“Oh! Yes, I see. It’s beautiful!” Mom smiles and nods thoughtfully, and even picks up the plastic-wrapped package, but I know from experience that she’s lying through her teeth. I’ve seen her do the fake smile and nod with tons of store clerks, and besides, hundred-and-eighty-degree changes of heart are not her thing. “Thank you for your helping!” she chirps.
Fascinating Store Girl takes this as her cue to say, “You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything!” and fade discreetly into the background. Much to my disappointment.
Mom picks out a sensible blue-and-white windowpane print while I protest (quietly, this time). “Mom, even the store person liked my choice.”
“Hn. She is Mexican.”
“What?”
“If she likes it, then it is Mexican taste.”
“Mom!”
Mom is genuinely confused. “What?”
“How do you even know she’s Mexican? And you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I just guessed. Mexican taste is not Japanese taste,” she says simply, as if that explained everything. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Actually, I can. You’d think that being a member of a racial minority would make her extra sensitive, but Mom has something racist, ignorant, or just plain weird to say about everyone who’s not Japanese: Koreans are melodramatic and smell bad; Jewish people like purple; white Americans are selfish, disrespectful, and love guns. And apparently Mexicans have bad taste.
“Mom, that’s racist,” I say. “Just because she likes it, doesn’t mean it’s ‘Mexican taste.’ And even if it was, it shouldn’t matter.”
“I didn’t say it’s bad. I just said I don’t like it. It’s not racism if I don’t like Mexican taste.”
This is pretty much always how it goes, and at this point I know it’s useless to argue. I resign myself to the Mom-approved duvet cover, and fume while Mom finds the other items we came for. There are two lines at checkout, and—oh! There’s Fascinating Store Girl at the cash register on the left. I steer Mom in her direction. She’s got such a nice smile. She even has pretty ears.
“Did you find everything you need?” She gives Mom and me a quick customer-service-y smile and starts scanning.
Beep.
Notice me. Notice me. Notice me.
Beep.
Look up. Look up. Look up.
Beep.
Oh well.
But when she scans the sheets, she looks up and says, “Oh, so you didn’t go with that other set, huh?”
Mom smiles apologetically. “No, we decided this one.”
“I really liked the other one,” I say, suddenly desperate to make a connection. “Just . . . you know.” I jerk my head at Mom, who ignores me. Omigod, what. Did I. Just. Do. That wasn’t bonding over similar taste in bed linens. That was acting like a spoiled brat. Smooth, Sana. Nice going.
“Aah,” says Fascinating Store Girl, and goes back to scanning. But not before she gives me a smile. Wait, what? “That’ll be two hundred sixteen dollars and fifty-seven cents. Cash, credit, or debit?”
Or did I imagine it? Or maybe she was smiling at Mom and me both, to be polite? No, it was definitely at me. Maybe we did just have a bonding moment. Did we? Aggh, just stop. Mom finishes paying, Fascinating Store Girl says, “Bye, have a nice day,” (Did she smile at me again? I mean, at me specifically? Omigod, stop.) and it’s on to Mitsuwa Marketplace, the Japanese grocery store, for tofu, Japanese eggplant, and soba noodles.
I follow Mom around Mitsuwa and think about Fascinating Store Girl. How cool would it be if I ran into her somewhere? Like maybe at that Starbucks across the street from Bed Bath & Beyond. Maybe I’d be there after another of our endless errands (I could leave Mom at home. This is my fantasy, after all.), and Fascinating Store Girl would be stopping by after work. Maybe we’d start talking, and I would be witty and funny and say all the right things, and we’d become best friends. And then maybe one evening we’d be splashing around in the pool in her backyard (hey, it’s a fantasy, remember?), and she’d swim over to me and we’d look into each other’s eyes, and . . .
Maybe it’s better not to go there.
Mom and I go home to spend another ridiculously beautiful afternoon indoors—Mom fussing over dinner, and me fussing over the details of my fantasy, trying to steer it in a safer direction, trying to think about boys instead. But no matter how handsome the boys are, no matter how ripped their bodies or how green their eyes, those fantasies end up feeling as pale and empty as the California sky.
5
TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, AND AFTER a week of careful deliberation, I’ve picked an outfit that will look good without standing out too much: a cute jean miniskirt, a fitted scoop-neck white tee, and gladiator sandals that Mom almost refused to buy. (“Why do you want to look like Roman soldier?”) I twist my hair into a loose bun, with a few strands poking out artfully here and there. Putting it up makes room for a silk cord necklace with multicolored glass beads that look good against my skin. I wish I had cool earrings to go with it, but Mom thinks that pierced ears are for barbarians. But whatever, I’m starting to realize that I’ve spent too much of my time moping and sulking. It’s time for a change. New school, new attitude. Let’s go.
My new attitude and I walk into the kitchen, where Mom is scrambling eggs.
“Sana, kaminoké naoshi-nasai.”
“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my hair. I did it like this on purpose.”
“Darashi-nai.” She is always telling me that I’m darashi-nai. It means disrespectfully messy, sloppy, or careless—it’s what she says when my ponytail is loose or my shirt is untucked or my jeans have holes in them.
“It’s fine, Mom. In fact, I think it looks good.”
“People don’t want to be your friend if you have the messy hair. Teachers think you are disrespectful student. First impression is important for first day of school.”
“Mom, I know.” Like I’d really leave the house looking like a mess on my very first day at a new school. I’m about to tell her that she’s supposed to try to make me feel good about myself, not criticize me, when I catch a glimpse of her face. Her forehead is creased with worry. It dawns on me that she might be just as nervous about my first day as I am. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, but I guess it’s nice to know she cares. Maybe I should forgive her for complaining about my hair.
“You look like porky-pine.” Arrggh! Forget it. And of course now I’m worried that she’s right. I go back to my room and yank my hair into a regular, boring old ponytail.