That last one sends me over the edge and I feel my blood heat to the boiling point, a red haze descending over my vision.
How fucking dare they say any of that about my family?
There’s no one in Little Tokyo more queenly than Belle—and no one who works harder to be that fabulous. There’s no one more brilliant than Rory, an actual genius in so many ways. And my Aunties . . . angry tears prick my eyes, my kaiju-temper snarling like mad. They’ve worked so hard. Just to be accepted by a community that should have embraced them from the beginning.
The rage burns through my body, and my hands shake with fury.
I put down the phone, my nure-onna brain crafting a cunning plan. The Nikkei Week gala is tonight. And despite all my protests to the contrary, I’m going to go.
I’m going to use all this rage to proclaim myself publicly disowned from the Rakuyama family. I will tell all of Little Tokyo that they should never be tainted by me again.
I will throw myself away in the most public way possible.
Then maybe my family can get the happily ever afters they deserve.
I’m not dressed for a gala . . . and I guess this is why I insisted on hauling this ridiculous princess dress with me.
I scoop it up and get to my feet, marching toward the JACCC bathroom. I change quickly, wrapping myself in all that tulle, all those sparkles.
It fits perfectly.
I bunch my other clothes into a tight ball, cram it under my arm, and turn to the mirror next to the bathroom’s entrance.
The girl looking back at me is not a girl I’ve seen before. She’s in that big princess dress, those sparkles swirling over her body like pixie dust. The tulle looks like fluffy clouds sewn into place. The full skirt shimmers under the dim bathroom light, its magic refusing to be muted. The skirt is a little torn at the bottom and spotted with patches of dirt and grass stains, but there’s no denying it: this is a girl in a princess dress.
But she’s an angry girl in a princess dress. Her hair is tangled and festooned with leaves and other bits of garden greenery. Her eyes are wild, flashing with rage, and she looks like she’s ready to breathe fire on whoever wronged her.
She looks like a princess. She looks like the nure-onna. She looks like a bunch of things that should not go together, but somehow do.
And for perhaps the first time ever, I feel something settle in my chest. A click into a place. An acknowledgment of the power I see, staring back at that girl.
Because that girl makes sense to me. She feels whole.
I’m not just living in my own skin, I’m celebrating it.
Celebrating it with rage, that is.
I remember what Joanna said about anger pushing you forward. Giving you power.
I feel that power right now, bright and alive and thrumming through my veins. No one is going to mess with the Rakuyamas—I’ll make sure of it.
I stomp out of the bathroom, clothes clutched under my arm—I’m still wearing my gold Adidas, since Grace’s dress didn’t come with any glass slippers. I march through the garden and back to Little Tokyo’s main drag. The gala always takes place in the courtyard of the Japanese American National Museum, which is at the end of the street. In the distance, I see twinkle lights and colorful lanterns strung through the trees, beckoning me.
It doesn’t look like anyone’s there yet, which is odd. Dusk is about to give way to night, and people should be starting to gather. At the very least, Belle’s court should be assembling for photo ops.
Unless she’s been decrowned already.
That sets my blood boiling all over again, and my marching gets more forceful. My shoulders bunch up, my posture goes ramrod straight. That haze of red swims over my vision again, and I’m just . . . so . . . angry . . .
“Rika . . . Rika-chan!”
A voice punctures my angry bubble. At first I think it’s some kind of auditory hallucination, me hearing things because my brain is burning up with so much rage, concocting things out of thin air.
But then it’s joined by other voices. All yelling my name. They sound so far away . . .
I stop in my tracks and whip around, my princess dress swirling dramatically. I see Belle running toward me, her face a mask of distress. I notice that she’s not all gussied up in her queen attire; she’s wearing her pink sweatsuit, and her hair is stuffed into a messy topknot. Her eyes are red and puffy.
And then I look just beyond her—and I see that she’s not alone.
Rory’s trying to catch up to Belle, her tiny legs not quite getting the job done. Auntie Suzy and Auntie Och hustle alongside her. Sensei Mary’s there. Eliza. Uncle Hikaru. And, like . . . a good portion of Little Tokyo.
It’s another parade, just like the one that kicked off Nikkei Week. Only way more haphazard and distressed-looking, all the joy and festive facade stripped away.
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. I’m so confused . . .
Belle reaches me first and sweeps me into a suffocating bear hug.
“Rika! Chan!” she exclaims, sounding like she’s about to either cry or yell at me. She buries her face against my shoulder and squeezes me so hard, all breath leaves my body.
I still don’t know exactly what’s happening—my brain cannot seem to process it. But suddenly everyone else is piling on top of Belle, surrounding me in a very weird group embrace.
“We’ve been looking for you all day!” Rory cries, her voice plaintive.
“Where were you?” Auntie Suzy demands. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?!”
“Or answering, like, anything!” Eliza adds.
“Worried sick!” Auntie Och proclaims. “All of us! You cannot just disappear like that, Rika-chan, I know from watching news that the detectives only care when white girls are missing!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I manage to yelp.
I carefully disentangle myself from the crush of
