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True, I stil
l know next to nothing about Akira, but it’s not like I’m telling him my deepest secrets or anything. It’s just something that I look forward to every week.
And maybe that’s because I’m pathetic and he’s one of just two people I have as friends.
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.
