Chapter 5

5

“Did you pack enough underwear?”

“Mom.”

The cute porter loading my luggage onto a cart smirks. We’re outside the San Francisco airport. Yesterday, I kissed Tamagotchi’s smelly face one last time and said goodbye to Noora and the girls. Then, Mom and I drove to the Bay Area to spend the night.

It’s 7 a.m. The skyline is pink and hazy. My flight departs in one hundred and twenty minutes. In less than fourteen hours, I’ll be in Japan, meeting my father. I thought I’d be exhilarated, but now I’m just kind of terrified. At Mom’s continued stare, I whisper furiously, “Yes.”

“What about your mouth guard?”

I hold up my backpack. “In my carry-on.”

“What about the binder Ambassador Saito sent?”

Ah, the binder. Before he returned to Washington, Ambassador Saito hand-delivered a mound of paperwork. Contents included:

1. A very personal and in-depth questionnaire covering everything from height and weight to future dreams and aspirations. It only hurt a little bit to bypass the Japanese box and check the English box for Only Language Spoken. (“No worries,” Ambassador Saito said placidly when I expressed concerns about the language barrier. “The imperial family and their staff are fluent in several languages, English among them. A tutor will also be provided to help assimilate you to all things Japanese, language included.”)

2. A twenty-page NDA prohibiting me from disclosing financial, personal, private, and any architectural information regarding the royal family and its residences—so basically, Fight Club rules.

3. A dossier (the alleged binder) with a flight itinerary and family history, including: a who’s who of the current line, assorted genealogies, personal profiles, official duties, public activities, estates, foreign relations, and the role of the Imperial Household Agency, plus various important staff members. I’ve got big plans to review it in the air. Of course, I’ve procrastinated reading it. Some things never change. It’s not like I’m avoiding it or anything because I’m secretly intimidated by my royal cousins’ pedigrees or the fact I’m about to join the oldest monarchy in the world. Not at all.

I tap my bag. “In here, too.” A police car idles nearby. Since the news broke, I’ve had a 24-7 escort, all provided on behalf of the United States government for their friend Japan. I am trying hard not to think about the expense. How someone is getting paid to basically follow my mom and me around and watch us eat pastries in Little Italy. Of course, I bought each officer a cannoli. Figured it was the least I could do.

I note the porter is standing and watching us now. Glad he’s enjoying the show. For the record, I am still mortified.

Mom bites her lip. “Didn’t Ambassador Saito say someone was supposed to meet us here?” She makes a show of canvassing the area. There’s a couple paparazzi about a hundred feet away—Japan foreign press. My outrage over being followed has settled to a low simmer. I’m still not sure what I think about people believing they’re entitled to my life. It’s a little disconcerting, like when I shopped for bras online and for two weeks after my entire ad feed was boob-related. I’ve somehow become public property.

“Zoom Zoom.”

“Huh?” I glance at Mom.

“Someone was supposed to meet us here.”

Right.Ambassador Saito did mention I’d have an imperial security detail meet me at the airport. But did he mean the airport here or the airport in Tokyo? I’m not sure, and I didn’t clarify. Mom won’t appreciate this lack of attention to detail, so all I say is, “Mom. It’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine.”

She grips my upper arms. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” She hiccups on the last word.

A lump forms in my throat. “I won’t go,” I say. Then, she pushes me, kind of hard. “Mom. Ow.”

“No. This is me kicking you out of the nest.” She wraps me in a hug.

I fall apart. I knew things would change starting senior year, but I thought it would be more in the traditional sense. Prom. Graduation. College.

I pull away and wipe my eyes. There’s definitely some snot, too, and I use the back of my sleeve on that. I don’t even care the porter is still hanging around. Mom seizes my arms in another death grip. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

Hmph.As if I’m the troublemaking type. “I’ll be back soon,” I assure her. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” she repeats. Mom’s face is a mask of apprehension, so I turn up my smile a notch. Someone has to put on a brave front. “This is going to be good for you, I think,” she says finally, forcing a smile. “You’re putting yourself out there. I’m proud of you.”

Why can moms always see into the dark recesses of your soul? I’ll admit it. In my own life, I’ve never been the leading role. I just don’t have that star power. Wasn’t born with it. I’ve always been a sidekick. My singular purpose is to bolster heroes, stay in the background, and maybe, in one big on-screen moment, sacrifice my life for the greater good. So far it’s served me well. If you don’t fly too high, you don’t have too far to fall. But now, somehow, I’ve been thrust into the limelight. All this makes me squirmy. Slightly unbalanced.

Another long hug. Mom and I say goodbye. Double doors slide open and I walk through them toward the Japan Airlines ticketing counter. I don’t turn around, but I know she watches me until I disappear.

Overhead lights flicker on throughout the cabin. Ever had the sensation where time goes so slow, but when it’s all said and done, you can’t believe the event is already here? That’s where I am right now. Coasting the tarmac in Tokyo, my overall state is dreamlike.

I gaze out the window. My first glimpse of Japan is gray and cold. Reality comes crashing in and butterflies hatch in my stomach. I’m alone and on the other side of the world. I breathe in. Breathe out. I can do this. Navigate a foreign country, live in a palace, and meet my father for the first time—no problem. A piece of cake—mochi cake.

The front section of the Triple Seven resembles a luxury yacht. There are eight seats, and each is its own suite. Brown leather armchairs convert into beds. A mahogany wooden console with gold inlay hides all sorts of techy stuff—seat controls with massage functions, power and USB plugs, a gaming system, and even complementary Bose noise-canceling headphones. The toilets in the two private bathrooms automatically flush and are equipped with bidets—a hard pass, but I appreciate the touch. Even the bathrooms smell luxurious, a mix of cashmere and lavender.

Seats are divided by partitions—unnecessary, since I am only one of two passengers occupying the space. For the last ten hours, it’s just been me and a stuffy but kind of hot Japanese guy in a suit up here. Between meals (a three-course lunch starting with an amuse-bouche of soft yuba and fresh sea urchin), naps, and binge-watching television, I’ve observed him. He’s barely moved. He hasn’t loosened his tie or put up his feet, but he did eat. A tray was delivered to his seat and carried away empty moments later. That’s some kind of witchcraft.

A flight attendant makes an announcement in Japanese. She repeats it in English. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Narita International Airport. The current temperature is fourteen degrees Celsius, and the time is 3:32 p.m. Our captain asks you stay in your seats and allow our first-class cabin passengers to deplane first. This is for security purposes. Thank you, and welcome again to Tokyo. Please enjoy your stay.”

My cheeks burn. Good thing a heavy curtain separates the first-class cabin from the rest of the airplane. Nobody can see me. Hot Guy stands, buttons his suit jacket, and does a quick sweep of the interior. He speaks with the two attendants and fits a tiny earpiece into his ear. They bow and stand in front of the blue velvet curtains. There’s a whoosh of the plane door opening. Two men board, both in black suits similar to Hot Guy’s. I sit up a little straighter. Hot Guy is beside me. Sweeping into a low bow, he says, “Your Highness, please come with me.”

I focus on his shoes, black and shiny, then move up—dark suit, dark tie, then the face. He’s younger than I thought—a couple years older than me, maybe. And, oh my God, kill me now, he’s even better up close. So good-looking it’s borderline offensive—pouty lower lip, hooded eyes, straight nose. I’ve been on permanent relationship hiatus since Forest, but now I’m rethinking my anything-with-a-penis ban. My mouth opens and closes. He’s waiting, eyes cool and assessing. “And you are…?” My voice cracks in the middle.

“Kobayashi. Akio,” he says. That’s all. Guess he’s more of the strong, silent type. Okay, totally on board with that.

I stare at him, unsure what to do. My brain is fuzzy. Definitely jet lag, but combined with adrenaline. There’s not a word for my current state. It’s an I’m-in-a-new-country-and-about-to-meet-my-father kind of high.

He shifts on his feet, clears his throat. “Pardon, Your Highness. We really must be going.”

I smile. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Akio.” He’s a bit impatient now. “I should be in the dossier you received.”

“Riiight.” The dossier. Japan Airlines had the first two seasons of Downton Abbey. I’d chosen the historical drama over my own family history. I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. “I haven’t had much time to look at it,” I explain to Akio.

His dark eyes gleam. “Yes. I’m sure you had more pressing matters.”

Huh.I crane my neck to look behind me. From his seat, he had a perfect view of mine. No doubt he watched me watching Downton Abbey. So it’s going to be like that.

“Perhaps you’d like to check the dossier now,” he suggests, impatience level rising to a ten. The other suits aren’t quite as hostile, but they are just as serious. No help there at all.

“Yes. Um. I would,” I say. My face is on fire, and not in the sexy way from my romance novels, but in the bad, hivey kind of way. I jammed the binder into the cubbyhole beneath the television earlier. Akio’s eyes stay on me as I wriggle it out, my motions the opposite of elegant. Also, the leather makes an unfortunate squeaking sound. I can practically hear the pitter-patter of his heart’s discontent.

I flip the binder open. His photograph is on page five, followed by his contact information and a list of qualifications. Imperial guard Akio Kobayashi will meet you in San Francisco and personally escort you. Twenty years old. Two years with the Imperial Guard, the highest dan in a variety of martial arts, expert marksmanship credentials, and on it goes. It all leads me to believe he could kill a man with his bare hands. How chilling. I say, “I’m sorry about not recognizing you.” I stand and gather my carry-on. “You know girls, strangers and all…”

He flicks two fingers and a suit springs into action, relieving me of my carry-on. “It’s of no consequence.” I should’ve read the dossier. I can’t imagine what he thinks of me now. Actually, I can. He probably spent the entire plane ride mentally writing bad reviews about me. Stuck-up. Didn’t recognize me on the flight. Thought no one could see when she smelled underneath her arms. Twice. So far, unimpressed. This is supposed to be a princess? I don’t get paid enough for this.

“The press knows you are arriving today,” Akio says as he and the other suits usher me off the plane. His tone is short, but his stride is long. I have to take two steps for every one of his. There’s already a stitch in my side from trying to keep up. I should exercise more. But alas, I like cake more than I like running. “They don’t know which flight, but I’m sure they’ll find out soon. Tabloids have bought tickets to gain access to the main airport. We’ve arranged access through the employee areas.”

More suits join us. The theme of our walk is less talk, more hurry. I glimpse the airport—pretty standard as these things go. Clean shiny white floors. Signs and escalators backlit with neon colors. Some differences, though, like a hotel advertising sleeping capsules and showers.

“My luggage?” I ask as I’m guided through a metal door.

“Is being delivered to the palace separately. It should be there before you arrive,” Akio informs me without breaking stride.

The hall is concrete, empty and windowless. Overhead, fluorescent lights flicker. We make our way through, passing doors with signs or numbers. Everything is in Japanese. Finally, the hall widens—we’ve reached the heart of the airport, I’m guessing. The hallways smell of soy sauce and curry and branch off like arteries.

Sweat dots my forehead. I didn’t drink the champagne on the flight, but I did have three cappuccinos—mostly because they came with these super delicious chocolate sticks. A flight attendant noticed and brought me a dozen of them, so I pretty much love her now. Problem is, that dip into caffeinated heaven is coming back to haunt me.

In layman’s terms: I have to pee.

“Um, Akio,” I say softly.

He either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. I’m going with the latter. Someone in his position probably has better than average hearing.

“Akio,” I repeat more loudly.

He keeps going. Time for drastic measures. My bladder is about to burst. I can’t meet my father doing a pee-pee dance. Not a good look. I stop. Everyone halts. All eyes are on me.

“I need to use the ladies’ room,” I explain. Then I add, “Please,” because manners and everything.

Akio is in front of me. “Sorry?” He pretends to misunderstand, but the look on his face says: I can’t believe you’d possibly ask to use the restroom. What kind of demon are you, really?

“Is there a ladies’ room nearby?” I squint, waiting for flames to shoot out of his ears.

He stares down at me for one more blazing second. I really resent the extra foot of height he has over me. “A restroom. You need a restroom?”

I shrug, palms up. “Too many cappuccinos on the airplane.”

“There is no plan for that.” His voice is a bit strained around the edges.

“Using the restroom?”

A single nod.

“Okay.” I shift from one foot to the other.

He scrutinizes me for a moment. Then he barks something in Japanese. A suit checks his phone and points to a door, then half the suits go through. Pots bang, voices get louder. Based on tone and inflection, I can tell someone is not very happy. Once things calm down, a suit holds the door open.

Akio extends an arm. “Restroom.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a kitchen. The staff, a server, and janitor all stand in a corner. A murmur runs through the group when they see me. The air is heavy, laden with the hot greasy smell of woks and miso. A few feet away, a suit holds a bathroom door open.

I flutter my fingers, sending the staff an apologetic wave. A dozen indulgent smiles answer me.

When I emerge, the chef is having some sort of disagreement with one of the suits. After much discussion, including what appears asking Akio for permission, the chef picks up a knife and then his movements are a whir. He moves closer to me and bows, presenting a radish cut into a chrysanthemum.

“A gift,” Akio explains stiffly.

I take the vegetable with a wide smile. Water drips from my hands. “There weren’t any towels. Sorry.”

Akio clips out something in Japanese, and a flurry of handkerchiefs are waved near my face. Even Akio has withdrawn a white square from his pocket. He’s closest, but I ignore him. Enemy, remember?

The handkerchief the janitor holds is clean and creased as if it’s been lovingly pressed. I take it and dab my hands, still managing to keep hold of the radish. “Thank you,” I say to the chef and janitor. Then, I wave to the staff. “Arigatō.”

Both bow and reply, “Dōitashimashite.”

“I apologize if anyone’s lunch was delayed. Will you translate that for me?” I ask Akio.

Akio huffs. “We should be on our way.” I add mulish to Akio’s list of qualifications. I might let this go, but I’m big on being nice to people. I cross my arms and stare up at him. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve won my fair share of staring contests.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Aaand …I win. Akio clasps his hands behind his back, clears his throat, and speaks Japanese. No way to tell if his translation is verbatim, though Akio strikes me as honest. You know, the I’d-die-for-my-principles type. Side note: this has been the downfall of many great men.

When Akio finishes speaking, the kitchen staff erupt in approving smiles. Forget the palace and my father. I might just live here.

Akio ushers me back into the concrete hall, and this time, I’m happy to follow. His rain isn’t going to ruin my parade—my steps and bladder are light. Daylight peeks through the cracks of a set of double doors, and two suits open them. Fresh air spiced with rain and wet earth floods the hallway.

Lights flash. I am momentarily blinded. A sea of people waits outside for me, chanting my name. Some are press with official badges and long-focus lens cameras. Security guards in blue hold back the royal watchers. It couldn’t be any louder if someone grabbed me by the lapels and yelled in my ears.

I press a hand to my pounding heart.

A sleek, black Rolls-Royce idles at the curb. On the hood, a flag waves—white with a red border and a golden chrysanthemum.

My lips part. I freeze. My father is in that car. Just on the other side of the glass. I turn on my best pageant-winning smile.

Akio’s truffle-colored eyes flicker to me. “The crowds were smaller when we landed.”

I choose to ignore him. The car door opens and another suit alights. My skin tingles, but he’s not my father. This older man wears a black bowler hat and sports a dark blue tie. His jowls remind me of a sad basset hound.

Another suit pops open a black umbrella and holds it over the man. He walks forward and bows, shouting over the hustle and bustle. “Yōkoso, Your Highness. I am Mr. Fuchigami, East Palace Chamberlain. On behalf of your father, His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince, and the Empire of Japan, I welcome you home.” Rain slices a path down the nylon and drips from the umbrella’s ribs.

Cameras click. I blink, trying to peer into the cabin of the Rolls-Royce. “My father isn’t here?” Major letdown.

My name is called, but I keep my focus on Mr. Fuchigami. More photos are snapped. Lights flash, the imprint emblazoned on the back of my eyelids. I wonder if they’ve captured my disappointment. Perhaps the headline will read “Princess Stood Up by Her Father.”

Mr. Fuchigami’s smile is commiserative. “The Crown Prince is waiting for you at the palace. We thought it might be best for your reunion to be private.” That makes sense. I guess. Still, my stomach clenches like a fist. “Please,” he says, sweeping his arm out and creating a line he expects me to follow.

Akio’s presence beside me is darker than the clouds in the sky as he glowers at the crowd. The imperial guard can stand down now. He’s no doubt going to enjoy this handoff. Probably can’t wait to be free and do something he finds relaxing, like winding clocks or frightening little children at a schoolyard or (one can only hope) playing in traffic.

I glance left, then right. The car door is still open. Rain pelts the interior. Mr. Fuchigami is waiting. My father is waiting. Japan is waiting. I brace myself and find the silver lining. My father might not be here, but Tokyo is. I will my nerves to be like the concrete under my feet, hard and impenetrable. I am brave. I am magnificent. I can do anything. (As long as I am gently handled, have ten hours of sleep a night, and a hearty, protein-packed breakfast, of course.)

Ready.

Steady.

Go.