Chapter 2

2

School. Noon. Tuesday. I barrel through the hallways of Mount Shasta High. Eighteen hours have passed since a book about rare orchids and a semiracy poem teetered my world off its axis.

It was a rough evening and morning. There were so many questions bouncing around in my mind—did Mom lie about not knowing my father? If so, why? Could my dad know about me? Then, why didn’t he want me? The struggle is real. I’ve been careful to contain my hopes while simultaneously dodging my mother. It’s good that I’m excellent at subterfuge. Under my bed, there is half a bottle of peach schnapps and a handful of romance novels (impoverished duke plus lower class heiress equals true love forever). Mom doesn’t know any of this. Acting casual is key—just a girl going about her business, nothing to see here.

The library entrance is in view. I bear down, pushing past a group of cowboys and two girls named Harmony. Double doors slam behind me.

Ah, quiet at last. If only my thoughts were as easy to turn off. Deep in the stacks, Noora is waiting for me on pins and needles. I’m on tenterhooks, too. In the last hour, a flurry of texts passed between the AGG.

Noora

OMG. OMG. OMG.

Noora

Big news. Emergency AGG meeting in the library during lunch.

Glory

We eat there every day.

Me

?

Noora

Be on time. You’re not going to want to miss this.

Glory

If this is about Denny Masterson’s third nipple again …

Noora

YOU WISH!

Hansani

How about a little hint?

Me

??

Noora

Puh-lease. And ruin my big reveal? Noah fence, but you’re just going to have to wait.

I push down the hope-filled balloon in my chest. It is very likely Noora’s big news isn’t about my alleged father anyway. She lives to call emergency meetings.

“Finally.” Noora latches on to me, pulling me through the shelves. We emerge in the northeast corner. Hansani, a svelte Sri Lankan, and Glory, a half-Filipino with eyebrows I’d die and/or kill for, are already waiting at our usual table. These girls. My girls. We have the unique ability to stare at one another and know exactly what the other is feeling. Our connection was born in elementary school, where we learned our biggest “flaw” was our appearance.

For me, it was Emily Billings. She cornered me on the school bus with her eyes taped up at an exaggerated slant. I knew I was different, but I didn’t know different was bad until someone pointed it out. Of course, I laughed with the other kids. After all, humor is always the best defense. I pretended it didn’t hurt. Just like I pretended it didn’t hurt when some kid asked me if my family celebrated the bombing of Pearl Harbor like Christmas. Or when students requested my help on their math homework. Joke’s on them, I’m terrible with numbers. Still, each time, something inside of me shrivels up, ashamed and silent.

Anyway, we get it. We all know what it’s like to roll with the cultural punches. Noora gets questioned about why she doesn’t wear a hijab. People wonder if Glory was adopted when she’s with her white dad. Hansani endures Mr. Apu accents—wrong country, for starters. And of course, there’s the universal no, but where are you really from?

The girls have already cracked into their lunches—pita and hummus for Hansani, egg salad for Glory. There’s a No Eating sign above our table. Meh, rules are meant to be broken.

I dump my backpack and water bottle onto the table and smile at the other two. Noora falls into the chair beside me. She snaps her fingers at Glory. “Laptop.”

Glory’s eyes flick to Noora and narrow. “Say ‘please,’” she says, even as she pulls out a shiny Chromebook.

Noora pokes her with a pencil. “You know I adore you, even if your name doesn’t suit you.” This is true. Though I’d never say it. Glory is the type of person to poke her finger in someone’s mouth while they’re yawning to establish dominance. Noora, on the other hand, is not afraid to say it. Their relationship is best described as love-hate. The two are so alike, and they don’t even know it.

Glory hands over the laptop. “Stick me again with that pencil and I’ll throat punch you.”

So today, more hate than love.

“Can we get on with it?” I chime in.

Noora takes the laptop and types away. “Yes. Yes we can.” She pauses, laces her hands together and cracks her knuckles. “Drumroll, please!”

Hansani obliges, tapping her fingers against the table.

Glory takes out a file and starts shaping her nails into talons.

I close my eyes. Brace myself. Allow the hope balloon in my chest to expand. Let it be about him. And if it is him, let him not be a serial killer who collects skin suits.

“I found him! I found Makoto. Mak. Your father!” Noora exclaims.

I open my eyes. Blink. Her words dig under my skin, grow roots, leaves. Bloom. So many feelings. Above them all, discomfort. So I do what I do best. I crack a joke. I deflect. “This isn’t about Denny’s third nipple?”

Noora flicks a hand. “God, no. That’s so two and a half months ago. Now, before I show you what I found, I need to tell you something.” She seems unsure, serious.

Blood rushes in my ears. Hansani reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. She has a sixth sense of sorts where she can detect emotional frequencies. It’s her superpower.

I glance at Glory and Hansani. Do they know what Noora has found? Both shake their heads. It’s one of our things, communicating by looks alone. We operate on the same wavelength. We’re all in the dark right now. “Okay,” I say. Deep breath. “Lay it on me.” Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.

Noora inhales gustily. “I am very attracted to your father.”

Hansani giggles.

Glory rolls her eyes.

The wind is knocked out of my nervous sails. “Yuck,” I say. “Plus, we don’t even know if he’s my father yet.”

“Oh, he’s your dad.”

Dad.In my mind I’ve always referred to him as my father, never Dad. The former is a title given at birth, the latter earned over time—after scraped knees and sleepless nights and graduations. I don’t have a dad. But I could. The promise of that scoots me to the edge of my seat.

Noora says, “You’re a dead ringer for him. Check it out.” She turns the laptop to face the group. Images fill the screen.

Glory slams her nail file on the table. “Fothermucker.”

Hansani whistles low. “Shut your face.”

“Meet Makotonomiya Toshihito. Who’s your daddy, Zoom Zoom?” Noora exclaims. She moves the cursor and clicks, enlarging a photo. It’s even more eerie up close. He’s posing in front of a brick building. Harvard, I presume. He’s young in the photo. His smile full of promise and foolish hope. The kind of grin before the world knocks your teeth out. The resemblance is impossible to ignore. Uncanny. There I am in his full lips, in his straight nose, even in the spaces between his teeth.

My mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

“Noora was right. Holy hot-dad,” Glory says.

Fist bumps go around the table. My pulse is racing. I remind myself heart attacks are rare in eighteen-year-olds. “How’d you…” I pause. Gather myself. Gather my thoughts. “How’d you find him?”

“Harvard didn’t have a student register available online, but they do have an order form along with a phone number. I called this morning. Spoke to a super cool chick named Olivia. Funny story, she grew up in Ashland.” Ashland is close to Mount Shasta. “We got along like a house on fire. We’re friends now. She’ll probably name her first child after me.”

“Ugh, get to the point,” Glory grinds out.

As for me, I can’t stop staring at him. At Makoto. My father. At all our similarities. We have the same eyebrows, though I’ve plucked mine into submission. I brush my fingers against the screen, then withdraw them. No need to get emotionally attached.

Noora goes on. “Anyway, she couldn’t tell me very much. Something about confidentiality. So that was kind of a dead end.”

“Oh my God,” Glory says.

Noora frowns at Glory. “So then I did a Google search of the words: Makoto, Mak, Harvard 2003. And there he was. Easy peasy Japanese-y.” Noora waves a hand in front of my face. “All right?”

Words form and die in my throat. “Yes. No. Maybe?”

“I’m going to take that as a yes, because there’s more.”

More? How could there be more?

“Stay with me.”

Noora is quiet for a moment. She clears her throat. Ahem. I’m drawn from the screen.

“He’s royalty.” Pause. Her smile grows brighter. “A prince.” Another pause. Smile brighter still. “The Crown Prince of Japan, to be exact. His real name is Makotonomiya Toshihito.”

Seconds tick by on the clock above our heads. Noora’s grin brittles. I snort. I have the distinct feeling of standing at the end of a very long and dark tunnel.

“I don’t think she’s okay,” Hansani whispers, concerned. “Maybe we should call the nurse.”

“We don’t have a nurse anymore. Budget cuts,” Glory states.

Hysteria swells in my throat. It’s got nowhere to go but up and out. I laugh sharply, uncontrollably. Yeah, I’m losing it.

Noora says, “Seriously, Zoom Zoom, this isn’t funny. You’re a prince’s love child. The fruit of his loins.”

“The words fruit and loins should never be said together,” Glory remarks, mouth full of egg salad.

Noora’s grin flattens into one unhappy line. “You don’t believe me. None of you believe me. Fine. Proof, meet pudding.” She minimizes the photo and brings up an article from a newspaper.

THE TOKYO TATTLER

Oldest unmarried heir in the history of the Chrysanthemum throne has no plans to marry

May 23, 2018

At thirty-nine years old, His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Toshihito remains a confirmed bachelor and has no plans to marry, a palace insider reports. Despite plenty of eligible candidates, the Crown Prince refuses to settle down. The Imperial Household Agency is extremely distressed, though they won’t come out and say it …

The article goes on to speculate on the Crown Prince’s eligible brides: a distant royal relative, the niece of an official at the Ise Grand Shrine, the granddaughter of the former prime minister of Japan, or the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Pictures accompany the article of the women. They appear on my father’s arm, beautiful show ponies basking in the limelight and his attention. He is opposite in demeanor—stoic, stance rigid, frown firmly in place. Nothing like his Harvard photo. There are criticisms of the women in the article, too. Not the right hat for a garden party; not the right gloves for a state dinner; not enough family money—or worse, too much new family money.

The girls have gathered behind me. We stare at the laptop screen.

Hansani says, “He’s like the Asian George Clooney.”

“Pre–Amal and twins,” Glory amends.

I close out of the article and spend the next five minutes clicking through more photos. There he is sharing the Covent Garden Royal Box with Prince Charles and Camilla for a performance of La Traviata. In another, brunching with the Grand Duke of Luxembourg at Betzdorf Castle. In another, sailing the Mediterranean with the King of Spain. On it goes: skiing in Liechtenstein with Prince Hans, attending a state dinner with President Sheikh bin Zayed al-Nahyan in the UAE … To top it all off, there’s an actual photo of him with George Clooney! I slam the laptop closed and push away from the table, needing space.

Noora, Glory, and Hansani smile hesitantly. They radiate anxiety. “My father is the Crown Prince of Japan.” Perhaps speaking it out loud will make it more real.

Nope.

It’s hard to believe, but the pictures don’t lie. I’m his spitting image. The fruit of his loins. Yeah, still don’t like that term.

“Holy childhood-dreams-come-true! You’re a princess,” says Noora.

Princess.Most little girls dream about this. I didn’t. My mom bought me building blocks with Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Hilary Clinton on them. I just dreamed of having a father, knowing where I come from, and being able to speak proudly about who I am.

“If you’re royalty, then I’ve got to be something, too,” Noora barrels on. “I’m going to pay for that genealogy thing when I get home. Fingers crossed it shows I’m fifty percent Targaryen, thirty percent British royals, and one hundred percent Oprah’s long-lost sister.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” says Hansani. At Noora’s stink eye, she holds up both hands. “Just saying.”

Noora dismisses her and turns to me. “This is the greatest thing ever to happen to me. My best friend is royalty!” She squeezes her clenched fists under her chin and bats her eyes at me. “I’m going to ride your coattails so hard.”

My head spins. This is more than I could ever want. More than I could ever dream up. What I’ve been waiting eighteen years for. And yet … something gets stuck in my throat. It’s inescapable, unpalatable. “My whole life is a lie. Why would my mom hide this from me?”

Glory snaps her fingers. “That’s the million-dollar question, my friend.”