Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(4)

For me, it was Emily Billings. She cornered me on the school bus with her eyes taped up at an exaggerated slant. I knew I was different, but I didn’t know different was bad until someone pointed it out. Of course, I laughed with the other kids. After all, humor is always the best defense. I pretended it didn’t hurt. Just like I pretended it didn’t hurt when some kid asked me if my family celebrated the bombing of Pearl Harbor like Christmas. Or when students requested my help on their math homework. Joke’s on them, I’m terrible with numbers. Still, each time, something inside of me shrivels up, ashamed and silent.

Anyway, we get it. We all know what it’s like to roll with the cultural punches. Noora gets questioned about why she doesn’t wear a hijab. People wonder if Glory was adopted when she’s with her white dad. Hansani endures Mr. Apu accents—wrong country, for starters. And of course, there’s the universal no, but where are you really from?

The girls have already cracked into their lunches—pita and hummus for Hansani, egg salad for Glory. There’s a No Eating sign above our table. Meh, rules are meant to be broken.

I dump my backpack and water bottle onto the table and smile at the other two. Noora falls into the chair beside me. She snaps her fingers at Glory. “Laptop.”

Glory’s eyes flick to Noora and narrow. “Say ‘please,’” she says, even as she pulls out a shiny Chromebook.

Noora pokes her with a pencil. “You know I adore you, even if your name doesn’t suit you.” This is true. Though I’d never say it. Glory is the type of person to poke her finger in someone’s mouth while they’re yawning to establish dominance. Noora, on the other hand, is not afraid to say it. Their relationship is best described as love-hate. The two are so alike, and they don’t even know it.

Glory hands over the laptop. “Stick me again with that pencil and I’ll throat punch you.”

So today, more hate than love.

“Can we get on with it?” I chime in.

Noora takes the laptop and types away. “Yes. Yes we can.” She pauses, laces her hands together and cracks her knuckles. “Drumroll, please!”

Hansani obliges, tapping her fingers against the table.

Glory takes out a file and starts shaping her nails into talons.

I close my eyes. Brace myself. Allow the hope balloon in my chest to expand. Let it be about him. And if it is him, let him not be a serial killer who collects skin suits.

“I found him! I found Makoto. Mak. Your father!” Noora exclaims.

I open my eyes. Blink. Her words dig under my skin, grow roots, leaves. Bloom. So many feelings. Above them all, discomfort. So I do what I do best. I crack a joke. I deflect. “This isn’t about Denny’s third nipple?”

Noora flicks a hand. “God, no. That’s so two and a half months ago. Now, before I show you what I found, I need to tell you something.” She seems unsure, serious.

Blood rushes in my ears. Hansani reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. She has a sixth sense of sorts where she can detect emotional frequencies. It’s her superpower.

I glance at Glory and Hansani. Do they know what Noora has found? Both shake their heads. It’s one of our things, communicating by looks alone. We operate on the same wavelength. We’re all in the dark right now. “Okay,” I say. Deep breath. “Lay it on me.” Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.

Noora inhales gustily. “I am very attracted to your father.”

Hansani giggles.

Glory rolls her eyes.

The wind is knocked out of my nervous sails. “Yuck,” I say. “Plus, we don’t even know if he’s my father yet.”

“Oh, he’s your dad.”

Dad. In my mind I’ve always referred to him as my father, never Dad. The former is a title given at birth, the latter earned over time—after scraped knees and sleepless nights and graduations. I don’t have a dad. But I could. The promise of that scoots me to the edge of my seat.

Noora says, “You’re a dead ringer for him. Check it out.” She turns the laptop to face the group. Images fill the screen.

Glory slams her nail file on the table. “Fothermucker.”

Hansani whistles low. “Shut your face.”

“Meet Makotonomiya Toshihito. Who’s your daddy, Zoom Zoom?” Noora exclaims. She moves the cursor and clicks, enlarging a photo. It’s even more eerie up close. He’s posing in front of a brick building. Harvard, I presume. He’s young in the photo. His smile full of promise and foolish hope. The kind of grin before the world knocks your teeth out. The resemblance is impossible to ignore. Uncanny. There I am in his full lips, in his straight nose, even in the spaces between his teeth.

My mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

“Noora was right. Holy hot-dad,” Glory says.

Fist bumps go around the table. My pulse is racing. I remind myself heart attacks are rare in eighteen-year-olds. “How’d you…” I pause. Gather myself. Gather my thoughts. “How’d you find him?”

“Harvard didn’t have a student register available online, but they do have an order form along with a phone number. I called this morning. Spoke to a super cool chick named Olivia. Funny story, she grew up in Ashland.” Ashland is close to Mount Shasta. “We got along like a house on fire. We’re friends now. She’ll probably name her first child after me.”