It’s another thing that binds all the Rakuyamas except me.
“That’s probably why Hank’s here,” Belle says, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s in Grace Kimura’s new movie. Maybe he’s supporting her. God, he’s cute.”
“We need to get this show on the road,” I say, fishing around once again in my yukata pocket—this time for Auntie Och’s car keys. We don’t need to get into a full-on analytical discussion of Hank Chen’s cuteness, and I know Belle well enough to know that’s what she’s just about to do.
“Wait, what’s this ‘we’?” Belle says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She studies me, clocking my outfit. “Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m your driver,” I say, giving a little bow. “Finally embracing my inner princess.”
“Bull. Shit!” Rory yelps.
“Rory, no garbage mouth,” Belle says. “But seriously, what the fucking hell, Rika. That is so not what you’re doing!”
“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. “The truth is, I thought I could drive y’all to that first big stopping point—where the ondo dancers do their routine? Then jump out of the car and book it over to the front of the dojo for the demonstration. I need to . . .” I pause, gnawing my lower lip. Now that my kaiju-temper isn’t flaring, I can’t find the words to explain to them how important this is.
“Rika-chan.” Belle smiles at me. She looks every inch a queen—she’s also wearing vintage from Auntie Suzy’s closet, but her outfit’s not from the yukata section. It’s taffeta from the fifties, nipped in at the waist and decorated with obscenely large cabbage roses. She’s added a frothy petticoat underneath to make the skirt even more cupcake-esque, and the whole thing fits her curves perfectly. “Of course we’ve got your back,” she continues. “You deserve this.”
For the second time this morning, my eyes brim with tears, and I hastily wipe them away.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for . . . wait a minute.”
Now I clock what Rory’s wearing. She’s pulled her hair into two tiny Princess Leia buns and sprayed her whole head with glitter. Then added little white cowgirl boots and a short purple “dress” that appears to be . . .
I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing her more closely.
“Aurora,” I say. “Is that my nure-onna T-shirt?”
She shrugs. “It looks better on me.”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it.
The thing is, it really does.
THREE
The obi complicates driving even more than I thought it would.
Not only is its bulk pushing me forward in the seat, but it’s tied so tight that it holds the yukata in place in a way that makes moving my arms a challenge. I have a limited range of motion as I steer the convertible, and I’m thankful that I don’t have to make any sharp turns or parallel park or something. I mentally reverse my previous thankfulness to Auntie Och for tying the obi so snugly. Maybe flashing the streets of Little Tokyo and smug-ass Hank Chen wouldn’t have been so bad. That thought makes me flush for some reason, and I order myself to refocus on the task at hand. I definitely don’t need to be any sweatier.
I pilot the convertible forward in painstakingly slow fashion, mindful of the ondo dance group walking—and occasionally stopping and performing—in front of us and the float for the Watanabe family’s flower shop behind us.
The car carrying Grace Kimura is in front of the dancers—top down, like the Nikkei Week court’s cars, so everyone can bask in her beauty. Belle and Rory are practically beside themselves with excitement. Still, they’re trying to carry on with their queenly/princessly duties. They’re both sitting up on the back of the convertible, feet resting on the back seat, waving to the crowd. Occasionally, we catch a glimpse of Grace’s brilliant smile when she turns her head, her glossy mane of raven hair swishing around her shoulders.
The sun has moved high in the sky and beats down on us with brutal intensity. I feel hot everywhere. It’s like the sun is slithering its way into every possible bit of my being, down to the roots of my hair. The roots of my hair feel like they’re about to catch fire, actually.
I’m going to take like ten thousand showers after this parade. Or maybe just roll around in ice cubes or something.
“Rika, stop!” Belle’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts, and I hit the brakes. The stop is a little abrupt and jerky—I hear the people on the flower float behind us grumbling.
“Dance break,” Rory says, gesturing in front of us.
The ondo dancers are going through their routine again, identical smiles in place. The crowd claps along to their steps appreciatively, and I can’t help but wonder if any of the dancers have ever cracked and gone on a murderous rampage, fed up with having to smile and perform the same steps over and over again in punishing summer weather.
Why don’t you like any of the nice fairy tales? Auntie Suzy says in my head.
I put the parking brake on so the car won’t roll forward into the dancers. Auntie Och’s convertible is not super reliable at the whole not-rolling-forward thing.
“Being a Nikkei Week Princess is boring,” Rory grumbles.
“Rory!” Belle admonishes. “It’s an honor to serve our community.”
“A boring honor,” Rory says. “I like watching the parade because we see everything and we see it once. Whereas being in the parade means we only see, like, two things and we see them over and over again. I thought being a princess meant I’d get to do cool stuff, like make my own all-you-can-eat mochi buffet or claim one of those warehouses on the edge of Third as my new kingdom.”
I can’t help but smile. Rory’s logic is often indecipherable to anyone but Rory, but there are moments when it just makes sense. She occasionally gets close to envisioning a version of princessdom I could actually get behind.
“Let’s liven it up, then,” Belle says. “Let’s try to
