As the song draws to a close, I feel a tiny stab of disappointment. Do I actually want to dance more?
“One more song,” Henry murmurs into my hair. “I don’t want to let you go just yet.”
I rest my head against his chest, the biggest, goofiest smile spreading over my face.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something . . . and my happy smile freezes.
It’s just a flutter of something. A dreamy bit of pale blue chiffon, floating away from the party like a scarf caught in the wind. It’s someone’s dress, I realize—and that person is leaving the party, running across the street . . .
A prickle of intuition runs up my spine. There’s something familiar about that figure, even though I don’t remember seeing anyone in a pale blue chiffon dress. I can’t seem to stop staring at it as it gets smaller in the distance, disappearing into the plaza . . .
“Rika?” Henry says.
But I’m too stuck on this chiffon, this tiny fairy floating farther and farther away from me.
And then I realize, with a shock that jolts my whole being, that the thing I’m feeling, that ping of connection . . . is the exact same feeling I got at the Nikkei Week parade. When Grace Kimura and I locked eyes and she crashed right into me.
“I have to go,” I say, raising my head from Henry’s chest.
“What?” He shakes his head and gives me a teasing grin. “Why? What did I do now?”
“Nothing,” I say hastily. “Sorry. I should have said: I’ll be right back. Just . . . excuse me for a minute.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Henry says, sounding thoroughly puzzled as I gather my skirts around me and run.
I dash across the street and through the plaza, searching in vain for that flutter of pale blue. It’s completely out of sight now—vanished into thin air.
Luckily, I know exactly where to go.
I blaze through the plaza in a cloud of sparkles, dart over to the JACCC, and duck into the garden. I’m headed straight for the onryo tree—the one I hid under just a few short hours ago.
I know I’ll find her there, I just know it . . .
Except . . . I don’t.
She’s not under the tree. The tree is just sitting there, existing, its branches reaching out to the night sky.
My shoulders slump. Did I hallucinate that blue-clad figure? Why am I still so intent on chasing something that’s never going to appear, that’s never going to . . . to . . .
Wait.
My eyes are drawn to a spot shrouded in darkness, the grass blending into the tree. And there, sticking out from underneath that green canopy of leaves, is a tiny scrap of blue chiffon.
I kneel down, my heart beating so loudly, I swear I can hear it puncturing the silence of the garden.
When I finally see her, crumpled under that tree in a wilting pile of blue, all the breath leaves my body.
Her head jerks up as I peer under the tree, her eyes widening in shock and recognition. Just like they did at the parade.
“Rika?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
And I can only say, “Mom.”
TWENTY-TWO
I bunch my giant skirt up and crawl under the tree with her. She’s still staring at me as if I’m not quite real.
“Of course,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Of course you knew to find me here. This is where I used to escape to when I was little and I wanted to feel safe.”
“Me too,” I say softly.
I’m trying to take her in, but my senses are overwhelmed, and it feels like my brain’s short-circuiting. Her cheeks are tearstained, and her eye makeup runs down her face in messy rivulets. Her glossy black mane of hair is swirling around her shoulders, unkempt. And it looks like she, too, has torn the hem of her dress.
None of this makes her less beautiful. She looks heartbreakingly real.
“Oh, Rika,” she says, her voice tremulous. “I dreamed of this moment so many times. I . . .” She trails off and lifts her hand, like she wants to touch me. Then seems to think better of it and drops her hand back in her lap. “I saw your message,” she says. “And I knew I had to come—I had to finally face you. But as soon as I got to that courtyard . . .” She shakes her head vigorously. “I couldn’t do it. I’ve gotten so confident being Grace Kimura. Did you know, I haven’t actually set foot in Little Tokyo in . . . well, since I left. When they asked me to be grand marshal, I figured enough time had passed. That I’m a different person now, and no one would recognize Grace Rakuyama. But . . . then the parade happened. You happened.” She gives me a shaky smile. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby—I always wondered if I’d recognize you, all these years later. But of course I did. And when I got to the gala, I just knew. As soon as the community saw me, I’d be Grace Rakuyama again. The disgraced teenager who could never find the strength to stand up for herself.”
We let that sit between us, the soft summer breeze rustling through the garden, whispering all of its secrets. I don’t know exactly what I feel. I’ve been picturing this moment all week—maybe not as long as Grace has. I’d thought our reunion would be instantly magical, a connection neither of us could explain.
And it is. There is some kind of bond between us, that same bond that drew us both to the onryo tree. But there’s also an undeniable thread of melancholy weaving through all of that. Like every kind of fairy tale coming together—Belle and Rory’s princess stories, my Japanese folklore, and just plain old real life. I feel so much for my
