Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(30)

Me

I’m in.





12


The sun sets. Eight thirty rolls around. I tell Mariko I am tired, making a big deal of yawning and stretching my arms. An actress I am not, but she buys it. It’s easier to sneak out than I thought; Yoshi gives me detailed directions on what not to wear: no cardigans, nothing with a block heel. I’m dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt that reads Riots, Not Diets—Izzy clothes. It’s nice to wear them again.

He also gives me detailed directions to get through the estate. The path leads to a short stone wall. I hoist myself over, and that’s it. I’m off imperial grounds and on a sidewalk next to a highway.

It’s night. Cars zoom by. A hundred feet away, an imperial guard patrols. My heart stops in my chest as he notes my presence, then quickly starts again when he dismisses me. I am no one to him, just one of the many pedestrians out and about. Why would he be suspicious, anyway? I guess people just trust princesses will stay put. Big mistake. I walk the opposite way, keeping my stride casual, and my head down. I pause when I get to the 40 sign with a red circle around it where Yoshi said to meet.

In no time, a car stops in front of me. It’s a clunker. The engine rattles and smoke pours from the window as it opens. Yoshi sticks his head out from the front passenger seat. “Get in,” he says, smile broadening. He’s wearing sunglasses, a multicolored silk jacket with a holographic tiger, and his hair is whipped into peaks. It’s mesmerizing. “I like your outfit,” I say, climbing into the backseat.

“Please,” Yoshi says. “This is me at a three.”

A skinny man in a velvet jacket is in the driver’s seat, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. Jazz plays on the radio. The car jerks and enters traffic.

“This is Taka,” Yoshi says. In the mirror, the man lifts his chin to me. “He’s an Uber driver by day, ceramicist by night.” My cousin leans over the seat, cups his hand over his mouth, and pulls a face. “Don’t ask to see any of his art. Awful.” All this he says loud enough for Taka to hear.

Taka grunts and points a finger at his own shiny head. “I’m not bald. This is by choice. Okay?” Male egos. So touchy.

Yoshi cackles. “You are a weird motherfucker, Taka.”

Taka smiles. His front two teeth are gold. It works on him.

“Um, how long have you two been friends?” I ask, checking my seat belt. I thought Noora’s driving was bad. The city zips by: The Ritz Carlton and hostess clubs, kimono shops and boutiques selling leather handbags.

Neon lights reflect in Yoshi’s sunglasses. “We met last night.” At the face I make, he says, “Don’t worry, you’re in the best of hands. Plus, we’re already out. Once the kimono has been opened, it cannot be shut.”

Right. I should probably tell someone my whereabouts, just in case. The AGG has a strict no judgment policy. I tap out a text to the group.

Me

Out with my cousin in a strange Uber. If I die please make sure my headstone reads: Killed by a bear (or something equally epic).

They answer with a thumbs-up. All taken care of. Now can I relax and enjoy. The night is clear, the city is bright, and in no time, we’re pulling to a stop outside of a restaurant. Taka parallel parks in a spot nearly too small for his car, but he somehow squeezes in. Yoshi opens my door and offers me his hand. I take it and he spins me in a pirouette. Taka lights up another cigarette.

I’m still a touch dizzy as I follow the two men to a restaurant across the street. The front isn’t much to look at—a brick facade, two lights illuminating a plain white sign with kanji, red lanterns hanging under the eaves, and menus display the pricing. A large window showcases the kitchen. A man in a crossover indigo jacket and a hachimaki around his head sweats over steaming pots and a flaming grill.

Yoshi reaches the set of double doors first. We enter. The red lanterns continue inside and cast the room in a warm, crimson haze. Hip-hop plays low, voices meld into one another, and bottles clink. It’s packed, and the patrons take note of us. Our royal presence radiates outward, ripples, then stills. They recognize us. I swallow and start to back away, but Yoshi blocks me. “Izakayas are the most democratic places you’ll find in Tokyo.” As if to prove his point, the crowd resumes their chatter, their drinking, their noisy eating. They don’t care.

We slide into seats at the bar, me between Yoshi and Taka. Farther down is a group of salarymen. To our left is a squad of girls with bright pink hair. Their skirts are plaid, and they all wear the same shirt—white with a man’s face on it. He’s delicate, kind of elfish, with a sharp chin and the same bright pink hair as the girls.

I grab a menu. It’s in Japanese. I plan to point, say hai, and hope for the best. Yoshi plucks it from my hands. “You don’t need that.” He throws it to the side, then orders for us, starting with liquid courage. An indigo bottle is placed in front of us. “First rule of sake.” Yoshi picks up the flask and one of the matching ceramic cups. “Never pour for yourself.” He pours a shot for Taka and me. I reciprocate, pouring one for Yoshi.

We hold the cups close to our faces and sniff. Sweet notes rise up and we toast. “Kanpai!” Then we sip. The rice wine goes down cold but warms my belly. A few more sips and my limbs are warm, too. Scallops and yellowtail sashimi are served. We sip more sake. By the time the yakitori arrives, our bottle is empty and my cheeks are hot.