I expect her to press me for more, but she simply reaches up and squeezes my hands, which are still tightly clasped around the photo, then sits back on her heels. My gaze returns to the photo. I can’t seem to stop looking at this girl Grace Kimura used to be. I feel such an instant connection to this girl—just like when we locked eyes at the parade. But she’s so far away. So unreachable. Even though she’s right here, in front of my eyes.
Frustration bubbles up in my chest, mixing with the potent rage of my kaiju-temper.
I just . . . I just want . . .
“I know what it’s like,” Joanna says.
My head snaps up, and I look at her quizzically—still not trusting myself to speak.
“To feel like you never totally fit in anywhere—or with anyone,” Joanna says. “To love a community so fiercely, with everything you have—but to feel like you don’t always belong there.”
I look down at the photo again, at my mother. I blink hard, willing those tears to please, please stay put.
“When I said you don’t think you deserve a happy ending . . .” Joanna trails off, and I feel her eyes boring into me again. “I know that was kind of . . . forward and weird. But I could tell you hurt the way I used to—the way I sometimes still do. That you have so much anger you’re constantly trying to repress.”
“I don’t actually repress it that well,” I murmur. “Or, like . . . ever.”
“I think you do,” Joanna insists. “I can tell it’s sitting inside of you, getting bigger every day. That you’re trying so hard to make yourself small.”
I just keep staring at the photo. I don’t even know what to say.
“I really wish so many of our communities would just, like, acknowledge that anger isn’t always a bad emotion,” Joanna continues. “Sometimes it’s there to let you know when something’s wrong or to protect you from being mistreated or to tell you that you care. You can’t just reject it—you have to let yourself feel it, make room for it, or all that repressing will burn you up inside. You have to figure out a way to channel it. That’s what I finally realized I had to do.”
“How did you do that?” I manage.
“Lots of practice, lots of mistakes,” she says, laughing a little. “But ultimately, I started listening to my heart more. Trusting myself. And I let that anger power me—every time someone told me no one would buy a dragons-and-swords fantasy series starring women of color, or a story starring more than one Asian, or that I don’t look like someone’s very narrow idea of what ‘Asian’ is . . .” She shakes her head. “I got mad. I felt that power, deep in my bones. And I used that to figure out what I really wanted and to drive me forward.”
A single tear drifts down my cheek. I don’t even know how to start doing . . . what she’s saying. It sounds as far-fetched as the most candy-sweet of fairy tales.
“All this anger—it’s a totally understandable response to the hurt,” Joanna says, her voice very soft. “I know exactly what that feels like.”
“Why?” The word escapes my lips, barely a whisper. “Why do I feel this way?”
“Because . . . some of the awful things people have said to you? You’ve heard them so many times, you secretly believe they’re true.”
I freeze, still blinking like mad. Staring at that photo.
I think of all the things Craig and some of the saltier Uncles have spewed at me. Being “claimed” by Belle, because otherwise I wouldn’t belong to my family at all. All the times I’ve been called a mistake.
Do I think I’m a mistake?
I built up my snarling nure-onna armor so these words would bounce off of me. So I could throw them to the side and they wouldn’t matter. And I fight everyone and everything to show just how much all of this doesn’t matter.
But maybe, all this time . . . all I’ve been doing is absorbing these words, making them part of myself. Trying to consume them so they can never consume me.
Whenever I think of myself, it’s always as this snarling, uncontrollable monster.
Joanna’s telling me this monster could be so powerful . . . but I just don’t believe it. I can’t picture it. Currently, all I can see is the picture in front of me—my mother, longing for something.
I see myself in this picture, too. And this picture isn’t angry at all.
This picture is sad.
“I have to go,” I say abruptly, shooting to my feet and scraping a hand over my eyes. I don’t even think about what I’m doing as I stuff the picture in my pocket.
“Wait,” Joanna says, getting to her feet, too. “Rika, you can talk to me about this. I understand—”
“No, you don’t,” I snap.
I push her aside and start to hustle toward the door . . . when I spy something else. A bit of blue-silver fluff, sticking out from behind the small couch. I change course, go to the couch, and tug on that bit of silver fluff. It leads to more fluff—the stuff just keeps coming and coming as I pull, like I’m a magician drawing an endless series of scarves from my sleeve. When I finally get the whole thing free, I shake it out and hold it up in front of me.
“Whoa,” Joanna says, her eyes widening. “That is the most princess-y Cinderella dress I’ve ever seen in my life.”
She’s hit the nail on the head. There’s really no other way to describe it. It’s a fluffy concoction of tulle and silk, embroidered with cascading bits of sparkle that manage to glimmer in the dim light of the trailer. A bit of pure magic against its dull surroundings. Definitely a Grace Kimura Gets Her Prince kind of dress. A Happily Ever After dress.
We’re both mesmerized by it. Frozen in place, watching the gentle sway of fabric, captivated by all that shimmer.
We’re jolted out of the spell by a pair of voices bouncing off the trailers outside.
“Hey!” one
