Thinking about that only makes me flush more. I try to shove it down, to will my cheeks to not turn bright pink.
“Yeah, so,” I say, trying to make my voice as nonchalant as possible, “my shift’s about over, and we actually need to go study some more—”
“No.” Auntie Och shakes her head vehemently, her laser-like gaze homing in on me. “Rika-chan, we have way too many customer, we need you to stay! Suzy is at the weekly Little Tokyo business owners meeting, and those things always last forever because George Watanabe drone on and on and on.”
“But . . .” I shake my head and try to calm the flash of temper that’s already rising in my chest. I have a plan. I can’t let anything mess it up, not when I’m so close. “My shift is over. And I really need to study. You’ve got Belle and Rory—”
“I’m really good at making the salad,” Rory boasts, grinning eagerly at Henry. “It’s kind of my specialty.”
“Surely you can handle . . .” I spare a glance out the kitchen door’s tiny window, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. Henry’s adoring public has apparently tired of waiting outside, and the massive line is trying to pack itself into Katsu That. We’re in serious danger of violating the fire code. And maybe some other codes as well.
“W-we have to close,” I sputter. “We can’t handle this. I’m not sure we even have enough panko for this crowd—”
“No.” Auntie Och glares at me. “We cannot turn away customers, Rika-chan, we must rise to the occasion. This kind of . . . mmm, what you call it? Publicity. Doesn’t come around very often.”
“But . . .” My voice is plaintive, desperate. My rage has somehow morphed into panic, the realization that I could get stuck here and miss Grace flashing through me like a lightning bolt hitting me square in the chest.
I can’t miss this chance. I can’t.
But I also can’t tell Auntie Och what I’m up to.
I shake my head, furiously trying to get my brain to turn on, to come up with some miraculous solution that will allow me to claim this thing I want so badly—
“I can help.”
Four Rakuyama women whip around in unison to gaze upon the source of that remark—Henry Chen.
“I can help,” he repeats. “With getting through this rush. The faster we get through all these customers, the sooner Rika and I can go study. Right?”
“Hmm.” Auntie Och squints at him, her naturally suspicious gaze somehow turning even more suspicious. “What experience do you have, fancy TV star? You know anything about working in a restaurant?”
“Not really,” Henry says cheerfully. “But I cook dinner with my parents all the time when I’m home in New York. I can probably pick some things up.”
“That’s so wholesome,” Belle murmurs.
“Mmm.” Auntie Och sizes him up some more, then seems to come to a decision. “Okay—hai. I run across the street to the store and get more panko—if I send one of you, I know you will get the wrong kind. Rika, you and Belle take turns waitressing and making the katsu.”
“And I’ll do the salad!” Rory sings out, dancing over to the counter that’s designated for salad-making, already covered in the piles of cabbage I shredded earlier.
“Henry Chen, you help Rory with the salad,” Auntie Och says hastily—because Rory, despite her proclamation, is actually completely terrible at making the salad. “Then help Rika and Belle with waitressing as needed. Maybe take pictures with your fans, ne? Tell them to tag Katsu That. And location tag, too, very important.”
“Of course,” Henry says, giving her one of his movie star smiles.
Auntie Och smirks slightly to herself, and now I can see her wheels turning—realizing that even though she doesn’t know who Hank Chen is, all of these customers do. And his presence can only mean good things for Katsu That.
As she bustles off to get more panko, I grab Henry’s arm and pull him aside, trying to ignore the blatant stares from Belle and Rory.
“Hey,” I whisper, scanning his face. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“The goal is to get out of here as quickly as we can, right?” he says, his eyes drifting to my baseball cap—and the bright red curl that has come loose yet again. “So we can make the meeting with Grace?”
“With hopefully Grace,” I correct. “I just . . . that crowd out there. Isn’t it bad for your anxiety?”
“Are you worried about me?” he says, his voice light—but there’s something underneath, something charged I don’t want to think about. Before I can respond, he switches back to his easy grin and gives me a shrug. “It’s actually better for me when I have a job, something to do. I can focus on that—on each piece of the task, even if it’s something as simple as smiling for the crowd. I’ll be fine, and we’ll be outta here in no time.”
“Okay,” I say, but he’s already marching over to Rory’s salad-making station. She’s dumped all the ingredients for Auntie Suzy’s signature miso dressing into a big bowl—in what looks like all the wrong quantities—and is mixing them together with fervor, her brow furrowed in intense concentration.
“Hey,” Henry says, smiling at her. “Rory, right?”
“Aurora,” she corrects, preening a little.
“Aurora,” he says, not missing a beat. “I guess I’m your assistant, huh? Wanna show me how to make this famous salad?”
“It’s all in the dressing,” she says, brandishing her bowl. “Ma Suzy spent years developing her special recipe. Wanna taste?”
“Sure,” Henry says, grabbing a spoon. He dips it in the bowl, takes a taste . . . and then turns absolutely green around the gills. “Oh, that’s, uh . . .”
I smother a laugh. The dressing is, no doubt, drowning in salt, which Rory always adds with way too much vigor. Whenever one of us tries to gently suggest that she measure the ingredients, she righteously points out that Auntie Suzy never measures anything. And she’s right—but one of Auntie Suzy’s witchy powers is she doesn’t need to. Her food always comes out perfectly delicious.
Rory
