But the Uncles aren’t the only ones causing a ruckus today. Every booth is packed. And as I scan the faces, I realize I don’t recognize most of them.
That’s odd. We usually get a handful of new folks popping in during Nikkei Week, but for the most part, I know all the clientele.
“What’s this, people waiting?” Auntie Och emerges from the kitchen, nearly barreling right into me. My gaze follows hers to the front of the restaurant, where a small line has formed. “Hmm.” Her brow furrows. “Strange. But good, ne? I will go start a list!” I watch as she bustles toward the front, ready for battle. It is strange. We’re usually busy, but not so much that we need a wait list. What on earth—
“Rika-chan!” Auntie Och barks over her shoulder. “Table four!”
“Right,” I say, snapping out of my reverie and aiming myself at table four, a cozy booth stuffed in the back right-hand corner.
I scan the customers as I approach, activating my nure-onna armor even more. Three white girls have crammed themselves into the booth, which is really more of a two-person situation. They’re looking at their phones, whispering among themselves, giggling. As I approach, one of them glances my way and her eyes get all big. She whispers something to the girl she’s crammed next to, and then they’re all looking at me and . . .
What the hell is going on?
I don’t recognize any of these girls—why are they already laughing at me? Did Queen Becky warn them about Rika the Soda-Dumping Bandit? Or was it Craig Shimizu, who loves nothing more than recounting the long-ago tale of Rika the Biter?
Angry heat creeps up the back of my neck, and I shove it down. I cannot unleash the rage right now—not when I’m so close to something I want so badly. I have to be the nure-onna before she strikes, strategic and cunning. I only have to get through this last table, and then I can go find my mother.
I touch the photos in my pocket again.
Then I force my face to be pleasant, eager smile in place.
Just. One. Table.
The whispering and giggling quiets as I reach the table and take out my order pad, but they’re all still staring at me with big saucer eyes, unsettling grins in place. They’re like tricksters, ready to present me with three riddles—get all three right and I win a pot of gold. Get one wrong and I die.
When you get down to it, all fairy tales are pretty savage.
“Hi there,” I say, pencil poised over pad. I am relieved to hear my voice sounding smooth, helpful. “What can I get for you?”
“Ummmm.” One of the girls flashes me a big toothy grin and glances down at the menu as if she’s seeing it for the first time. “I’ll have the, um, chicken.”
“Breast, thigh, or karaage?” I say, pencil still poised.
“Oh, um . . .” The girl looks at the menu again, frowning. Like she had no idea that question was coming. The girl sitting next to her whispers something in her ear, and they giggle again, sneaking glances at me as they pretend to study the menu.
I clench my teeth into a pleasant expression and tighten my grip around the pencil. What is up with these girls? They’re acting like I’m some kind of zoo attraction. I clench my teeth harder, try to make my smile even brighter. Tell my kaiju-temper to stay put . . .
And it’s right then that I turn a little to the left and see the third girl at the table trying to surreptitiously take my picture.
“Hey!” I spit out before I can stop myself. That heat blazes through my entire body now, kindling that’s burst into wild flame. “What do you think you’re doing—”
“Rika!”
I whip around to see Rory stomping through the restaurant, waving her phone around. The rest of the chaos quiets as everyone turns to look at her. Even the brunching Uncles pause, sweaty bottles of Sapporo clutched in their fists. Auntie Och frowns in our direction—and even though Rory’s the one making all the noise with her stompy little feet, I can’t help but feel most of that frown is for me. The center of attention in a bad way, yet again.
Rory comes to a stop in front of me and brandishes her phone.
“Rika,” she says again—and the restaurant has gone so quiet, her voice seems to reverberate off the walls. “What. Is. This?!”
I take the phone from her, trying to ignore the flush that’s creeping up the back of my neck again—only now it’s not angry, it’s embarrassed. I can feel the stares of every single person in this restaurant, including my table of bad orderers, who are snapping pic after pic with their phones.
I wish my fairy godmother would swoop in and save me.
Not that the nure-onna needs saving.
But maybe just this once?
Rory’s screen displays an Instagram post, a blurry photo of . . . oh god. It’s me and Henry. At the library, right before we made our daring escape. We’re standing in the rotunda as the crowd presses in on us. I look angry, of course, my face screwed into an expression that’s somewhere between confusion and total fury. My hair is flying everywhere, that blazing red lock unfurled like a flag of pure rage. Henry stands a bit behind me: his face pale, his expression verging on terror. I am a wild monster girl, protecting a handsome prince.
I look up from the phone, my gaze sweeping over Rory’s indignant expression to the rest of the restaurant. They’re all just staring at me now, and I want to sink into the ground. A smattering of whispers bubbles up, each word scraping against my skin like sandpaper.
“That’s her . . . the girl with Hank Chen . . .”
“Are they a thing?”
“Why would he be a thing with a waitress . . .”
“Rika!” Rory hisses, snapping my attention back to her. She taps the phone screen with her index finger. “This post says you were with freaking Hank Chen at the library yesterday—and someone in
