Tokyo Ever After: A Novel (Tokyo Ever After #1)(9)

Glory’s leggings are bright purple with eyes all over them. “Fine by me,” she says. “As long as you stop wearing two testicles on top of your head.” Noora’s hair is done up in twin buns.

I glance back and share a grin with Hansani. The two bicker the rest of the ride.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to Glory’s cedar shingle house.

“Ugh.” Glory slumps back in her seat, hugging her purse to her chest. We all know what this is about. A Mazda Miata is parked in front and coming down the driveway is her mom’s new boyfriend. The dentist. He wears a thick gold chain and uses the term “cool beans” way too often. Glory despises him and would rather catch vomit in her bare hands than speak to him. It’s no wonder, really. He’s a total home-wrecker and has major yellow fever. Plus, he and her mom met each other on Facebook Marketplace. So yeah. “I’m going to have to talk to him.” Already, he’s waving.

“I got you.” Noora’s phone is out and she’s ringing Glory on speaker.

Glory picks up and climbs out of the car. “Hi, do you have something important to tell me?” She bypasses the dentist without saying a word, doesn’t even make eye contact. I silently root her on.

“I do. So important,” Noora says. Glory is halfway up the drive. The dentist is in his car. “Those pants are worse from the back.”

Glory opens her front door. “Fuck off,” she says, but there’s no heat in it.

The door closes. “Safe and sound?” Noora asks.

“Safe and sound. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” They hang up.

Hansani’s house is next, a craftsman with a wraparound porch. “You have a kind, beautiful soul, Noora,” she says, car door opened.

Noora makes a show of examining her nails. “I wouldn’t attempt to tell anyone. I’ll deny it. Then everyone will call you a liar and I’ll be so embarrassed for you.”

Hansani giggles and skips up her driveway.

We’re off. Noora zips through the streets of Mount Shasta. Her driving is a cross between Mario Kart and Grand Theft Auto. On this lazy Sunday, I’ve grabbed the oh-shit bar three times already. She pats my knee. “I haven’t seen you this quiet since you and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named broke up.”

She’s talking about Forest. After I found out he cheated, he called me emotionally unavailable. I called him a bag of rats disguised as a person. I’m not bitter. We wouldn’t have worked out long-term anyway. He likes girls who don’t wear makeup. I like guys who don’t tell girls what to do with their bodies.

Forest is definitely not the reason I’m so glum. I’m trying to convince myself the letter didn’t reach my father. It’s not the first time I’ve made excuses for him. My mantra for the last eighteen years has been If he knew about you, he’d love you. I could tell this all to Noora, but instead I say, “Just focusing on surviving the drive.” I give her a fake smile. “No offense.”

Her mouth flattens. She casually extends her middle finger in my direction. “Some offense. But I’d be more offended if I didn’t know you were deflecting.”

Because misery loves company, I blurt the truth out. “He hasn’t emailed me, Noora,” I yell, crestfallen. “I’ve made a colossal mistake. This feels worse than never knowing my father. I should’ve just left it alone.” New rule: never take risks. Risks are for the bold, the hard-hearted. I mean, what was I thinking? I literally eat the same thing for lunch every day. God, I’m dying. Dying.

Noora changes lanes and I jerk to the side. While she excels in school, I know for a fact she barely passed her driver’s test.

My phone chimes with a text.

Mom

Where are you?

Me

With Noora. Almost home.

There are a few missed calls from Mom, too. We pull on to my street and Noora slows the car. Thank goodness. Cars are parked on the grass. Hmm.

“Jones must be having people over again,” I say absently. Jones hosts a range of events, from farm-to-table dinners to an annual pseudo-bacchanalia with the Rainbow Gatherers, a seasonal group that congregates in Mount Shasta promoting peace, freedom, respect, and so on. They enjoy dancing, bongo music, and nudity. I’ve seen enough saggy buns to make my eyes bleed.

We park in my gravel driveway behind Mom’s red Prius. Another text chimes.

Mom

Don’t get out of the car.

Too late. Gravel crunches under my feet. Car doors slam. Lights flash. Then I hear it. My name.

“Princess Izumi, over here.”

Like an idiot, I turn. Another flash. I’m temporarily blinded. I blink. My vision clears. In front of me is a pack of reporters. Most are Asian. A few are white. I focus on one of their badges. Press, it says. Tokyo Tattler.

“Oh my God,” Noora exclaims. She’s in a similar frozen state. Keys dangle from her hands, her mouth is open, and her jaw totally unhinged. I’ve never seen her struck speechless. It’s glorious—but no time to appreciate the novelty. I am under siege.

“Will you be traveling to Japan?”

“How was it growing up without your father?”

“Have you known who your father is your whole life?”

An arm snakes around my shoulder. “Izumi,” Mom says. Noora snaps out of it, too. Her arm joins Mom’s. Together, they force my wooden body to turn, guiding me to step onto our porch. More flashes. A barrage of endless questions. My name, over and over—except they’re calling me “princess.”