I walk even faster, farther ahead of him, my face getting hotter with every step. I don’t want him to see how red I’m getting.
“So why don’t you let that Craig dipshit have it?” Henry continues.
“I did—once,” I say. “Well, two times. When we were kids in judo together. I was eight, he was ten.”
“I definitely need to know this story,” Henry says.
“That’s basically it. The first time, we were sparring, and he didn’t release me when I tapped out—so I bit him. The other time, he was being obnoxious, saying a bunch of shit about my family. He made Belle cry. I saw red, and I charged him. I don’t know what I was thinking—he was so much bigger than me. Auntie Suzy scooped me up by the back of my judogi before I even got to him.”
“I can picture exactly what you must have looked like,” he says—and I swear I can hear his smile. “So small, yet so fierce.”
“People in the community didn’t see it in quite such an adorable way,” I counter, keeping my steps brisk. “I almost got kicked out of the dojo over the biting—the whole Rakuyama clan nearly did. And that’s how the Legend of Rika the Biter and Her Uncontrollable Kaiju-Temper got started in Little Tokyo.” I try to revert to a lighter, more jokey tone. Like I’m delivering an especially epic movie trailer voiceover instead of talking about myself.
But Henry doesn’t laugh.
“I dunno,” he says. “It sounds like Rika the Biter was provoked. By an older kid who wasn’t playing even close to fair. Maybe that incident should’ve started the Legend of Craig the Big Bully Asshole instead.”
“Not how the story goes,” I say, waving a hand. “But it’s cool. I aspire to one day transform from Rika the Biter to full nure-onna.”
“Nure-onna?” he says. Perfect rolled r again.
“She’s a mythical creature from Japanese folklore—a badass snake-woman,” I say. “Only she’s able to be calculated in her lashing out. I . . . my temper. It destroys things. It’s like this monster, living inside me. I have to shove it down, keep it all chained up. I already bring a lot of the wrong kind of attention to my family just by existing. If I let loose on Craig, if I totally let the monster out . . .” I shake my head. “The consequences could be a lot. His father is really powerful in the community—they could get people to boycott my Aunties’ restaurant if they really wanted to, or ban all the Rakuyamas from Nikkei Week.”
“Is that how you see yourself?” he asks, his tone genuinely curious. “A monster?”
“Always,” I say. “When I get into a rage about something, it’s bad. It’s like this thing, pounding against my chest, dying to get out. And when it does get out, it wants to bite things. Dump full cans of soda on people. Or . . . see that family over there?” I gesture to a happy family lounging in a picnic area: Mom, Dad, two little daughters. All perfect and blonde and wearing coordinating outfits. The girls both have red balloons, floating lazily above their heads. “When I was a kid, we were out on the Japanese Village Plaza one day, and I saw a picture-perfect family like that with these two little blonde white girls holding Hello Kitty balloons. They were about the same age as me and Belle. Belle really wanted a balloon—it was pink and sparkly, after all—and Auntie Och said no, it was a waste of money. Somehow, those white girls overheard and started making fun of Belle. Talking about how she couldn’t even afford a freakin’ balloon, laughing at her little homemade princess dress. They said she couldn’t be a real princess anyway, because she didn’t look like one.”
“Because Asian,” Henry murmurs.
“Yeah. They started calling her Mulan. In a way that was definitely not meant as a compliment—and Belle always wanted to be Cinderella anyway, so she started crying. So I, um . . . I popped their balloons.”
“What?” Henry hoots, shaking his head. “Just like that?”
“I mean, they were already deflating, getting lower to the ground—it wasn’t that much work to run over and stomp on them. That ‘pop’ was so satisfying. Of course they started crying, and I got in huge trouble, and Auntie Och hustled us back home. Belle was pissed at me for ruining the day.”
“Sounds like she should have thanked you,” Henry says. “You were a brave little knight, swooping in to avenge her honor. Personally, I think your inner nure-onna should be proud of that.”
“Belle definitely did not see it that way,” I say, my voice wry. “I was destructive. An angry monster, ready to attack, fangs bared.”
I quicken my pace, wanting to get away from the perfect blonde family. Will my mother also see a monster? Or will she understand? She’s a beautiful princess, a queen—and yet I swear I saw something so familiar in her eyes that day at the parade.
I’m so set on my determined march—eyes forward, not looking at Henry at all, focused on getting to Grace—that I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel his hand grab mine.
I freeze in my tracks. Like if I pretend to be invisible, I won’t feel that crackle of energy running up my arm.
I’m still in front of him, my arm stretched out behind me, and he catches up so he’s standing right next to me. Now our arms dangle between us, loosely connected at the point where he’s taken my hand.
“You keep talking about your temper—and it seems like people in your family, your community like to bring it up a lot, too,” he says. I’m still frozen in place, my eyes trained straight ahead, not looking at him. It feels deeply weird. It also feels like moving so much as a millimeter would be even weirder.
So I just keep looking off into the distance.
“I . . . I don’t really see anger,” he says, his words coming out in a rush. For some reason, I think he’s flushing, too,
