Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(3)

I stare at the name. Makoto. Mak. What are the chances Mom had separate affairs with two different Japanese men in the year I was born? I glance at Noora. “This could be my father.” Saying it out loud feels weird, heavy. Taboo.

The topic of my father has always been a biographical footnote. Izzy was conceived in 2003 by Hanako Tanaka and an unknown Japanese male. It isn’t the knowledge of my origins that makes me feel bad. I am a daughter of the twenty-first century; no way I’d be ashamed of my mom’s sexual liberation. I respect her decisions, even though the word mom and the word sex makes me want to set something on fire.

It’s the not knowing that makes my soul ache. Walking down the street, examining people, and wondering: Are you my father? Could you know my father? Could you know something about me I don’t?

Noora looks me over. “I know that look. You’re getting your hopes up.”

I hug the book to my chest. Sometimes it’s hard not to be jealous of my bestie. She’s got so much I don’t—two parents and an enormous extended family. I’ve been to Thanksgiving at her house. It’s a real Norman Rockwell painting except with a tipsy uncle, Farsi flying around, pomegranate gravy, and persimmon tarts in lieu of apple pie. She knows exactly where she comes from, who she is, what she’s all about.

“Seriously,” I say finally.

Noora sits down and nudges me. “Seriously? This could be your dad. This could not be your dad. No need to jump to conclusions.” Too late.

As a kid, I thought lots about my father. Sometimes, I fantasized he was a dentist or an astronaut—and once, though I’ll never admit it out loud, I wished he was white. Actually, I wished both my parents were white. White was beautiful. White was the color of my dolls and the models and families I saw on TV. Like shortening my name, a paler skin color and a rounder eye shape would have made my life so much easier, the world so much more accessible.

I glance at the page. “Harvard must have records of who attended.” It comes out wobbly. I’ve never dared search for my father. I don’t even really talk about him. For one, Mom hasn’t really encouraged it. In fact, her unwillingness to speak about him discouraged it. So I kept quiet, not wanting to rock the mother-daughter boat. I still don’t. But I shouldn’t have to do this alone, either. Isn’t that what best friends are for? To share the weight?

Click. Flash. Noora takes a picture of the page with her phone. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she promises. God, I wish I could bottle her confidence, her self-assuredness. If I only had half as much as she does. “You okay?” she asks.

My lips twitch. There’s a skittery feeling in my chest. This could be big. Really big. “Yeah. It’s just a lot to process.”

Noora flings her arms around me, squeezing me tight. We hug it out. “Don’t worry,” she says earnestly. “We’ll find him.”

“You really think so?” I let all the hope shine in my eyes.

The catlike smile returns. “Is Cinnabon my downfall?”

“Based on past consumption, I’d say yes.”

Her nod is swift and confident. “We’ll find him.”

See? Ride or die.





2


School. Noon. Tuesday. I barrel through the hallways of Mount Shasta High. Eighteen hours have passed since a book about rare orchids and a semiracy poem teetered my world off its axis.

It was a rough evening and morning. There were so many questions bouncing around in my mind—did Mom lie about not knowing my father? If so, why? Could my dad know about me? Then, why didn’t he want me? The struggle is real. I’ve been careful to contain my hopes while simultaneously dodging my mother. It’s good that I’m excellent at subterfuge. Under my bed, there is half a bottle of peach schnapps and a handful of romance novels (impoverished duke plus lower class heiress equals true love forever). Mom doesn’t know any of this. Acting casual is key—just a girl going about her business, nothing to see here.

The library entrance is in view. I bear down, pushing past a group of cowboys and two girls named Harmony. Double doors slam behind me.

Ah, quiet at last. If only my thoughts were as easy to turn off. Deep in the stacks, Noora is waiting for me on pins and needles. I’m on tenterhooks, too. In the last hour, a flurry of texts passed between the AGG.

Noora

OMG. OMG. OMG.

Noora

Big news. Emergency AGG meeting in the library during lunch.

Glory

We eat there every day.

Me

?

Noora

Be on time. You’re not going to want to miss this.

Glory

If this is about Denny Masterson’s third nipple again …

Noora

YOU WISH!

Hansani

How about a little hint?

Me

??

Noora

Puh-lease. And ruin my big reveal? Noah fence, but you’re just going to have to wait.

I push down the hope-filled balloon in my chest. It is very likely Noora’s big news isn’t about my alleged father anyway. She lives to call emergency meetings.

“Finally.” Noora latches on to me, pulling me through the shelves. We emerge in the northeast corner. Hansani, a svelte Sri Lankan, and Glory, a half-Filipino with eyebrows I’d die and/or kill for, are already waiting at our usual table. These girls. My girls. We have the unique ability to stare at one another and know exactly what the other is feeling. Our connection was born in elementary school, where we learned our biggest “flaw” was our appearance.