But I do think LA is magic, yes.”
“How did that even start?” he says. “You do not seem like the type to, um, see things that way.”
“I think . . . hmm.” I pause and take a bite of my own taco, that potent mix of fresh spices exploding on my tongue. No one’s ever asked me that before. “Maybe it has to do with growing up in Little Tokyo,” I say slowly, trying to figure it out. “I know people think everything in LA is . . . new? And, like, made of cheap plastic or something. No sense of history or culture.” I give him a pointed look, and he shrugs and grins, like, Yep, guilty. “But Little Tokyo . . . it has so much of that history, that culture. It’s been around since the early 1900s, and it’s been through a lot. It used to have the largest Japanese American population in North America. And then so many people were forced to abandon their homes and lives because of incarceration during World War II. But they rebuilt after. When I walk those streets . . .” I pause, a surprise lump forming in my throat. I fan myself with a napkin, trying to stave off unshed tears. “Whew, these tacos are spicier than usual.”
“Mm-hmm,” Henry says, sounding like he doesn’t buy that for a second.
“When I walk those streets,” I continue, “I can feel that. That sense of history and community
