“Oh?” I find myself scrutinizing his features further. He’s a little too cute—the kind of cute that knows he’s cute and uses it to his advantage whenever the opportunity presents itself. There’s also something oddly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe he’s one of Belle’s vast, interconnected crowd of cool kids.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a ’66 Mustang, right? You don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.”
“It’s my Auntie’s,” I say. “She was wild when she was younger, but we all know if we get a scratch on it, we’ll pretty much be murdered.”
He lets out a surprised laugh, deep and rich—it’s not the laugh I would expect from someone so focused on his own cuteness. It’s too unguarded, too full throttle in its joy.
He’s on the verge of a snort, even.
That laugh reverberates through my body. I mean, it’s kind of impossible for it not to—we’re still pressed together, tangled in my yukata. I suddenly feel even warmer than I did before, the sweat gathering at the base of my neck and behind my knees and other places I didn’t even know you could sweat.
“Um, anyway,” I mutter.
My face flushes as I yank my yukata free and scramble to my feet, silently thanking Auntie Och for tying the obi so tight. It’s basically glued to my waist, and that’s saving me from flashing the empty streets of Little Tokyo and this person who is apparently not a vandal. Belatedly, I remember he’s still on the ground and offer him my hand. He quirks an eyebrow and gives me an amused look.
I stiffen. “I’ve laid out guys twice your size in judo,” I blurt out.
God. Why am I blurting so many random and oddly defensive factoids to this too-cute-for-his-own-good stranger?
“I’m not smiling because I think you’re incapable of helping me up,” he says, his grin widening. “I’m smiling because you look so—”
He gestures to my ensemble.
“I look so what?” I say, my face flushing further.
“Never mind,” he says, his smile getting so big, it’s absolutely infuriating.
He takes my hand but doesn’t really put any weight on it, leaping to his feet with catlike grace. His long limbs, ribboned with lean muscle, look dancer-y.
“I just . . . I like your outfit,” he says, gesturing to my yukata. “Pretty unusual for an officer of the law.”
“Not my regular day wear, really,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You know that was a compliment, right?” He gives me an easy half grin. I can’t help but think everything is easy for him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Belle and Rory emerging from our building. Shit. I need to send this Apparently Not a Vandal on his way before Belle starts crafting our fairy-tale happy ending.
“I don’t have time for compliments,” I say to him, waving a hand. “I need to get to the start of the parade route.”
“You’re a princess?” he says.
“Just a driver,” I say, my tone more defiant than I mean it to be. I see Belle and Rory getting closer, two bright splashes of color floating into view.
“Ah, okay,” he says, looking a bit skeptical. He points to me. “Not a princess.” He points to himself. “Not a vandal. Nice to meet you.”
And with that, he scoops his baseball cap off the ground and strolls away. I . . . wait, is he whistling? Like he’s in some kind of old-timey musical? I tilt my head at his retreating form, trying to make sense of this . . . person.
Suddenly, Belle and Rory are screaming in my ear.
“Rika!” Belle yanks on my arm, jumping up and down. Rory looks Rory-level excited, her little eyebrows waggling. “Do you . . . was that . . .”
“What?” I say irritably, shaking her off.
“That was Hank Chen!” Belle shrieks. “Remember, he was on that show we watched in middle school, about the traveling kids’ show choir—”
“And then he won Dance! Off! last season,” Rory chimes in, naming her favorite competitive reality show. “He had that routine with all the backflips and splits and—”
“Riiiiiight,” I say, fragments of memory floating through my brain, images of some boy smiling and charming his way through a jaw-droppingly acrobatic routine, the sparkle in his eye never fading.
“Is he here for the parade?” Rory wonders, her brow crinkling.
“I dunno, maybe he’s the grand marshal?” I suggest.
“Oh my god, no,” Belle says. “Didn’t you see? The identity of the grand marshal got totally leaked. It’s . . .” She pauses for effect, dark eyes flashing with glee. “Grace Kimura.”
Oh god. As if I need more princess shit in my life.
Every little Asian American girl who dreams of fairy tale–worthy happy endings has grown up swooning as they watch Grace Kimura get hers over and over and over again. She’s the reigning Asian American rom-com queen, one of the modern world’s chief perpetuators of the whole happily-ever-after thing. She’s starred in a seemingly endless cycle of rom-coms, running through countless airports and wedding ceremonies and rain-soaked streets to tell a string of blandly handsome men that yes, she does truly love them. She’s gotten her heart broken onscreen dozens of times, only to have it mended by the end. Her hair is always shiny, her bold lip always on point, her mascara smudged in an artful way that never detracts from her perfect ingénue beauty. She’s her own kind of princess, Belle’s ultimate vision board come to life.
One of my family’s favorite pastimes is to marathon her movies, gathering around the TV with fuzzy blankets and multiple flavors of shrimp chips, Rory oohing over the goopiest scenes, Belle mouthing along with the dialogue she’s committed to memory, Auntie Suzy misting over whenever Grace Kimura cries. I can sometimes be tempted to join by the shrimp chips, especially if they get the spicy ones. But I always find myself getting twitchy once Grace Kimura starts running
