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  DEDICATION

  For Joan

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  A Note from the Author

  A Word about Poetry

  Poems in Order of Appearance

  A Few Online Resources

  Sources

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Misa Sugiura

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  “SANA, CHOTTO . . . HANASHI GA ARUN-YA-KEDO.”

  Uh-oh.

  Something big is about to go down.

  It’s Sunday afternoon and we’re almost ready to leave the beach at Lake Michigan, where I’ve begged Mom to take me for my birthday. It’s just the two of us because Dad is away on business—he’s always away on business—and I’m crouched at the edge of the water, collecting sea glass. I’ve decided I’m not leaving the beach until I’ve found sixteen pieces, one for each year. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed, but at least I’ll have a handful of magic in my pocket. Sixteen surprises. Sixteen secret treasures I’ve found in the sand.

  And now this: hanashi ga arun’.

  Mom never asks if I want to “chat” unless she’s actually gearing up for a Serious Discussion. She walks over and stands next to me, but I’m too anxious to look up, so I continue picking through the sand as possible Serious Discussion Topics scroll through my head:

  She’s pregnant.

  She has cancer.

  She’s making me go to Japan for the summer.

  “It’s about Dad,” she says.

  Dad’s leaving us.

  He’s dying.

  He—

  “Dad got a new job with start-up company in California.”

  —what?

  “It’s the company called GoBotX,” she says. “They make the robots for hospital surgery.”

  I don’t care what the company makes.

  “Did you say California?”

  When I say Serious Discussion, I suppose I should really say Big Announcement Followed by Brief and Unhelpful Q&A Before Mom Closes Topic:

  “How long have you known?”

  “Dad applied last month. He signed contract today.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “No need.”

  “What do you mean, no need?”

  She shrugs. “No need. Not your decision.”

  “But that’s not fair!”

  “‘Fair’ doesn’t matter.”

  “But—”

  “Complaining doesn’t do any good.”

  “Are we all moving? When?”

  “Dad will go in two weeks, at end of May. He will find a house to live, and we will go at end of June.”

  She doesn’t know the answers to the rest of my questions: Where will we live, where will I go to school, what am I supposed to do all summer all by myself. Then she says, “No more questions. It is decided, so nothing we can do. Clean the sand off your feet before we get in the car.”

  We don’t talk on the way home. Mom’s not the type to apologize or ask questions like, “How does that make you feel?” My own unanswered questions swim in circles around the silence like giant schools of fish, chased by the most important question of all—the only one I can’t ask.

  When we get home, I go to my room to finish some homework. But before I start, I take out a lacquer box that Mom and Dad bought for me when we visited Japan seven years ago. It’s a deep, rich orange red, and it has three cherry blossoms painted on it in real gold. Inside, I keep my pearl earrings, a picture of me with my best friend, Trish Campbell, when we were six, all the sea glass I’ve collected from trips to Lake Michigan, and a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

  I pour in my new sea glass, take out the piece of paper, and stare at the numbers. They start with a San Francisco area code. Could this be the real reason we’re moving?

  The paper is small and narrow, almost like something I might pull out of a fortune cookie. Like if I turn it over, I’ll find my fortune—my family’s fortune—on the other side: Yes, these numbers are important. No, these numbers are meaningless. But of course the back of the paper is as blank as ever. I bury the phone number under the other things, put the box away, and lie down on my bed to think.

  A few minutes later, Mom comes in and frowns when she sees me lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Mom is the most practical person I know. She doesn’t sugarcoat things, and she doesn’t look for a bright side. Which is okay right now, because a fake spiel about exciting new experiences, great weather, and new friends would just piss me off.

  “I am sorry that you have to leave your friends,” she says, not looking one bit sorry, “but the pouting doesn’t make your life better. It just prevents you from doing your homeworks.”

  Then again, it probably wouldn’t kill her to show a little sympathy. Also, she’s totally off base about what’s upsetting me. But since correcting her is out of the question, I just turn and face the wall.

  “Jibun no koto bakkari kangaen’no yame-nasai. Chanto henji shina-sai.”

  I don’t think I’m being selfish. But since “AAAGGGGHHHH! I’M NOT BEING SELFISH!” is probably not the “proper reply” she’s looking for, I just say, “I’m not pouting. I’m thinking.”

  “There is nothing to think about. If you want to think, you can think of being grateful for a father who works so hard to get the good job.”

  “It’s not that I’m not grateful—”

  “Ever since he was teenager,” she continues, “Dad dreamed of working for the Silicon Valley start-up. That’s why he came to United States.”

  “But what about me? Don’t my dreams count?” Okay, maybe now I’m being a little selfish. Especially since the truth is that I don’t actually have what might be called dreams. What I have are more like hopes: Straight As. A love life. A crowd of real friends to hang out with. But it’s also true that if I did have dreams, they wouldn’t count anyway. Not to Mom.

  “You are too young for the dream,” she says. (See?)

  I want to remind her that she just said Dad’s start-up job was a teenage dream. But she has a conveniently short memory about things she’s just said that contradict other things she’s just said, so instead, I switch tracks. “What about your dreams?”

  “My dream is not important.”

  “Ugh. Come on, Mom.”

  She crosses her arms. “My dream is to make the good family. I can do that in Wisconsin or California.”

  “Mom, why do you say stuff like that? Like, ‘Oh, our liv
es are just going to change forever, no big deal.’ It is a big deal! It’s a huge deal!” I can hear myself getting screechy, but I can’t help it. Dad changes our lives around without consulting anyone—well, without consulting me—and Mom just . . . lets it happen. It would make anyone screechy.

  “Shikkari shinasai,” she snaps.

  But I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that: gather myself into a tight little bundle with everything in its place—shikkari—like she wants. I put my head under my pillow.

  She’s quiet for so long that I begin to wonder if she’s left the room. When I peek out from under the pillow, she’s waiting for me, her face softer, even a little sad. “Gaman shinasai,” she says, and walks away. Gaman. Endure. Bear it without complaining.

  Her life’s motto and my life’s bane.

  2

  I’M UNDER ORDERS TO PACK ALL OF MY belongings into boxes labeled KEEP and THROW AWAY by the end of the week. Which is harder than you’d think, because who knew I had so much stuff? I’m drowning in a sea of books, old papers, and odds and ends that I’ve spent over a decade smushing into the corners of my closet, cramming into the back of my desk drawers, and piling on the edges of my bookshelf.

  It started off easily enough:

  My lacquer box: KEEP

  Four Super Balls from who knows where or when: THROW AWAY

  Collection of poems by Emily Dickinson, my favorite poet: KEEP

  Assorted elementary school certificates: Perfect Attendance, Fourth Grade Math Olympiad Participant, etc.: THROW AWAY

  But now it’s getting tricky, because some of the things I’ve dug out have some messy feelings attached to them, and I’d rather not go there right now.

  Don’t think. Just sort. The wedding picture that I found in the attic last year and that Mom refuses to display because it’s “showing off.” KEEP. The Hogwarts robe that I loved so much, I wore it two Halloweens in a row. I’d meant to be Hermione but everyone said I was (who else?) Cho Chang. THROW AWAY. A cheap plastic vase left over from my thirteenth birthday party, which three girls skipped to go to the movies instead. THROW AWAY.

  Don’t think.

  As I toss the vase into the THROW AWAY box, a scrap of fabric flutters out: a swim team ribbon that I found in the Glen Lake Country Club parking lot when I was seven. Hmm. Now that’s a feeling I can do something about.

  All the best families in Glen Lake belong to the Glen Lake Country Club, which has a historic redbrick clubhouse, a lush green golf course, and a lily-white membership. Back in grade school, when Trish and I spent more time together, she used to bring me with her to the club all the time during summer vacation for barbecues and lazy afternoons at the pool. But in high school, she became suddenly, dazzlingly popular. The boys and queen bees started swarming, her Instagram filled up with likes and pictures of people who barely acknowledged me in the halls, and our country club days became a thing of the past.

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like she’s been mean, or anything. Days might go by without her texting me, but she always answers my texts right away. She’s usually too busy to hang out with me, but she’s always apologetic. And even though it’s painful to sit on the edges of her crowd at lunch, listening to stories about parties I haven’t been invited to, it’s not like anyone’s ever asked me to leave the table.

  When we used to see more of each other, Trish was always after me to “open up” and “spill everything.” Which, whatever, she’s an oversharer. For example, she texted me seconds after Toby Benton, her first boyfriend, put his hand up her shirt in eighth grade. (OMG I just let Toby touch my boob!! Under my shirt!! )

  But whenever I thought about telling her anything important, I froze. Even now, when people talk at lunch about who wants to hook up with who, or who hopes their dad gets custody on the weekends because he’s totally cool about drinking at the house—I feel relieved that no one’s especially interested in me or my life. I don’t want anyone poking around and freaking out about what’s wrong with my family, what’s wrong with me. Like what if I’d answered honestly the first time Trish asked me at the beginning of freshman year, “Sana, who do you like?”

  “Well actually, Trish, I think I might have a crush on you.”

  Nope. Forget it. Not happening. I’m not even a hundred percent sure it’s true, and life is already complicated enough.

  But now . . . things have changed. I mean, we leave in three weeks, and I might never see her again. So I’m going to ask her to bring me to the first Glen Lake Country Club barbecue of the summer, for old times’ sake. I’ve got nothing to lose, right? We’ll get drunk together for the first and probably last time—I’ve never been drunk before—and maybe . . . maybe if all goes well, she’ll get nostalgic, we’ll bond again, and . . . and . . . something good will happen. I don’t want to think too hard about what, exactly. But something good.

  On Friday, I find Trish in the parking lot after school, sitting with her boyfriend, Daniel, on the hood of his car. Daniel is a big-shot football player, with a face like your favorite love song and a body like fireworks on the Fourth of July; sadly, though, he doesn’t have the brains or a personality to match. His biggest claim to fame is that he got a Mustang for his sixteenth birthday—and one week and a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best later, he drove it into a tree and his dad gave him another Mustang.

  When I ask Trish about the barbecue, it turns out she’s already going with Daniel, but she seems excited to have me come, too.

  “Oooooh!” she says. “We. Are going. To get. So. Wasted. Together. It’ll be so much fun! And Daniel can drive us back to my house afterward.” She snuggles up to him. “Right, honey?”

  “Sorry, babe, but Drew and Brad are back from college and they’re bringing a bottle of Jägermeister tomorrow night.” As he says this, a couple of football bros walk by. “Did you hear that?” he shouts at them. “Jäger shots!” The three of them high-five each other and howl together like a pack of teenage werewolves, and for the millionth time, I wonder what Trish sees in him. Beyond the obvious, I mean.

  When Daniel sees that Trish—thank goodness—is unmoved, he whines, “Come on, make someone else drive.”

  Trish rolls her eyes at me. Then she wraps herself around Daniel and says, “I’ll make it worth your while,” and whispers something to him. She starts nibbling his ear and kissing his neck, and pretty soon they’re making out right in front of me, and I have to look away or I’ll vomit. If she’s using her womanly wiles to get her way, he seems to be falling for it—though from the sound of it she’s having as much fun as he is.

  But at least he seems to have agreed to drive.

  Trish and Daniel arrive to collect me and my overnight bag at six o’clock on Saturday. I’ve persuaded Mom to let me go by reminding her of all the times I used to tag along with Trish’s family to the club when I was younger. “Her parents will be there the whole time,” I said, which is true.

  The plan is to begin sneaking vodka from flasks during dinner, while the adults are too busy getting drunk themselves to care. Then we’ll go to the golf course to finish up. I can hardly wait. All I ever hear about is how much fun it is to get drunk, and I am so ready to try it out and be part of Trish’s life again, even if it’s just for one night.

  We arrive at dusk, and pretty soon Trish and I are on the patio with barbecue on our plates and orange juice (and vodka—shh!) in our cups, surrounded by a hive of popular girls. Minutes into my first drink, my face starts to feel warm, and Trish says, “Sana, are you okay?”

  “What?”

  “Your face is, like, turning red. Like you have a sunburn.”

  I rush to the bathroom to check the mirror. I’m flushed and my eyes look puffy, as if I’m having an allergic reaction. I’m about to start trying to remember what I’ve eaten when I take another look in the mirror and recognize someone: Mom. I look just like Mom when she has a glass of wine with dinner. Dad, too, come to think of it.

  I realize it’s the alcohol, and I
don’t dare take another sip. Plus my head is starting to throb, and I have a feeling it will get worse the more I drink. Great. Leave it to my parents to make it genetically impossible for me to fit in—as if my hair and eyes weren’t enough to make me stand out in a crowd of white kids, now I can’t even get drunk with everyone.

  Trish makes sympathetic cooing sounds when I tell her I can’t drink, but then something catches her eye, and she squeals. “Ooh, Sana, look—there’s Mark Schiller! He told me when we got here that he thinks you look hot! I bet he’s looking for you! Come on, let’s go dance!”

  She grabs my hand and drags me to the dance floor, collecting members of the hive on the way. In a couple of minutes, the guys wander over as well. Trish vanishes for a moment, then reappears. And suddenly, despite my genetically enforced sobriety, I’m feeling pretty good. Pretty great, actually. I mean, look at me. Here I am dancing, surrounded by the cream of the social crop with Trish by my side and ignoring Daniel for once.

  Then it gets even better. The first notes of that old Beach Boys version of “California Girls” start to play, and Trish shouts, “I requested this for you, California girl!” She gives me a hug while the entire hive shrieks, “Sanaaaa!” over the music, and now I feel positively giddy. I wonder if just that little bit of vodka and orange juice was enough to get me drunk, after all.

  The Beach Boys begin cataloging the different girls in the United States—the hip East Coast girls and the Southern girls with sexy accents, and when they get to Midwest farmers’ daughters, we all raise our arms and scream our Midwestern hearts out. We scream for good old-fashioned Midwestern values and hospitality, for prairies and cornfields, for the Heartland. No matter what, I vow, I will always be a Midwesterner. Things are pretty good here, really.

  Soon, Trish decides it’s time to get back to the business of eating and drinking. As we retrieve our plates and cups, Maddie Larssen turns to me and says, “Hey, Sana, you know during ‘California Girls’ when they were like, ‘Midwest farmers’ daughters’ and you were all, ‘Wooo!’ like, super loud? That was so cute!”

  “Well, I’ll never get to do that again,” I remind her. “I’ll look like a freak if I yell for the Midwest when I’m living in California.”