“Down here, Auntie Och,” I call out.
She kneels and moves the orange yukata out of the way, her stern face sizing me up. Auntie Och has the same incredible mane of jet-black hair as Auntie Suzy—but hers is starting to streak with white. Which just makes her more formidable.
“Almost time for the parade, ne?” she barks at me. Auntie Och can never seem to manage less than a bark. “What you doing down here?”
“I . . . um . . .”
“I need a kimono,” she says abruptly, her gaze turning to the orange yukata. “I’m going to drive Belle and Rory through the parade in my Mustang.”
“Oh . . . cool,” I manage. Every member of the Nikkei Week court has to come up with their own mode of parade transportation—there’s no central float. So it’s usually some kind of family car where you can put the top down and wave to the crowd. Auntie Och has had her Mustang convertible since she was a teenager. Apparently she was quite the hell-raiser, back when she and Auntie Suzy met as princesses in the Nikkei Week court and Auntie Suzy fell for her rebellious charms. Auntie Suzy was eventually crowned queen—which is probably why she’s always told me to “never argue with the Nikkei Week Queen of Little Tokyo.” She was basically telling me not to argue with her.
I guess we can see how that worked out.
“Suzy always liked this one,” Auntie Och says, rising to her feet and freeing the orange yukata from its hanger. “It was a special-occasion yukata, only for Nikkei Week.” Her harsh features soften as she gazes at the yukata, lost in memories.
I’m also suddenly fixated on the yukata, but for different reasons. Because my overactive brain has finally worked out a way I can still do the judo demo and . . .
I gnaw on my lower lip. Wait, is this ridiculous? Or . . .
The pretty blue-and-yellow flower pattern cascading over the yukata’s voluminous sleeves shimmers, as if encouraging me.
“Auntie Och,” I exclaim, scrambling to my feet before I lose my nerve. “What if I drive the Mustang in the parade?”
Her bushy black eyebrows draw together. “I thought you were supposed to work in the restaurant with Suzy.”
“I . . . I am,” I say. “But Auntie Suzy said something about me turning down the honor of being a princess, and . . . and it really got to me! I want to be in the parade with my sisters. All princess-y and stuff.”
I give her what I hope passes for a winning smile. Her bushy brows are still drawn together, suspicious. I don’t think she believes one single word I’ve said.
But then one of her brows quirks upward, transforming her expression to thoughtful. “I would rather work in the restaurant than deal with driving in front of the Watanabes’ flower-shop float,” she muses. “George Watanabe, he always yell at me for braking too fast. Even though I am a much better driver than him.”
She hems and haws for a few moments, then nods decisively. “Hai. Okay. You drive the Mustang. I’ll tell Suzy.”
“Can you not tell her, actually? I mean. Not right away,” I say quickly. “I want it to be a, um, surprise. Since she wanted me to be a princess so bad.”
“Mmm.” Auntie Och nods—but looks suspicious again. She thrusts the orange yukata at me. “Wear this.”
“Oh, but I’m already . . .” I gesture to my nure-onna T-shirt, anticipating how freaking hot and uncomfortable the yukata will be.
But Auntie Och shoves the yukata at me more insistently.
“You will wear,” she says in that way that’s definitely an order. “You want to be princess now, ne?”
I guess . . . I do? Even though I don’t plan on being a princess for long.
I take the yukata with a smile, the kind I imagine the nure-onna flashing right before she strikes the killing blow.
I emerge from our building to blazing heat. It’s only nine thirty, but the sun is unrelenting. Downtown—and Little Tokyo in particular—is always hotter than most of LA thanks to the rays bouncing off all the tall, reflective buildings of the business district and baking the sidewalks. During the summer, the air seems to shimmer, casting a magical, muggy haze over everything.
There’s nothing magical about the sweat patches already forming at the small of my back and under my arms, however. Even though it’s a lighter cotton material than some kimono, the yukata is still an excess of fabric for this weather. Auntie Och finished it off with a giant purple obi around my waist, and I already know the stiff, clunky bow affixed to the back will shove me forward in the driver’s seat, adding about a thousand degrees of difficulty to my task.
Luckily, I managed to escape before she popped geta on my feet, which would have made driving near impossible. My gold Adidas aren’t quite covered by the yukata’s length, but they’ll be hidden by, you know, the entire car.
I asked Auntie Och to send Belle and Rory out once they’re finished assembling their royal looks—but also asked her not to tell them I’m their new driver. I don’t want to risk one of them letting it slip to Auntie Suzy.
The minutes before the parade starts are the only time this neighborhood is ever quiet. The charmingly cramped assortment of ramen shops, mochi emporiums, and that one slightly illicit-looking place that sells bootleg DVDs of martial arts movies and disintegrating old kimono are all closed for the parade. The neon CHOP SUEY sign that’s been a fixture for decades and usually casts a wild rainbow glow over First Street is dimmed. And the temple across the street is deserted, silent, and a touch eerie—lending credence to the rumors that it’s totally haunted.
It feels like the whole street is taking a nap.
When it’s quiet like this, the shadows become more prominent, and I can truly sink into them. It’s like that underbelly of Little Tokyo I love so much is singing to me.
My phone buzzes, and I do the clumsy dance of exhuming it from
