The two girls carry their trays to my table,
pocketbooks swinging from their elbows,
and sit on either side of me.
I didn’t even need to invite them.
“We want to get to know you.
I’m Kim, I’m Karen,” they say.
“You lived in California?” Karen asks.
I nod. “Uh-huh, in Berkeley.”
“Did you go to wild parties there?”
“Did you surf?”
“How many movie stars did you
meet?”
“Did you go to Disneyland
every weekend?”
I laugh and sip some milk.
“No. No. No. No,” I say. “I didn’t live in Hollywood.
I lived up north, near my mom’s cousins.”
“Can I touch your hair?” Kim asks.
It’s a strange thing to ask, but I lean toward her.
She smooths the top of my head and runs her hand down my braid.
Then Karen takes a turn, and says, “It’s so curly.”
Mama likes my hair pulled back tight and neat,
but a few curls always escape.
“I wish my hair was curly like yours,” says Karen,
whose hair is straight and long and blond,
and I don’t believe her.
“What nationality are you?”
I try not to sigh. “My dad is Black and my mom is Japanese.”
“Japanese-Japanese, or was she born here?”
“Japan. Hiroshima.”
“Didn’t we bomb Hiroshima?”
“Yes.” And the radiation is ticking in Mama’s bones.
“Do you know any Japanese words?” Kim asks.
“Sukoshi dake,” I say,
and they look puzzled. “It means ‘Just a little.’
My dad doesn’t want us talking Japanese.”
“What does he do to you if you talk
Japanese?”
“What? Nothing.”
“I mean, I just thought . . .” Karen looks at
Kim.
My neck is prickling.
“Do you get a tan?”
I look at my arm. “Well, I get browner in the summer.”
“But not your palms, right? They still look like ours.”
Kim shows her hands to compare.
My lunch is done,
and so am I
with Karen and Kim.