Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(12)
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.
* * *
Ding.
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.”