Apt. 3B
“You can do it, Emi,” Mom says.
I sigh and stare out the passenger window at the familiar houses of my suburb. “Way tay see—”
She cuts me off gently. Again. “It’s tah. Wah tah she.”
“We’ve been doing this for like twenty-four hours. I’m not going to get it,” I complain.
Mom teaches Japanese history and language at the local college. She’s never pressured me to learn Japanese. Until now.
Because today I’m helping Mom’s older sister move into her new apartment across town. I never met her sister before because she’s been living in Japan. I didn’t even know she existed because Mom never talks about her. I’d always thought Mom was an only child, like me.
“It would be nice if you could say a sentence or two in Japanese to make my sister feel more welcome,” Mom says.
“I know how to say hello,” I say, “but it’s not like I’m going to become fluent overnight.”
“It just takes practice, sweetie,” Mom says.
“I don’t want to learn,” I say, my tone sharper than I intend. “I don’t know why I couldn’t stay home.”
It’s finally summer and I just want to hang out with my best friend, Carly Boyce. Instead, I’m going to be spending the day doing manual labor for someone who is basically a stranger.
“Oh, Emi,” Mom says. “It’s not as if being away from Carly is going to mean you’re not best friends anymore. I think you can stand to be apart for one day.”
I’m not sure about that. Right now, Carly is hanging out with some of our other friends, Bethany, Nora, and Addison. Carly and I used to do everything together, just the two of us, but at the start of seventh grade, Carly wanted us to do most everything in a group. I don’t have anything against the other girls, but lately Carly has been acting more and more like them, talking about boys and makeup and fashion.
I pull out my phone and text Carly our favorite dog emoji. It’s our secret code that means we’re thinking of each other because we both love dogs.
I wait for her response, but nothing comes.
Mom stops at a red light. “Come on, Emi. Just try.”
I tuck my phone back in my pocket. “Okay. Say it again.”
“Watashi no namae wa Higashi Emi desu,” Mom says so quickly I can hardly catch my own name in the sentence.
Nope. Can’t do it. I can’t keep all of that in my head.
Mom wants me to make a good impression on her sister. Kyoko Kaneda. It feels too weird to call her aunt, so in my head I’ve been calling her Mrs. Kaneda.
Mrs. Kaneda just moved back to the states from Japan. Mom hasn’t seen her since she was a child. They only reconnected a few months ago. When I asked Mom why she’s never mentioned Mrs. Kaneda, she said something about not being a close family.
Knowing about Mrs. Kaneda makes me feel weird inside. Like I don’t recognize my own family anymore. First Carly decides it’s more fun to hang with a group of friends than just with me, and now I learn I have a whole new family member. That’s two too many changes in my life! Why can’t things just stay the same?
Mom acknowledges my frustration by turning up the volume of my playlist. As Taylor Swift sings “Anti-Hero,” I watch the scenery change from the familiar Riverview Academy, where I go to middle school, to the very unfamiliar. We drive past a Cuevas Panderia and a Lê Pho 98.
Finally, we pull up in front of the Entrada. I may not be learning Japanese, but I am taking Spanish with Carly. Entrada means “enter.”
“It’s nice to see you smile, Emi,” Mom says, parking our Honda at the curb.
I’ve never been to an apartment building before. I kind of envisioned a cracked concrete tower stretching to the sky with laundry hanging out of the windows, like in some of the movies I’ve seen. But this place is only six stories tall, painted a cheery yellow, with sparkling windows decorated with white curtains and flowerpots. The entrada (haha) is a double glass door bordered by bushes shaped in balls.
“Emi, hold this please.” Mom hands me a blue gift bag containing a box of chocolates and two tea towels. Mom carries a potted plant—a peace lily, she called it.
“Is it okay that we’re bringing her so much stuff?” I ask. “Since she’s unpacking?”
Mom raises her eyebrows at me.
“I mean, I know you never show up empty-handed to someone’s house.” Mom has ingrained Japanese etiquette in me to the point where my friends, even though they’re not Japanese, have come to expect little gifts and treats whenever I show up to their homes for a meal or a sleepover.
I shadow Mom closely as she climbs the steps to the front door. When she reaches out to press the button to 3B, I notice that her hand trembles. She’s nervous! I never ever imagined my mom being nervous. I’ve seen her speak in front of groups in large auditoriums and on TV. She intervened when a cashier was being rude to someone using a SNAP card at the market.
While she and Mrs. Kaneda have been emailing and had a couple phone calls over the past few months, this is the first time she’s seeing her sister in decades. But I didn’t think she’d be nervous.
“Good thing she doesn’t live on the fourth floor, right?” I say. The number four is bad luck in Japan because “four” in Japanese sounds the same as the word for death. I try to calm Mom. Plus, I know if she’s in good spirits and not annoyed by my moodiness, it’s possible we can get done faster and home quicker.
If we get home early enough, I might be able to catch Carly and the others at the mall. I check my phone, but no response dog emoji from Carly. What if she has so much fun without me that she won’t want to hang out with me anymore? My stomach dips and churns.
Mom and I ride the elevator to the third floor.
“So, what do I call her?” I ask.
Mom shifts the plant so she can see me through the leaves. “Maybe we’ll ask her what she prefers.”
“Oh. Okay.” That doesn’t help me at all.
“Try to be on your best behavior, Emi,” Mom says.
I wrinkle my nose. It’s not like I’m a toddler prone to tantrums. I resent her treating me like one.
The elevator chimes at the third floor, and I follow Mom down a narrow hall to apartment 3B. A woman with short black hair wearing a bright orange skirt, a floral top, and a wide grin opens the door before we even knock.
She and my mom bow to one another. Mrs. Kaneda looks like an older version of Mom. They greet each other in Japanese and Mrs. Kaneda waves us into the apartment.
I take off my bright pink Converse. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder and says, “This is your aunt, Emi. Say hello.”
I’m not ready to call her aunt, so I paste on a smile and bow awkwardly. I say one of the few Japanese words I know: “Konnichiwa.”
Mom’s hand grips my shoulder. If she’s mad I don’t say aunt in my greeting, it’s her own fault for not being clearer on what I should call her!
Mrs. Kaneda says, “Konnichiwa,” then turns back to Mom and says, “Yoku nite imasune. Kawaii.”
I understand that last word. Cute. I realize it’s supposed to be a compliment, but cute is synonymous with tiny and it only reminds me that I’m short. Petite, Mom calls me. I’m the shortest in our group of friends. I’m also the only non-white person.
While my friends rarely call attention to it, others do. Just two weeks ago when we were at the gelato shop, the pimply teen boy behind the counter asked if I wanted the matcha flavor. Like because I’m Asian I’d want the green tea gelato. Carly had jumped right in and told him that no, I always get Stracciatella, which is my favorite. It’s like the best version of chocolate chip ice cream.
That reminds me that Carly hasn’t texted me back yet. I press on my phone in my pocket, willing it to buzz with a message. Nothing.
I look around the little apartment and grimace when I see the many, many boxes stacked everywhere. We are going to be here forever. Mrs. Kaneda says something in Japanese and points to the kitchen. I recognize the words senbei and ocha. While I love rice crackers and hot tea, I want to get started.
“Oh, no thank you,” I say, waving my hand in what I hope is the universal sign for no thank you. Mom gives me The Look. Apparently it’s rude to turn down the offering.
“Mom,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice since Mrs. Kaneda can’t understand me. “I’d rather unpack. I don’t want to be here all day.”
Mom’s face morphs into one of horrified embarrassment, which, to be honest, is an extreme reaction. She nods her head at the boxes, telling me to sort things into like piles. Mom follows Mrs. Kaneda into the kitchen, speaking Japanese. What could Mom be saying to this sister she hasn’t seen since she was a kid? The conversation sounds polite but not strained. It’s not full of giddy joy in being reunited, not like when Carly and I talk after being apart for a few days (which is rare).
By the time Mom and Mrs. Kaneda join me, I’ve unpacked five boxes, making neat piles of kitchen items and linens.
“Took you long enough,” I say in a light tone, so Mrs. Kaneda doesn’t know I’m complaining. But Mom looks mortified again. She’s definitely going to lecture me on the way home.
Mrs. Kaneda smiles at me with kind eyes. A wave of shame washes over me for being so snarky. I’ve lived in our house for my entire twelve years and I have no idea what it’s like to move, much less move to a different country. I take a deep breath and smile back at her.
Mom rummages in her purse and waves some cash at me. “I think I saw a market in the building next door. Maybe they’ll have ice cream for you.”
It seems strange she would reward me for being rude, especially since I turned down the rice crackers earlier. Or is she trying to get rid of me? “You want me to go outside alone?”
Mom frowns. “You walk to Carly’s by yourself all the time, and she lives two blocks away.”
That’s different because it’s my own neighborhood. This is not. This is somewhere else. But it’s either get ice cream, which I love, or keep unpacking. I could use a break.
I leap up and take the money. “Be back soon.” I hope.
I put my favorite shoes back on. The bright pink perfectly matches the streak in my hair. I started coloring my hair at the start of seventh grade. A girl in my science class had raised her eyebrows and said, “Attention-seeking much?”
It wasn’t that I was trying to get attention, because I feel like I already get the wrong kind. Someone asking what my favorite sushi is (salmon roe) or saying that I’m as cute as a China doll (never mind that I’m not Chinese, but also who wants to be compared to a doll?). At least this way the attention is on the pink streak in my black hair.
In the lobby as I walk to the front doors, I hear two boys laugh. I glance at them, but they’re not laughing at me. They look like they’re on a mission. It makes my heart twinge. I’m here while Carly is at the mall with our other friends. The last time we were all together was at Carly’s for a sleepover. I’d fallen asleep early and found out the next morning that they had stayed up all night, talking about boys. A fizzy panic bubbles in me, thinking of the four of them bonding while I’m here.
My hand is on the front door, but my heart is back in my own neighborhood. Suddenly the idea of ice cream doesn’t cheer me up. Because ice cream is best eaten with friends.
I hear something banging. I follow the sound to a metal door at the end of the lobby.
“Hello? Hi! Someone!” A girl’s voice comes from behind the door.
I turn the doorknob, but it spins around without catching. It must be broken. One of the screws is loose. I use my fingernail to tighten it. I try again and this time the knob turns and catches, and the door opens.
Standing there is a girl looking super relieved. She’s wearing pink shorts (the same color as my shoes) and a blue-and-white-striped tee. She wears her long hair in multiple braids.
“Hey,” I say. “You stuck?”
“Yeah!” the girl says.
She looks familiar. Oh! I talked to her at the flea market the other day. “It’s you!” I say with a smile.
“I’m so glad you heard me!”
“The knob was loose. I fixed it,” I say proudly.
“So, thanks, uh.” She pauses.
“Emi.”
“Lila,” she says.
“I have flip-flops just like yours at home,” I say.
We grin at each other. We chat a little. Then she says she’s had enough adventure for the day. After she leaves, I look around the garden. It’s prettier than our own yard, which is just a big, lush lawn. Dad spends hours working on it so that our grass looks as green and trim as the rest of the yards in the neighborhood. It’s a weird obsession if you ask me.
Something rustles in a bush, and I squeak in surprise.
“Hello?” I call out. Is someone else stuck in here?
I’m debating if I should flee when I hear a recognizable whimper. I approach slowly, making soothing noises, and discover a small dog in the bushes. He’s white with a couple of dark brown spots. He wags his tail like he’s been waiting for me.
“Are you lost, pup?” I ask. He doesn’t have a collar and looks scruffy, like he’s been sleeping here. He seems friendly and doesn’t cower when I approach, so I scoop him up. His pink tongue darts out and covers my nose with wet kisses, making me laugh. Finding this dog is better than ice cream any day!
“Absolutely not,” Mom says the minute I walk into 3B with the dog.
“Why?” I ask. “He’s obviously abandoned. He needs a home.”
“We don’t know if he’s abandoned, Emi.” Mom gives him a scratch behind his ears. “He looks well-fed.”
I blink at Mom, giving her my best puppy eyes.
She shakes her head and smiles. “No way. Thanks to you and your soft heart, we have two dogs, a cat, and a rabbit. That’s more than enough.”
“That is a lot of pets,” Mrs. Kaneda says. In English!
My mouth drops open.
“Emi-chan has a habit of rescuing strays,” Mom says, also in English.
I feel tricked. Betrayed. “Wait,” I say, hugging the dog. “You speak English?”
“Emi,” Mom says in a gentle voice. “I told you my sister used to live in the States.”
But Mom also said she’d been away for over thirty years. I assumed Mrs. Kaneda didn’t know English.
My face burns as I remember the things I said earlier and how rude I was being.
Mrs. Kaneda says, “Maybe you can knock on some doors to see if someone lost the dog?”
Her words wrap around me like a blanket. I’m relieved she doesn’t make me feel worse than I already do.
“That’s a good idea,” Mom says.
I’m torn. I want to keep this dog, but it’s fairly clear that’s not going to happen. Plus, I’d rather not unpack more boxes. Then again, the thought of knocking on random doors in this building makes me nervous.
Mom and Mrs. Kaneda go back to chatting in Japanese. The dog wiggles in my arms and then licks my ear. Right. It’s more important to find his home than worry about feeling uncomfortable.
I decide to start on the top floor and work my way down. In the elevator, I push the number six and the car rises. I nuzzle the dog. When the chime sounds and the doors open, I step out. But as the elevator leaves, I realize I’m on the fifth floor and not the sixth. Weird that it stopped on the wrong floor.
“Be right back!” A boy steps into the hall and hurries my way. He stops short when he sees me.
“I got off on the wrong floor,” I say, feeling the need to explain.
“Oh, I pushed the button but had to go back for my phone,” he says as he presses the down button.
Something about the way his hair sticks up like he doesn’t care what he looks like makes me smile, but I don’t want him to think I’m laughing at him. I blurt, “Is this your dog?”
“No, but I saw him yesterday in the garden,” he says.
“Yes! That’s where I found him.”
“Do you live here?” he asks. “I haven’t seen you before.”
I shake my head. “I’m helping a family friend move into 3B.” I still don’t know what to call her. It feels weird to claim Mrs. Kaneda as family.
The elevator arrives and he steps in. My heart speeds up like I’m falling. “My name is Emi!” I practically shout, my cheeks burning.
He grins at me. “I’m Alex,” he says as the doors shut.
My heart is still skipping as I think of the boy and wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Is this how a crush feels? Maybe this is how Carly feels about Trevor?
The dog nudges my chin and I shake my head free of those thoughts. Focus, Emi! I feel bolder and stride down the hall, passing Alex’s apartment since I already know it’s not his dog. I knock on the next door. When it opens a crack, a blue eye surrounded by wrinkles peers out.
“What do you want?” the man snaps.
“Is this your dog?” I pray he’s not the owner.
“NO!” he shouts, making both me and the dog flinch. “And is that you cooking that horrible smelly stuff?”
“What?” I blink in shock. My heart pounds again, but it doesn’t feel good like before.
The door clicks shut. Well, that does it. I’m done. I take the elevator to the lobby. When I step into the garden, I set the dog down and he trots under the shade of a picnic table.
I’m not going to just leave him here. I could wait or ask Mom again if we can take him home. As my thoughts spin, a girl comes into the garden. She has curly black hair and light brown skin. We are exactly the same height.
“Do you know whose dog this is?” I ask her.
She doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t speak English. No. Scratch that. I learned my lesson. After a few more seconds, she says, “Yes, it’s my dog.”
I scrunch my nose. If that’s true, why did she take so long to answer? And why isn’t the dog greeting her? “It’s your dog?”
She pulls her shoulders back. “My dog,” she says.
Well, okay. “I’m Emi, by the way. I don’t live here.”
“I’m Amira.”
She seems nervous, or maybe she’s shy. “If that’s your dog, then what’s its name?” I ask.
After a few more seconds, Amira says, “Strike.”
“Strike?” I ask.
She kneels down and says, “Strike, come here!”
But the dog stays under the table, peering up at both of us. Hmm. That’s strange.
“Why doesn’t he respond to his name?”
Amira crawls to the table, and before I can question her again, the dog finally goes to her. Amira cradles Strike and they look like they belong together.
“I guess he is yours,” I say with a smile.
“I told you so,” she says in a haughty tone, but I don’t take it the wrong way.
To make up for not believing her, I try to make conversation. “My mom’s sister just moved into 3B,” I say. I hope I’m not being presumptuous by telling everyone I meet where Mrs. Kaneda lives, but since she’s new here, maybe this will help her make friends in the building. (But I hope not with that mean neighbor.) Friends are important. They make you feel like you’re a part of something. “I might be back again. Maybe we can hang out?”
“Sure,” she says with a small smile. “I’m in 3D.”
“Right across the hall!” I exclaim. I feel like this is a great thing.
When I get back to the apartment, most of the boxes in the living room are unpacked and broken down. I must have been gone longer than I thought.
Mom sits on a light green couch that had been hidden by boxes earlier. She smiles when she sees me empty-handed. “You found the owner of the dog?”
I nod. “A girl named Amira,” I say.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mom says.
“Where’s Mrs. Kaneda?” It’s the first time I’ve called her anything.
Mom pats the seat next to her. “She’s on the phone in the other room.”
When I sit down, Mom asks, “Are you okay? Feeling less stressed?”
“What do you mean?” I run my finger over the nubby fabric of the couch.
“I know change is hard for you, Emi,” she says. “It’s not easy for me, either.”
That surprises me. “Really? You seem so chill all the time.”
Mom tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ve been full of nerves. I haven’t seen Kyoko since I was eight. We have only stayed in touch with our annual New Year’s letters. I thought surely she wouldn’t like me. That maybe she’d be disappointed in who I am.”
“What?” I say. “How could that be? You’re awesome!”
“Thanks, Emi. It’s hard with relationships that are important to you. You want it to work out, but you can’t control everything. Who knows how she really feels about me?”
Mrs. Kaneda comes back into the room, carrying a picture frame. She smiles as she kneels in front of the couch and sets the photo on the coffee table.
It’s a picture of a toddler. Her eyes are serious and she’s holding hands with a girl who looks like a very young version of Mrs. Kaneda.
“Is that you, Mom?” I point to the toddler.
Mom leans closer to the photo and blinks. A lot. Oh. Is she going to cry?
“I keep this picture with me,” Mrs. Kaneda says.
“I don’t have any pictures of the two of us,” Mom says in a quavering voice. “Of you, Kyoko Nechan.”
Now it’s Mrs. Kaneda’s turn to blink and look teary. It’s the first time I heard Mom call her nechan “big sister.”
“I will make a copy. For you,” Mrs. Kaneda says.
Then, Mrs. Kaneda turns to me with a smile so warm I can practically feel it in my chest.
“Do you like this building?” Mom’s sister asks. “I think it’s pretty.”
I nod. “I met a few other kids my age. One lives on this floor. Maybe you can make friends with the family.”
“Yes,” she says. “Friends are important. They can become like family. But, also, I am happy to have my family with me again.”
Friends can be like family, like Carly. I wonder if Carly has completely forgotten about me.
“Emi-chan,” Mrs. Kaneda says softly. “Will you call me Kyoko Obachan? Obachan means “aunt.” But only if you feel comfortable doing so.”
“Kyoko Obachan,” I say, tasting the words on my tongue and liking it.
“I hope you will visit me,” she says.
“I’d like that,” I say, and realize I actually mean it. This morning, I was grumpy about coming to a strange place to meet a person I didn’t know. But right now, I feel better. Happier.
“We can come back next week,” Mom says. “Perhaps weekly this summer. What do you think, Emi?”
My phone buzzes. I know it’s rude, but I yank it out of my pocket, feeling nervous and hopeful at the same time. Finally. A text from Carly! The dog emoji. I watch as the next text comes through.
I smile so big my cheeks hurt. I have a lot to tell her about: my aunt, the dog, the girls I met, and yes, even Alex with the messy hair.
“Emi?” Mom asks again.
“Hai!” I say yes in Japanese. “I’d love to visit this summer.”
I want to get to know my new aunt. My heart is big enough for new friends and new family.
I turn to Kyoko Obachan and take a slow breath, concentrating. “Watashi no namae wa Higashi Emi desu.”