Chapter 15

15

“There.” Mariko carefully pushes a final pearl pin into my hair, then steps back to assess me. My lady-in-waiting blocks the full-length mirror. Her chin dips in approval. “You’re ready.”

She shifts, and I see myself. Well, she’s certainly worked her fairy godmother magic. My nails have been buffed, shined and painted a nude color. No more kinky pink for me. My bangs have been trimmed into a blunt edge that skims my brows. My hair twists into a low bun and is adorned with freshwater pearls. My floor-length gown is silk jade and shimmers in the light.

Mariko places a matching clutch in my hands. It’s light. “Lipstick and some cover-up, in case you get shiny. Oh, and I put your phone in there. But please keep it on silent.” I arch an I-can’t-believe-it brow at her. Most days she’s hiding my phone, playing keep-away with it until after I finish the day’s task.

She trails me to the front door and rattles off more instructions. “Make sure to walk behind your father when entering a room. Only speak to people you’ve met or know. I wish we’d had time to go through photographs of everyone attending and sort out their political affiliations, but just don’t show any favoritism. And don’t point.” The last few days, Mariko was quick to note when I made mistakes—at the charity bazaar, art gallery opening, and baseball game. My sins are many.

I keep walking, a nervous knot forming between my brows. It might help if my father was here, but he has back-to-back events this evening. We’re meeting at the wedding. Akio will be my escort. Speaking of …

He stands in the middle of the living room in black tie and his hands at his sides. Some of my anxiety melts away. Whoa. Akio in formal wear. Slow clap.

“Do you need anything else?” Mariko asks.

“No. Thank you so much, though.” I keep my gaze trained on Akio.

“Just remember to sit up straight. If you need a moment, excuse yourself to the restroom…” She trails off.

Akio smiles at me. I smile dumbly at him. “I’ll let you know when we’re on our way home,” he says, keeping his eyes on me.

After a moment, Mariko says, “Of course. I’ll have the room ready for when she returns.”

Akio dips his head, and she excuses herself. Two lamps offer the only light, making the room feel cozy. “The car should be here soon. I’ll call and see where they are,” he says.

“No,” I blurt, stopping him. “Another minute, please.” I am suddenly nervous again. The prime minister’s wedding is a red-carpet event. Outside will be the press. Inside will be my family and the upper echelon of Japanese society. I’ll be carefully cataloged. I study the hem of my dress. Is it too long? Will I trip on it? It’s all too real.

I take a deep breath, try to detach. I think about Mount Shasta, hoping it will anchor me. But then I remember what I’m missing this weekend. “It’s senior prom tomorrow night.” A few days ago, the girls sent me pics of trying on dresses. It’s an eighties theme.

“Is it?”

I’m surprised he’s not forcing us out the door. I’m in no hurry. Neither is he, apparently.

I’m jittery, unable to filter my thoughts. “You know what I’m going to miss about not going?” Aside from the warm punch, bad lighting, and that awkward moment where you run into your ex-boyfriend and the girl he cheated on you with? “I’m going to miss the dancing. Will you dance with me?” I’m a bit sheepish. But feeling brave, kind of, and beautiful, at least.

He shuffles his feet, rubs his chin. “I’m not sure.”

“Please. Just one dance.” A little more time in this room where it’s safe and warm and there aren’t any prying eyes. “For the prom I’m missing. That’s all.” Truth: I’d probably slow dance with Noora. We’ve done this before. Then Hansani and Glory would cut in. Because it is understood: we are each other’s one true loves.

“We don’t have any music.”

“Oh, I can fix that.” I take out my phone, scroll through the options, hit play, and turn the volume all the way up. Setting the clutch and phone on coffee table, I fold my hands in front of myself. It’s Akio’s move. I won’t make him dance with me if he truly doesn’t want to.

But then, he’s in front of me, placing his hands on my hips. There’s a slight tremble right before he tightens his grip. I place my hands on his shoulders. We rock back and forth stiffly. It’s very middle school. “I’ve never heard this music before,” he murmurs.

“Not many people have. It’s the Mount Shasta Gay Men’s Chorus.”

“Doesn’t sound like a whole choir.”

I scrunch my nose. “It’s actually just two people, Glen and his partner, Adrian. They’re both lumberjacks and believe Bette Midler is a national treasure. They’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” Their entire album is covers of her greatest hits. Right now, we’re listening to “The Rose.”

“It’s nice. I like their voices, especially the deeper one.”

“Yeah, that’s Adrian. He pretty much carries the ensemble.” Akio reminds me a bit of Glen, a rough-around-the-edges type.

We go quiet. Listen to the music. Scoot closer. Somehow, my head finds itself on his chest, and his hands find themselves interlocked on the small of my back. I lick my lips, enjoying this soft glow of happiness. “Have you figured anything else about me yet?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Well. Let’s see … you have this habit of talking with your hands. Your fingers are very demonstrative. You also hum when you eat, it’s like you can’t control how happy food makes you. I like that you take joy in such simple things.”

I want to tell him I’ve figured him out, too. He’s stoic, but not cold—far from it. He loves deeply. I saw the way he bent toward his mother, the tender way he touched her brow, how he offered her a glass of water.

“Akio?” The song starts again. I put it on a loop. Clever me. “Since we’re getting along so well, there is something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.” We do a half-turn. I wait a beat. “It’s my code name, Radish.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No. I don’t. I kind of hate it, actually.” Especially since the root is known for irritating the digestive tract.

“A radish is a very formidable vegetable,” he says, then adds quietly, “They’re my favorite, in fact.”

I’m glad he can’t see my smile. “Is that true?”

“Didn’t used to be. But I find they’ve grown on me. Often overlooked, the radish is hearty and packed with vitamin C.” My pulse races, gallops away. His heart hammers, too. I can feel it. “But we can change it if you wish.”

“No. I guess it’s okay.” I look up. Rest my chin on his chest. Curl my fingers into the starch of his shirt. “When we met, I thought you didn’t like me.”

We stop dancing. Our toes, our chests touch. His gaze is soft, a little wary. “I probably like you too much.”

I’m frozen. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy. I could kiss him. I should kiss him. I rise to stand on my tippy-toes. His head bends. So close.

But then, he pulls away. Shakes his head, clears his throat. “We should go. I don’t want to make you late.”

I swallow. “Right. Of course.” What just happened? My head is spinning. “Thanks for the dance.”

“Of course,” he says.

I smile a bit, unsure. “I’m much less nervous now.”

“You shouldn’t be nervous. Anyone would be lucky to speak to you.” His stance is rigid, but his words are soft.

My smile grows genuine. He moves and opens the door. I slip through, just a princess off to the ball.