Total pages in book: 11
Estimated words: 9924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 50(@200wpm)___ 40(@250wpm)___ 33(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 50(@200wpm)___ 40(@250wpm)___ 33(@300wpm)
Dear Naomi,
Should I stop that? Starting the letter with Dear Naomi, I mean. Doesn’t it sound tacky to you? I was thinking about it the other day, and somehow, it does to me.
Anyway, now that my musings about the salutation are out of the way, I want to tell you that your story for history class is lame.
You should talk about Japan and the Warring States period. You know you want to. But you can deny it, I don’t care.
Well, you were born in America, so you might not consider yourself wholly Japanese, but let me insist on this. Do something cool instead of that old, rehearsed topic.
My studies have been going well. Thank you for not asking. But then again, you probably think I’m a nerd and that studying hard is expected of nerds. *insert unflattering language here that basically means, screw you if you think that way*
Now, where were we? Right. My studies.
I don’t like what I’m doing right now and I’m thinking about changing majors, but I don’t know what I’ll change to or if I’d be making the right choice.
Do you ever feel like you understand nothing and when you finally do, the doors are closed? It’s like you arrive at life too late.
Or is that too melodramatic?
Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with my life’s story. Tell me about you.
Are you still eating the hearts of the cheerleaders, or did you grow some balls and quit?
If that happens, don’t worry, you can always be my Yuki-Onna. Or maybe I’m yours.
Sincerely,
Akira
I smile at the dork. He always has such huge illusions about Japanese spirits and their evilness.
He calls me Yuki-Onna because, according to him, I resemble her with my pale skin, rosy lips, and Asian eyes that are so dark, they’re nearly black.
He says I have the beauty of the snow woman, a ghost who roamed the mountains on stormy winter days to lure mortals and kill them.
And since then, it’s kind of become our inside joke.
I never thought this thing with Akira—friendship, as he calls it—would go this far, but I’m glad that I at least have him.
Even if I still don’t know what he looks like.
I contemplated asking for a picture; however, not only would he refuse, but it would also kill the image I already have of him. A cute guy who’s definitely an otaku and talks about porn more than necessary.
He’s corrupted me.
My feet come to a halt inside the front door of our house. It has a wide entryway into the living area that’s diagonal from the kitchen.
Mom stands in front of a mannequin, a pincushion on her wrist and a phone to her ear while she pins a piece of cloth to the mannequin’s chest.
She might have become the CEO of Chester Couture, but she still obsesses over a mannequin at home, trying to come up with her next masterpiece.
I hide Akira’s letter in my bag before she lifts her head. While Mom knows I have a pen pal from Japan, I don’t like her touching his letters. We talk about porn sometimes and that’s not a conversation I want her to be privy to.
“Honey.” She motions at a glitter box and I give it to her.
I opt to go upstairs to my room and grin like an idiot at the thought of rereading Akira’s letter and thinking of an equally sarcastic reply. It’s a game of ours.
“Nao, wait.”
I’m two steps in, but I turn around to face Mom. She has placed the phone in her slacks’ pocket, putting a rare premature end to her conversation with her assistant, her lawyer, her accountant. Anyone who needs the great Riko Chester’s time.
She was born in Japan as Riko Sato, but she changed her last name as soon as she got American citizenship when I was a kid.
Mom is a small woman but keeps her hair long, not short like I do, and she looks like my older sister, not the woman who gave birth to me. She has flawless skin and beautiful small features that she passed down to me. Though she’s paler and has more dark circles than usual lately.
Her eyes are brown, but nowhere as big or as dark as mine. Which I guess is a feature I got from my father, who’s sort of a taboo subject in front of her.
“How did school go?” she asks with a slight accent. Since she’s first-generation, she doesn’t really speak with an American accent as I do, but it’s not for lack of trying. I guess being born speaking in a certain way stamps you for life.
I lift a shoulder. “The usual.”
Mom reaches for her pack of cigarettes and steps back from the mannequin as she lights one, then takes a drag. “How about practice?”
“It was cool.”
“Are you lying to me?”