Chapter 34

34

In no time, it’s graduation day. The day passes in a haze. Chairs and a stage are set up in the middle of Mount Shasta High’s football field. Blue gowns flutter in the warm breeze. Noora gives the valedictorian speech. When I walk and receive my diploma, the cheers are extra loud—mostly from the AGG and the imperial guards, whom my father requested wear tie-dye for the occasion. They totally blend in with their tucked-in T-shirts and dress pants and earpieces. Totally.

After, Jones goes all out and prepares a GMO- and pesticide-free, farm-to-table, vegan, nothing-we-eat-has-a-mother feast. A huge buffet on a wooden table is set out under string lights. Mismatched chairs and even an old couch dot the lawn. The sun is setting, a watercolor of pinks and orange. The mood is merry. The Grateful Dead plays on an outdoor speaker. Noora, Glory, and Hansani are celebrating separately with their families, but will stop by soon. The company is still good: a mix of Jones’s buddies, Mom’s coworkers, officials from the Imperial Household Agency, and the guards. Everyone seems to be getting along.

I fix myself a plate of vegetable paella with brown rice and wander into the woods. Still wearing my scratchy blue gown, I settle down on a log, enjoying the quiet for a few moments. My father will be leaving soon.

Needles crack underfoot. “Mind if I join you?” Jones asks. He’s got a plate and is wearing a diarrhea-colored corduroy suit with burgundy tie and Birkenstocks. It’s awful. Truly awful.

“Sure.” I scoot over.

Across the lawn, through the gaps in the trees, I spy my mom and dad chatting animatedly, heads bent toward each other like magnets seeking their other half. “Hard to compete with a prince.” He’s positively glum. Almost crying into his paella.

“Is that what the suit is about?”

“Yeah.” He sets his plate down. Yanks at his tie. “I hate these fucking things. They’re not me.” The tie slips over his head and he tosses it to the ground. He unbuttons his top two buttons. “You gotta own your shit, you know? I’m just glad I didn’t shave my beard.” He palms his jaw, running a hand over his glorious facial hair.

“I guess.”

“You liking the dinner?”

I hold up my plate. “Yummy.” I place it back in my lap, wishing I was alone again. “Thanks for doing this.”

He pats my back. “You’re a good kid, Izzy.”

My father and mom make their way across the lawn, sights set on us. “Mr. Jones,” my father says, sticking out a hand. “Thanks for hosting this. If you ever come to Japan, you’re welcome at the palace.”

Jones stands and clasps my father’s hand in a handshake that quickly turns competitive. “Just Jones. No last name. Thanks for the invite, but I have strong feelings on the institution of monarchies. They conflict with my fundamental egalitarian values.”

They disengage. “Of course. I respect your position,” says my father, unfazed.

Jones turns to Mom. “You need anything, Hanako, you know where to find me.”

I’m next. Jones bends, squeezes my nose between his thumb and pointer finger. “Honk.”

I bat him away. Effing weirdo. But he’s ours. No choice but to keep him, I guess.

Then he’s gone, trouncing over pine needles and yelling at one of his friends to break out the bongo drums. It’s probably a good thing my father is leaving soon. First the bongos, then the clothes come off.

“Your neighbor is … interesting,” my father says.

“You get used to him,” Mom says. “He means well.”

He nods sagely. “I have to go soon. Izumi-chan, one more walk?” Already, chamberlains are closing in. The imperial guards are buzzing, ready to be on the move.

“Sure.” I stand, leaving my plate next to Jones’s tie. Mom slips away, but stays close.

My father and I walk the perimeter of the woods, our steps meandering. “You ready to go home?”

“I miss my own bed.” He grins. The futon he’s been sleeping on is lumpy and dusty. “But no. I wish you were coming with me.” It’s his final plea. The question is there in his eyes. Won’t you reconsider?

My gown flaps in the breeze. My hands ball into fists, and my stomach sours. “I can’t.” I’m staying here, summering with AGG and enrolling in College of the Siskiyous in the fall. It’s a done deal.

“Is there something you’re not telling me? Something else that happened there? I don’t understand why you’re being so stubborn. This isn’t like you.” His voice is hard-edged with frustration.

Something inside me bursts, floodgates opening. I can’t hold back. “I’m…” My voice shakes. “You don’t even know me.” My gaze is hard, fierce, determined. I don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m saying, but I plow onward. “I don’t keep my room clean. Mom has to force me to do laundry. My grades are mediocre at best. If I applied to Columbia or Harvard, their laughs would be heard around the world. For the last two years, my New Year’s resolutions have been to eat things with more sprinkles on them. I read mostly romance novels, followed closely by middle grade fantasy. I love my friends, but we do stupid shit like see if we can fit in the fridge, or buy a single grape from the grocery store, or play The Floor Is Lava for an entire Saturday.”

He blinks at me. “Lava?”

I flick a hand. “When you pretend the ground is hot lava and you can’t touch it or you’ll melt. It’s dumb.” But so fun. I peer at him. “You never played that when you were a kid?”

“I didn’t have very many friends. I played Go with my brother.” Right. Go—an abstract strategy board game. The object is to gain more territory than your opponent. In short, introductory war games for children.

“See. That’s my point.” My shoulders droop. Our childhood games are a perfect example of the distance between us, of our differences. We’re worlds apart.

“What’s the point?” He’s confused.

“The point is … the point is, I’m American.” He’s dumbstruck. I’m on a truth roll. Might as well keep traveling downhill. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t be who you—who Japan wants me to be.” I take an unsteady breath.

He mulls it over and responds. “I don’t want you to be something you’re not. Why would you ever think that?”

“I’m not perfect.” My chin is set.

“Me either.” His chin is equally set.

“I’ll never be good enough for Japan. I’ll never belong there.”

“You are my daughter,” he says evenly, fiercely. “You belong with me.” He exhales slowly, taking in the trees, the birds. “I’d like to tell you not to worry what anyone says, but it’s much more difficult in practice. To tell you the truth, the worry never goes away. You’ll screw up. The papers will report it. Your life won’t feel like your own at times. That’s the life as a member of the imperial family and the weight we must carry, Izumi-chan,” he says, voice softening, eyes on me. “Come back to Japan. Let’s figure this out together. Nothing is insurmountable.”

I reach for yes. But the word is a wall I can’t climb.

“Fine. I won’t pressure you anymore.” He sighs. “I invited your mother to Japan. She refused, too.”

I shuffle my feet, stare at them. “You’re welcome here anytime. We’ll totally have you. I’m sorry.” He plans to visit again in August.

“Don’t be,” he says easily. “Just don’t cut me out of your life. Promise?”

“I promise,” I say, then wait a beat. Not everything is perfect, but things between my father and I feel okay. I scrunch up my nose. “Do you think we should hug?”

“I think if there were ever a moment for two people to embrace, it would be this one.” He opens his arms. I slip into them. “Sprinkles, huh?” he says into my hair.

“Oh, yeah. They really jazz up whatever you’re eating. Makes everything so much more festive.” We pull apart.

“Makes perfect sense to me,” my father says. He nods at me. “Daughter.”

I nod back at him. “Dad.”