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Once a year, in late August, the Asian Girl Gang conducts its annual meeting. Attendance is mandatory. The agenda is preset. It is a closed-door event; only those sworn to uphold the five covenants of the AGG are permitted to attend:
ABS—always be snacking.Secrets make the bond healthier. (One of us writes Jonas Brothers fan fiction. One of us shaves our toes. And another clogged the school bathroom toilet so terribly with a pad that an outside plumbing company had to be called, after which the principal was prompted to hold a female-students-only assembly on the proper disposal of feminine products—it was me; that girl was me.)Motivate and encourage one another.My clothes are your clothes.And, I’ll do it if you do it.I stare at my three friends—Noora, Glory, and Hansani— on the computer screen. It is the first time we’ve conducted the meeting in separate locations, scattered all over the world in different time zones.
It’s eight p.m. here. I’m all the way in Tokyo, by far the farthest away from home. In Tōgū Palace, in my new room, which is all soft whites and earthy wood tones that could easily be featured in Japan’s Architectural Digest. It’s early morning in New York, where Noora is. She arrived a few days ago to move into the dorms at Columbia University. And even earlier for Glory and Hansani, four a.m. (they drew the short straw on time). Both are on the West Coast. Glory is visiting her dad in Portland before heading to the University of Oregon tomorrow. And Hansani is still in Mount Shasta but at a twenty-four-hour diner because she lives in the boonies and her father refuses to pay for the company to wire for the internet at home. She’ll leave in a couple days and be off to UC Berkeley. Among the three of them, my best friends are always the smartest people in the room. There is nothing these ladies can’t do. Hand to God, Glory can even field dress a deer. Their futures are set.
And mine?
Well, I’m trying to figure things out. My world teetered and turned upside down when I learned spring of my senior year that my father was the Crown Prince of Japan. Overnight I became a princess. It’s hard to believe and I’m still adjusting. I’ve been pretty much living in Tokyo (with one brief jaunt home, to Mount Shasta, after my relationship with my bodyguard was splashed all over the media). And my only goal has been to continue to get to know my father. That’s it.
Only …
Mr. Fuchigami, palace chamberlain and ruthless overlord, has been leaving catalogs to Japan’s elite schools all over the rooms I frequent in the palace. He’s even wrangled me into touring University of Tokyo tomorrow. Just my father’s and my grandfather, the emperor’s, undergraduate alma mater. No pressure. Only some pressure. I am standing in the past royals’ shadows. It’s far from a done deal. And I’ve made it clear I’m considering my options. So the question is: Gap year or school? The answer: I don’t know. Each option represents a different path. School in Japan leads me further down the princess conveyor belt. A gap year, further away from it—I’d be the first imperial princess in one hundred years not to go to school right away.
I pull Tamagotchi from his stinky nest at the foot of my bed and sink my nose into his wiry hair. He squirms from my embrace, planting himself farther down on the bed. Dumb dog. All I want to do is love him and be loved in return. Granted, he’s been a little out of sorts after arriving in Japan and being quarantined for fourteen days.
A server approaches Hansani and pours her a fresh cup of coffee. The mug steams, and she wraps her hands around it. “Thanks,” Hansani says to the server, smiling unsurely. “I’m sorry, I’ve been here so long. I promise I’ll tip you a lot.” The server says to take all the time she needs.
Hansani is like that. She projects an I’ll-mow-your-lawn-for-free vibe. Parents love her. She waits a beat for the server to leave, then stares directly into the camera and stage-whispers, “I barely have enough cash to cover this coffee. We need to end this now.”
“We’re almost done,” Noora pipes in. Behind her, there is a calendar with neon stickies. Already she’s enshrined in schedules and notes—it’s her happy place.
So far, we’ve covered: One, how we’ll keep in touch while out of state/country and in different time zones—it’s open season on texting; whoever is available will reply. Two, we all agree we must support each other emotionally during this transitional time. Three, when we will reunite—sadly, not until next summer at the earliest. But Noora will be visiting me in Japan during her winter break. I’ll be playing hostess, showing her the Tokyo sights.
“We have one last item to discuss,” Noora imparts.
“This is silly,” Glory grouches. “We don’t need to talk about number four on the list.” She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms.
Noora gives Glory the stink eye. “Last item on the agenda—”
“We are not going to spend our final meeting minutes going through which movie with a couple should be recast with two men or two women as leads,” Glory cuts in. She turns her cheek and says under her breath, “Titanic.”
“Honestly, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. Mine would be Dirty Dancing,” Hansani says. “The scene in the river? C’mon.”
Movement in the hall catches my eye. “Ladies,” I say. “I hate to cut this groundbreaking conversation short, but I have to go.”
Copyright © 2022 by Emiko Jean
