It’s a text from my judo buddy Eliza Hirahara (who is my third best friend after Belle and Rory, mostly because Belle and Rory would riot if I referred to anyone else as my best friend). She wants to know why I’m not at the dojo, getting ready for the demonstration. Eliza joined the dojo when we were both seven, and she’s my exact opposite—quiet and calm, as even-keeled as they come. We were destined to become either mortal enemies or inseparable. We’ve gone the latter route, especially after my whole biting incident. None of the other kids wanted to spar with Rika the Biter, and some of their parents even demanded I be kicked out of the dojo. I’d resigned myself to staring resolutely down at the mat as my cheeks heated with humiliation while the other kids paired up, leaving me all alone.
Until the day Eliza toddled up to me and extended a hand.
She was so sweet, so kind. And she still maintains to this day that she hadn’t done that because she felt sorry for me.
“It was because you were so good, I didn’t care what anyone else said,” she always says, warm brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “I wanted a worthy opponent—not like Craig Shimizu, who cheats his way through.”
It’s probably a half lie, but I love her for it.
And once I had a regular sparring partner, other kids started wanting to spar with me again, too. Which helped me get started in my quest to work my way to the top.
Eliza’s also excited about the UCLA scout today—we’ve been practicing extra hard the past few weeks, hoping we can both kill it and land matching scholarships and show Sensei Mary that all her hard work has paid off. She’s been training us since we were tiny, and she’s made sure the dojo feels like a second home to us. She’s the one who’s kept me from getting kicked out, even when other parents protested my Rika the Biter moments, even when my kaiju-temper got the better of me.
I text back that I have to join the judo crew mid-parade, and I’ll explain everything later. Then I shove the phone back in my pocket.
I try to breathe deeply, to relax into the hazy heat. Unfortunately, the sweaty patch has spread up my back and down my sides, and the yukata is clinging to me in a way that’s about as far from relaxing as you can get. I reach behind me, trying to scratch a spot that’s becoming unbearably itchy. My hand is instantly blocked by the obi, which I’ve decided is pretty much my nemesis.
I let out a sputter of indignation, my gaze going to the other side of the street, where Auntie Och’s conver-tible is parked. The convertible is also supposed to be relaxing, preparing for its big moment in the spotlight. But instead . . .
I frown. There’s some . . . guy hovering around the car, running his fingertips along the hood. A baseball cap obscures his face. We’re the only two people on this supposed-to-be-napping street. What the hell is he doing?
“Hey!” I bellow before I can stop myself. I gather my yukata in my sweaty hands and race across the street, once again thankful that I managed to preserve the Adidas portion of my outfit. My voice is a strange, sharp note puncturing the soupy air. The guy’s head snaps up, and he jumps back from the car like he’s been caught doing something illicit.
I mean, maybe he is doing something illicit—maybe he’s a saboteur from another Nikkei Week Princess’s camp, angry that Belle landed the queen title. Am I about to nab a would-be vandal? Will I be the savior of the Nikkei Week parade?
I try to imagine myself being feted, surrounded by Japanese American dignitaries and Asian celebrities, smiling as they clap for my heroic feat. Somehow that just isn’t right, the picture won’t cohere—
“Yaaaaaaargh!”
I’ve gotten so wrapped up in my fevered imaginings that my yukata slips out of my sweaty hands, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m tripping over the hem and crashing headfirst into the possible vandal. I’m not sure who makes that bullhorn-like sound of distress. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe both of us at the same time.
We crash into the lava-hot concrete of the street in a tangled heap. He ends up on the bottom, so he bears the brunt of it, letting out a hearty “oof” as we hit the ground.
“I . . . sorry,” I manage, trying to pull myself up. My hands are on his shoulders, attempting to avoid the blazing concrete. His hands have clamped onto my hips. His hat’s gone flying and I finally get a good look at this possible vandal, who I have just apologized to for some reason.
He looks like he’s about my age. His shiny black hair is doing that K-pop/J-pop thing, playfully mussed in a way that has to be on purpose, perfectly complementing his golden-brown skin. Sharp cheekbones contrast with dark eyes that hint at mischief—although they’re currently overtaken by consternation.
“I mean . . . sorry for knocking you over, but not sorry for foiling your attempts at vandalism,” I amend, trying to give him a stern look. I feel totally undercut by our awkward position and the fact that the yukata has decided to tangle itself around both of our legs, making it impossible for me to pull away from him.
“Vandalism?” He gives me an incredulous look. “What, why? I barely even touched the car!”
“But you were planning on it?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking why you just crashed into me out of nowhere?” he retorts. He scans my face like he’s looking for signs of malfeasance. “Are you some kind of Little Tokyo Citizens Patrol?”
“I could be,” I say, trying to straighten up again. Any movement I make only seems to entangle me in my yukata/his legs further. “I could totally be on patrol.”
For some
