In the Age of Love and Chocolate (Birthright #3)(36)

I knew Yuji didn’t give such praise lightly. “Thank you. I have never entirely understood what happened between us. But I do know that you saved my brother’s life, possibly twice. And you saved my life once. And you sent me to the cacao farm. If I hadn’t gone there, I might never have started the business. And you were always so tough on me. You were the first person who insisted I had a responsibility to learn the business. I didn’t see it at the time, but you were a true mentor to me.

“And I have often been sorry about the way we parted in Chiapas,” I said. “You were—I believe now—trying to protect me and my siblings when you proposed marriage.”

“You get ahead in the story, Anya. It starts a long time before that.”

“Tell me, then.”

“I will. But know that I did not come here only for storytelling. My tale will end with a request. Though you did once make a promise to me, you are a free person, and it is up to you whether you will honor my request. You have paid me back with what you have accomplished. If you refuse me, you needn’t fear for your life. I will leave New York, and I can assure you that you will never see me again.”

YUJI’S STORY

Where does a story ever begin, Anya? If you are a self-centered person, I suppose it begins with your birth. If you are other-directed, maybe it begins with your first love.

I have always tried to present a strong face to you. You may not recognize the boy I am about to describe.

When I was twelve, my father sent me to an international school in Belgium.

School life was miserable for me. I was too timid and—dare I say?—too Japanese for my classmates. I didn’t understand how to respond to teasing and so I didn’t. This made the situation worse. My grasp of the language was poor, and I began to stutter out of nerves. This also made the situation worse. I was frustrated by my inability to get my classmates to like me. I had been well liked at my school in Japan. If you are a person who has always been liked, it is hard to understand why you have, without changing a thing about yourself, suddenly become unlikable. It is equally difficult to turn the tide in your favor when those around you find you to be deficient.

I ate alone in the dining hall or in the library. One day—I had been there about two months—a girl sat down across from me and started talking.

“You are not bad looking,” she said in a flat, light German accent. “You should use that. You are tall. I bet you could join a sport if you like. Join a sport and then they will leave you alone. You’ll have a team behind you.”

“G-g-go away,” I said.

She did not move. “I am only trying to help you. Your English is bad, but it won’t be so forever. You need to talk to people. You could talk to me. There are many reasons that I think we should be friends. I’m Sophia, by the way.” She looked at me. “Here is where you introduce yourself. Sophia Bitter. Yuji Ono.” She held out her large, sweaty hand. The nails were bitten down to the quick.

I looked up at her. At that age, she was a tall, gangly, hairy creature. All eyebrows, limbs, nose, pimples, and greasy hair. Her best feature was her large, brown, intelligent eyes.

“How did you lose your finger, by the way?” I wore leather gloves to cover my prosthetic and I didn’t think anyone knew. She tapped on my metal finger with her hand.

“How do you know about that?” I asked.

She raised one of her caterpillar-like eyebrows. “I read your school file.”

“That is private.”

She shrugged. Sophia cared nothing about privacy.

I told her the story. Perhaps you know it, perhaps you don’t. I had been kidnapped when I was a boy. They had sent my father my right pinkie finger as proof of life.

“The gloves are a mistake,” Sophia said. “They make you seem affected. No one would make fun of a prosthetic, trust me. These people are as phony as they come.”

“If you know so much, why don’t you have any friends?” I knew Sophia Bitter to be as much an outcast as I.

“My problem is I’m ugly,” she said. “But you can probably see that for yourself. Also, I’m rude, and smarter than everyone here. People like you if you’re smart, but not too smart. My family comes from chocolate, too. I’d guess we’ve both been sent to this school to try to throw some lacquer on the dirt.”

I had never met anyone like her. She was sarcastic and daring. She didn’t care what people thought. She could be mean, but I didn’t mind that very much at first. I had been raised around people who were polite even as they stabbed you in the back. She became my closest and indeed my only friend. There was nothing in my life that I did not wish to discuss with her.

I took her advice in most areas, and my school life did improve. I took up football, made other friends, stopped wearing the gloves. My English improved. By the time I entered the upper school, other girls began to take notice. I was asked to a dance by a girl named Phillippa Rose. Phil was very popular, very pretty. I was excited and I said yes without talking to Sophia first.

I informed Sophia that night when we were studying. She grew very quiet. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Phillippa Rose is a dirty Schlampe.” Her words were venom.

“What does that mean?”

“It means what you think it means.”

I said meekly that Phil seemed very nice to me. “Do you have a reason for saying this about her?”