Chapter 4

4

“Nothing?” Glory asks, balling up a bit of napkin.

I lean back in the red vinyl booth and rub my overfull stomach. Black Bear Diner is a Mount Shasta institution. It is known for its newspaper menus, kitschy black-bear-slash-lumberjack decor, and dinner plate–sized biscuits. We frequent here on the regular. We come. We eat. We conquer. This is where we live our best lives. “Nope.”

Hansani’s smile is gentle. She pats my hand. “Give it some more time. It’s only been a week or so.”

Actually, it’s been thirteen days, two hours, and five minutes since I sent the email to David Meier. Not that I’m counting or anything. I stopped compulsively checking my email every five minutes yesterday. Now I only check it every hour. Progress.

I pull my hand back and shoot Hansani an appreciative glance. I have a special place in my heart for Hansani. She has a resting happy face and a total America’s Sweetheart vibe. To boot, she’s the size of an Ewok. I mean, if she’d let me, I’d carry her around in my pocket. Sometimes, our opinions differ. Like half of Mount Shasta’s residents, she loves The Grateful Dead. I think their music is self-indulgent guitar noodling. There, I said it—fight me.

Noora says, “Maybe his email went to junk mail?”

Hansani makes a low humming noise of agreement.

“Already checked. Nothing.”

Up until now, I hadn’t considered the possibility my father might not want to know me. Ouch. The thought hurts. I care much more than I should. After all, he’s nothing but a biological stranger.

Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.

Our bill arrives and we dig through our pockets and bags. We pay in crumpled ones and tip in change. I offer the waitress a shy, apologetic smile as we leave. Sorry about the twenty percent in pennies.

We load into Noora’s hatchback, complete with peeling paint and a rock chip in the window shield. I claim shotgun and we head on to Lake Street toward Glory’s house. Mount Shasta looms in the distance, a lonely white pyramid. Behind us is Main Street—one stoplight, half a dozen crystal shops, one indie bookstore, and one coffee shop. “We’re dropping you off first.” Noora peers at Glory in the rearview mirror. We pass a family on horseback. “And I need you to never wear those pants again.”

Glory’s leggings are bright purple with eyes all over them. “Fine by me,” she says. “As long as you stop wearing two testicles on top of your head.” Noora’s hair is done up in twin buns.

I glance back and share a grin with Hansani. The two bicker the rest of the ride.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to Glory’s cedar shingle house.

“Ugh.” Glory slumps back in her seat, hugging her purse to her chest. We all know what this is about. A Mazda Miata is parked in front and coming down the driveway is her mom’s new boyfriend. The dentist. He wears a thick gold chain and uses the term “cool beans” way too often. Glory despises him and would rather catch vomit in her bare hands than speak to him. It’s no wonder, really. He’s a total home-wrecker and has major yellow fever. Plus, he and her mom met each other on Facebook Marketplace. So yeah. “I’m going to have to talk to him.” Already, he’s waving.

“I got you.” Noora’s phone is out and she’s ringing Glory on speaker.

Glory picks up and climbs out of the car. “Hi, do you have something important to tell me?” She bypasses the dentist without saying a word, doesn’t even make eye contact. I silently root her on.

“I do. So important,” Noora says. Glory is halfway up the drive. The dentist is in his car. “Those pants are worse from the back.”

Glory opens her front door. “Fuck off,” she says, but there’s no heat in it.

The door closes. “Safe and sound?” Noora asks.

“Safe and sound. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” They hang up.

Hansani’s house is next, a craftsman with a wraparound porch. “You have a kind, beautiful soul, Noora,” she says, car door opened.

Noora makes a show of examining her nails. “I wouldn’t attempt to tell anyone. I’ll deny it. Then everyone will call you a liar and I’ll be so embarrassed for you.”

Hansani giggles and skips up her driveway.

We’re off. Noora zips through the streets of Mount Shasta. Her driving is a cross between Mario Kart and Grand TheftAuto. On this lazy Sunday, I’ve grabbed the oh-shit bar three times already. She pats my knee. “I haven’t seen you this quiet since you and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named broke up.”

She’s talking about Forest. After I found out he cheated, he called me emotionally unavailable. I called him a bag of rats disguised as a person. I’m not bitter. We wouldn’t have worked out long-term anyway. He likes girls who don’t wear makeup. I like guys who don’t tell girls what to do with their bodies.

Forest is definitely not the reason I’m so glum. I’m trying to convince myself the letter didn’t reach my father. It’s not the first time I’ve made excuses for him. My mantra for the last eighteen years has been If he knew about you, he’d love you. I could tell this all to Noora, but instead I say, “Just focusing on surviving the drive.” I give her a fake smile. “No offense.”

Her mouth flattens. She casually extends her middle finger in my direction. “Some offense. But I’d be more offended if I didn’t know you were deflecting.”

Because misery loves company, I blurt the truth out. “He hasn’t emailed me, Noora,” I yell, crestfallen. “I’ve made a colossal mistake. This feels worse than never knowing my father. I should’ve just left it alone.” New rule: never take risks. Risks are for the bold, the hard-hearted. I mean, what was I thinking? I literally eat the same thing for lunch every day. God, I’m dying. Dying.

Noora changes lanes and I jerk to the side. While she excels in school, I know for a fact she barely passed her driver’s test.

My phone chimes with a text.

Mom

Where are you?

Me

With Noora. Almost home.

There are a few missed calls from Mom, too. We pull on to my street and Noora slows the car. Thank goodness. Cars are parked on the grass. Hmm.

“Jones must be having people over again,” I say absently. Jones hosts a range of events, from farm-to-table dinners to an annual pseudo-bacchanalia with the Rainbow Gatherers, a seasonal group that congregates in Mount Shasta promoting peace, freedom, respect, and so on. They enjoy dancing, bongo music, and nudity. I’ve seen enough saggy buns to make my eyes bleed.

We park in my gravel driveway behind Mom’s red Prius. Another text chimes.

Mom

Don’t get out of the car.

Too late. Gravel crunches under my feet. Car doors slam. Lights flash. Then I hear it. My name.

“Princess Izumi, over here.”

Like an idiot, I turn. Another flash. I’m temporarily blinded. I blink. My vision clears. In front of me is a pack of reporters. Most are Asian. A few are white. I focus on one of their badges. Press, it says. Tokyo Tattler.

“Oh my God,” Noora exclaims. She’s in a similar frozen state. Keys dangle from her hands, her mouth is open, and her jaw totally unhinged. I’ve never seen her struck speechless. It’s glorious—but no time to appreciate the novelty. I am under siege.

“Will you be traveling to Japan?”

“How was it growing up without your father?”

“Have you known who your father is your whole life?”

An arm snakes around my shoulder. “Izumi,” Mom says. Noora snaps out of it, too. Her arm joins Mom’s. Together, they force my wooden body to turn, guiding me to step onto our porch. More flashes. A barrage of endless questions. My name, over and over—except they’re calling me “princess.”

Princess Izumi. Princess Izumi. Princess Izumi.

---

The door slams shut. We’re inside. I am momentarily deaf, kind of like after you go to a concert and your eardrums are numb. All my synapses are firing in different directions. I struggle to form words, thoughts. It doesn’t help that Tamagotchi won’t stop barking. A fine time for my stinky, sleepy dog to find his backbone. I pluck him off the ground, shushing him.

“I told you not to get out of the car,” Mom says.

Know what I don’t like? When my mother tells me I told you so. I hit her with my most withering look.

Noora slumps in a chair close to the window. “That was intense.” The blinds are closed, but through the slats, I spy shadows. They’re still out there.

I don’t swear often but now seems the appropriate time to say, “What a shitshow.”

A throat clears.

Oh, we’re not alone. Mom shuffles to the side. A group of Japanese men sit at our kitchen table. All three are dressed in navy suits. You know, the standard uniform for fifty-and-over politicians. They stand and execute fluid deep bows. Their leather shoes are polished to a high shine. And wow. I never noticed how yellow our linoleum floor is or how worn the cabinets are—and not in the trendy, shabby-chic way, either.

One of the men steps forward. He’s slight and wears round glasses. “Hajimemashite, Your Highness.” He bows again.

Mom’s smile walks an apprehensive tightrope. She extends a hand by way of introduction. “Izumi, this is His Excellency Ambassador Saito from the Japan Embassy. He’s flown all the way from Washington, DC.”

It’s too late, but now I remember seeing a black town car parked outside with little flags. I didn’t pay much attention. Note to self: stop being so self-obsessed.

“I tried calling you,” Mom says.

“You know my preferred method of communication is through the written word,” I reply through my teeth. Texting. I mean texting.

Mom seems pretty frazzled. It could be because she’s entertaining a foreign dignitary in her cat house slippers and a T-shirt that reads Woman Up. I’m not wearing much better. Black Bear Diner calls for elastic waistbands and big T-shirts. I’d barely managed to throw my hair into a bun this morning. I did put on a bra, though, so that’s a win. Go me.

Noora is rapid-fire scrolling through her phone. “You’re all over the foreign press.”

Ambassador Saito says, “We apologize for the media. We’d hoped to get here first, but our flight was delayed.”

“How did they even find out? How did they get our address?”

Ambassador Saito steps forward. “An unfortunate turn of events, but not entirely unexpected. The press in Japan is similar to America’s. They have ways of obtaining information. The Crown Prince regrets this situation could not be handled with discretion, and he sends his sincerest apologies he could not be here himself. In addition, he apologizes for any undue stress this has caused you or your mother. He wishes circumstances were different.” All right, then. So I’m a dirty little secret. “He also wishes for you to join him in Japan.”

One of the men at the table produces a large envelope from inside his jacket and passes it to Ambassador Saito. The move is very cool, very smooth. I’m sure I’ve seen something similar in spy movies when agents exchange sensitive information.

Ambassador Saito presents it to me with both hands and a bow. Mom and Noora are watching me. I take the envelope. It’s heavy, white, and crisp. My name is written on the outside in an elegant script.

Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi

泉内親王殿下

The moment seems too big for our humble two-bedroom home. Noora and Mom peer over my shoulder, their breaths brushing against my neck. Personal space isn’t a thing between best friends and mothers. I slide my finger under the wax seal, a golden chrysanthemum. A single card is inside. The calligraphy is loopy and black, clearly inked by hand. Another golden chrysanthemum stamps the top.

On behalf of the Empire of Japan, His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince Toshihito requests the honor of his daughter, the Princess Izumi, to visit and stay at his personal lodgings, Tōgū Palace.

The Ambassador cuts in. “The Crown Prince wishes to explain that this invitation is open. He is happy to receive you upon your convenience.”

My eyes connect with Mom’s—hers are dark fathomless pools. It’s impossible to decipher her thoughts. Is she remembering Harvard nights with my father, this stoic man? Or is she concerned about the press on our lawn, that our veil of privacy has been ripped away? But there’s no going back now. Only forward. All she says is, “What about school?”

I swallow.

Noora grins. Her thoughts are much more transparent. Go. Go. Go. “Spring break is soon. Zoom Zoom could go then and the week after?” she helpfully chimes in. Then adds, “Last semester of senior year is basically a wash, anyway.” Noora elbows my mom. “Amiright?”

Mom sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world if you miss a week or two of school. It’s your choice, honey. Give it some thought. I’m sure Ambassador Saito doesn’t need an answer right this minute.”

Ambassador Saito is utterly serene. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

All eyes are on me again. All the time I need suddenly feels like within the next sixty seconds.

I look at the invitation, chew my lower lip, and contemplate. Allow myself to entertain the idea of Japan, of a father.

It’s definitely risky business.

The upsides: a dad and a country where I might belong, blend in, turn on the television and see someone who looks like me. It would be so nice to walk into a restaurant and not be in the minority. The downside: failure to meet both my father’s expectations and mine. So basically, shrivel and collapse into myself like a dying star. No biggie.

I glance up. Take in everyone’s varying expressions. Mom is wary. Ambassador Saito is hopefully expectant. Noora scowls, whispering, “If you don’t go, I don’t think I ever really knew you.”

Join the club.I’ve never felt like I’ve known myself.

“Do you want some time alone?” Mom asks. She’s already moving toward Ambassador Saito and his team, ready to usher them out the door.

“No,” I say. Mom stops. I look to Ambassador Saito. “I’d like to accept my father’s offer.” Fortune favors the bold. That’s a saying, isn’t it?

“Excellent,” he purrs, then rattles off how excited the Crown Prince will be to hear of my RSVP.

My fingers tap a rhythm against my thighs. Noora hugs the breath out of me. “You won’t regret this.”

I hope not.This must be what standing at the edge of a cliff is like, unsure waters raging below. I’m unsteady and scared and excited—alive and on the verge. I might be destroyed. I might be recreated.

Holy shit.I’m going to Japan.

THE TOKYO TATTLER

The imperial scandal of the century

March 21, 2021

All attention should be on Prime Minister Adachi’s upcoming nuptials, but the bride’s thunder has officially been stolen. Weeks ago, the world’s oldest and most private monarchy was rocked with shocking news: His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Toshihito has fathered an illegitimate child. Even better? She’s been raised in America with no knowledge of her royal roots.

The Imperial Household Agency has remained mum on the matter, only issuing a brief press release after the news broke. When asked about the newest addition, the twin princesses, their Imperial Highnesses Akiko and Noriko (pictured here on a Goodwill Ambassador trip to Peru) refused to comment. They’ve been media-shy since our March 1 article covering the adjustment disorder of their mother, Her Imperial Highness Princess Midori. But everyone is wondering how the twins will handle this new interloper. The two aren’t used to sharing the spotlight.

On the other hand, His Imperial Highness Prince Yoshihito was spotted at the kickoff of Mori Art Museum’s newest exhibit. There, he toasted the new princess and said he was looking forward to meeting her. Three months ago, the prince famously severed ties with the imperial family and moved off their estate. Recently, he returned to the nest after The Imperial Household Agency reportedly cut off his allowance—the Mori event marks his first official duty back.

Now, Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi is on her way to Japan (pictured here with her mother at the San Francisco International Airport). The Lost Butterfly is coming home at last, which has everyone wondering … just who is this American upstart? How will this girl from small-town America adapt to the glitz and glamour of the imperial family? Is she ready for the royal treatment? Only time will tell …