1
It is the sacred duty of best friends to convince you to do the things you should not do.
“You’re never going to finish this. You tried. You really tried,” Noora, aforementioned best friend, says. “You gave it a shot.”
A shot consisted of one five-minute attempt at an essay on the theme of personal growth in Huckleberry Finn. Noora is supposed to be helping me. I called her over for moral support. “Better we just give up and move on.” She flops onto my bed, arms across her eyes—the literal definition of a swoon. So dramatic.
Her argument is compelling. I’ve had four weeks to work on the journal. Today is Monday. It is due Tuesday. I don’t know enough about math to approximate the statistics of finishing on time, but I bet they’re low. Hello, consequences of my own actions. We meet again, old friend.
Noora’s head pops up from my pillow. “Good Lord, your dog stinks.”
I cuddle Tamagotchi close to my chest. “It’s not his fault.” My terrier mix has a rare glandular condition for which there is no cure or medication. He also has a you’re-so-ugly-you’re-cute face and a gross fetish for his own feet. He sucks his toes.
Pretty sure I was put on this earth to love this canine.
“I can’t ditch the assignment. I need it to pass the class,” I say, surprising myself. I am seldom the voice of reason. Confession: there is no voice of reason in our friendship. Conversations usually go:
Noora: *suggests bad idea*
Me: *hesitates*
Noora: *disappointed face*
Me: *comes up with worse idea*
Noora: *delighted face*
Basically, she instigates and I double down. She’s the Timberlake to my Biel, the Edward to my Bella, the Pauly D to my Jersey Shore. My bestie from another teste. My ride or die. It’s been this way since second grade when we bonded over our skin color—a shade darker than the white kids in Mount Shasta—and a shared inability to follow simple instructions. “Draw a flower?” Scoff. How about an entire ocean landscape with starfish criminals and an I-don’t-play-by-the-rules dolphin detective instead?
Together, we’re one half of an Asian Girl Gang—AGG, for short. Think less organized crime, more Golden Girls. Hansani and Glory are the other two parts. Membership dues are strict and paid in some claim to Asian ancestry. Meaning: we’re pan-Asian. In a town strung together with tie-dyes and confederate flags, one cannot afford to discriminate.
Noora levels me with her eyes. “It’s time to give up. Adapt. Overcome. Be at peace with your failure. Let’s go to the Emporium. I wonder if that cute guy still works behind the counter. Remember when Glory got all flustered and ordered Reese’s penises ice cream? C’mon, Zoom Zoom,” she cajoles.
“I wish you’d never heard my mother call me that.” I shift, and Tamagotchi scrambles from my arms. It is no secret: I love him more than he loves me. He circles and lays down, tucking his chin into his butt. So. Cute.
Noora shrugs. “I did, though, and it’s amazing. Now I cannot not use it.”
“I prefer Izzy.”
“You prefer Izumi,” she volleys back.
Correct. But by the third grade, I’d heard those three syllables butchered enough to want to simplify my name. It’s easier this way.
“If white people can learn Klingon, they can learn to pronounce your name.”
When someone is right, they’re right. “True,” I admit.
My bestie taps her fingers against her stomach, a clear sign of boredom. She sits up, and her smile is catlike—secretive, smug. Another reason I’m a dog person. Never trust a cat, they’ll eat your face if you die. (I have no proof of this. Only a strong gut feeling.) “Forget the Emporium, then. I’m feeling pale and unattractive.”
Now I’m grinning. We’ve been down this road before. I am happy to follow. “Maybe we should just freshen up and try again?” I ever so helpfully suggest. Tamagotchi’s ears perk up.
Noora nods sagely. “Great minds think alike.” She flashes me another smile and dashes out the door toward Mom’s master bathroom, otherwise known as the Rodeo Drive of cosmetics. It’s hard to think about what’s on the chipped vinyl counter and not salivate—shiny lacquered cases of Chanel eye shadow palettes, a La Prairie caviar sleep mask, Yves Saint Laurent Couture eyeliner. Oh, and Korean skincare products, anyone? Yes, please. Each decadent little indulgence holds a promise of better tomorrows. Like, things are super bad right now, but I really think this bronzer in Golden Goddess is going to turn it all around.
Irony is, the pricey makeup is the diametric opposite of mom’s no-fuss practicality. She drives a Prius, next-level recycles (sometimes I think she had a child just to help her turn the compost pile), and reuses her pantyhose. Got leftover soap slivers? Shove them in the toe of an old stocking and get every last bit of suds out of them. When I point out this hypocrisy to Mom, she is flat-out dismissive. “Whatever,” she says. “It’s all part of my feminine mystique.” I don’t disagree. We ladies contain multitudes. What it comes down to is, the glosses and highlighters are Mom’s guilty pleasure. And it’s purely Noora’s and my pleasure to paint our faces while Mom is teaching at the local community college.
I find Noora applying a Dior gloss and peeking through the blinds. “Jones is in your backyard again.”
I cross the carpet and join Noora to peer out the window. Yep, that’s him. Our next-door neighbor wears a floppy pink sun hat, white T-shirt, yellow Crocs, and a sarong so colorful it’s offensive—I mean, who created such an unholy thing?
He carries two jars of dark liquid and places them on our back porch. Probably kombucha. The bearded wonder is sweet on my mom, brews his own tea, keeps bees, and his favorite T-shirt says Love Sees No Color. This, of course, is a lie. Love definitely sees color. Example: when I mustered up the courage to tell my seventh grade crush I liked him, he replied, “Sorry, I just don’t find Asian chicks attractive.” Since then, my love life has followed the same cursed path. My last relationship ended in a dumpster fire. His name was Forest and he cheated on me during homecoming. We consciously uncoupled. I rub my side where there is a sudden sharp pain—probably gas, definitely not the memory.
“It’s a little creepy that he brings your mom stuff all the time. Kind of like a feral cat that leaves dead mice on your porch.” Noora re-caps the gloss and smooths her lips together. The deep red color matches her personality. Subtle is not in her vocabulary.
I cross my arms. “Two weeks ago, he brought her a book of pressed flowers.” Mom may be a bio professor, but botany is her real jam. What Jones lacks in fashion, he makes up for in game. I’ll give that to him.
Noora moves from the window and pitches the gloss onto Mom’s flea market quilt. Mom’s a fan of old things. “Is this the book he made her? Rare Orchids of North America?” She’s at Mom’s nightstand now, rifling through her stuff. Such a snoop.
“No,” I say. “That’s different.” I’ve never paid much attention to the book. Because, rare orchids and all.
Noora flips open the cover. “Ruh-roh, Scooby Doo. What’s this?” She taps a finger against the title page and begins reading. “My dearest Hanako—”
It takes a moment for me to catch up. Dearest? Hanako? I lunge, snatching the book from her hands.
“Grabby,” she mumbles, resting a chin on my shoulder.
The handwriting is neat but slanted, the pencil nearly faded.
My dearest Hanako,
Please let these words say what I cannot speak:
I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.
—Yamabe no Akahito
Yours,
Makoto “Mak”
2003
Noora whistles low. “Guess Jones isn’t your mom’s only not-so-secret admirer.”
I sit down on the bed. “Mom never mentioned a Makoto.” I don’t know how to feel about that fact. It’s strange to think about your parent’s life before you. Call me narcissistic, but it’s a teen’s prerogative to believe everything started the moment you were born. Like: Izzy’s here now. Earth, you may begin spinning. I don’t know, maybe it’s an only child thing. Or maybe my mom loved me so much she made it seem that way.
I’m still processing this when Noora carefully says, “So, hey. You were born in 2003.”
“Yeah.” I swallow, staring at the page. Our thoughts have turned in the same improbable, yet intuitively correct direction. Mom said she got pregnant with me in her final year of college. My parents were in the same senior class. Harvard, 2003. My father was another student, visiting from Japan. A one-night stand. But not a mistake, she always insisted. Never a mistake.
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.
Copyright © 2021 by Emiko Jean
