Evalina
Gia reverently runs her fingertips along the spines of the books lining the shelves at Cavalli Bookstore as we stroll out the door. “If you’re this depressed now—when you saw him less than a week ago—what will you do when he’s actually gone?”
“I don’t know.” I reach into my paper bag from the grocer and withdraw a tangerine. “I suppose the same thing you do when Lorenzo is gone.”
“You probably don’t even want to go to prom, do you?”
I wrinkle my nose.
Gia smirks. “I figured. That’s what I told Tony. He asked me if he should ask you, and I said, ‘I would have thought you wanted to have a good time at the dance, Tony.’”
The barb stings more than I would have expected. I brush it away—even I know I’m not particularly fun these days—and pop a wedge of tangerine in my mouth.
“That must have been a few weeks ago.” I take care to infuse my voice with a careless tone. “He told me on Friday he’s seeing Mary Green.”
“Really?” Gia’s eyes grow comically wide. “When did he tell you that?”
“After you’d left for your date.”
“Before or after you yelled at my mother?” When Gia sees I’m embarrassed, she snorts a laugh. “You know my mother can handle it. I’m honestly surprised she didn’t yell right back at you.”
We pause our conversation as we skirt around two women walking their dogs.
“Will Lorenzo be in town for prom?” I ask.
“Who knows?” Gia shrugs. “We would probably just fight all the time anyway.”
“You’re a LaRocca. That’s normal.”
She giggles and then her smile turns downcast. “I used to feel so proud to be a LaRocca—to be Italian. That’s harder these days.”
I offer her a wedge of tangerine as stories of Mussolini march through my mind, the invasions, the violence, the palling around with Adolf Hitler.
“I know what you mean. Though I’ve never felt particularly proud of my family history.”
Gia casts a sympathetic look my way. “You can’t help who your family is,” she says simply, and then pushes open her front door. “See you tomorrow.”
I wave and continue the few houses down to my own. I think about the grim line of my mother’s face every time we get a phone call from relatives in Chicago, or when she visits one of her older brothers in prison. How as a kid, I would sometimes hear Daddy weeping in the confessional at church. Of the way Mama and Daddy refuse to discuss their lives before we moved to San Francisco. While they’ve been careful to keep details of our family’s mafia roots vague, I know enough to be grateful that they chose something different for me.
The house is usually empty when I get home on Friday afternoons, but I’ve barely cracked open the door when Mama calls for me. “Evalina?”
“What?”
“In the kitchen, please.”
Mama sounds stern. I sigh, slip my shoes off, and trudge toward the kitchen. Did one of my teachers call her again to tell her that I don’t seem like myself these days? Or did—
“Taichi!” His name emerges as a squeak, and I clear my throat before speaking again. “This is a surprise.”
Mama sits at our small kitchen table, and Taichi sits across from her. What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Something terrible must have happened—my throat cinches closed—or he never would’ve risked coming.
His face is arranged in the polite expression he dons for deliveries and market days. “Hello, Miss Cassano. Nice to see you.” He nods to Mama. “I was just telling your mother how sorry I am to drop by unannounced, but it isn’t something that could wait. We’re letting all our loyal customers, like yourselves, know that we are being evacuated.”
The word lands like a punch in my gut, and all the air seems to force itself out of my body. “Evacuated.”
From the kitchen stove, the teapot rattles and whistles its high-pitched call. Mama’s chair scrapes against the linoleum as she scoots away from the table.
“Have a seat, Evalina. I’ll pour us all some tea.”
Taichi offers a respectful bow of his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Cassano.”
Mama turns her back to us as she strides purposefully to the stovetop. This is the one time of day that sunrays slant through the window at the sink, and they illuminate the steam rising from a pan of cooling lemon bars. Those must be Mama’s dessert of choice for our usual Friday night dinner with the Espositos and LaRoccas. In so many ways, this is just an ordinary Friday scene in our kitchen.
I turn my gaze to Taichi as I collapse into the chair Mama vacated. His eyes are fastened on mine, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“When?” The word wobbles off my tongue. “When will you leave?”
“Tuesday.” He says the word quietly, as if that will lessen its blow.
“Tuesday.” The word has never tasted so bitter. “That’s . . . very quick.”
Taichi holds my gaze. “Yes, it is.”
“Where will your family be evacuated to?” Mama asks as she carries over three teacups.
“That’s still somewhat unclear.” Taichi leans back as Mama places a cup in front of him. “Thank you, Mrs. Cassano.”
“Do you take sugar or milk?”
“Neither, thank you.”
All the polite chatter makes me want to scream, “How can you not yet know where you’ll be sent? How can your family be expected to prepare if you’re not being told where you’ll go?”
I feel Mama’s eyes on me, but I can’t drag my focus off Taichi, even though it would be wise to do so.
Taichi’s gaze flicks to her before returning to me. “When my father registered us, he was given a pamphlet of instructions. We’ll be fine.” He pauses before adding, “We’ve heard rumors that the first group will be sent to Manzanar, which is on the other side of the Sierras from Los Angeles. But the pamphlet said most will go somewhere temporary before our permanent homes. Or not permanent, but our homes for the duration of the war.”
I’m afraid to speak. Afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll be like a volcano, spewing destructive fire. And Mama will be able to see plain on my face that I’m not just heartbroken over losing my favorite supplier of blackberries, or about the injustice of what’s being done to Japanese Americans. She’ll see I’m heartbroken over losing Taichi.
“The Sierras are quite beautiful down there, I hear.” Mama’s words curl with doubt, as if even she distrusts her response. “We plan to see Yosemite this summer, though I suppose that’s not exactly where you’ll be, is it?”
“No, ma’am. But on a map, it looks as though we would be near several other great peaks.”
How can they stand to talk about sightseeing at a time like this?
“What will happen to all your belongings?” I ask.
“Much of it is still at our house. You’ve met Diego Medina at the market, I believe? They will look out for our home and continue to provide the same great produce and service your family has always received.”
Taichi’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he looks away from me as he takes a noiseless sip of his tea.
Mama glances at me and then back at Taichi. “My husband speaks so highly of your family. And Evalina is very picky about her produce, as I’m sure you know. She always wants to be first at the market so she’ll have the best selection.” Mama forces a strange sort of chuckle at my expense. “Thank you for the kindness of telling us about the changes in person. We’re . . . we’re very sorry for the evacuation. It seems like an unnecessary step to us.”
Air huffs out my nose. “Unnecessary and cruel.”
“Yes.” Mama nods. “And cruel.”
“And blatantly racist. I don’t see Germans or Italians being forced out of their homes and businesses.”
Mama’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Evalina, we should let Mr. Hamasaki get on with his day. I imagine you have many more customers to visit.”
Taichi stands. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Cassano.” He nods to me. “Miss Cassano.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.” In my haste, I stumble over my chair.
Mama catches me by the elbow. “Are you okay, Evalina?”
“I’m fine.” My laugh rings high. Too high. “Just clumsy.”
I don’t look at Taichi, just pivot toward the door.
Mama says, “Thank you, again. We’ll be praying for your family during this difficult time.”
To my great relief, she stays in the kitchen. Does she realize we’re the only customers Taichi is visiting? That Taichi isn’t merely a boy from whom I buy produce? What will she say to me when it’s just the two of us?
The worries clip at my heels as I guide Taichi the short distance to the front door. I step outside with him, even though there isn’t much more privacy out here where anyone in my nosy, Italian neighborhood can notice Taichi.
“I’m sorry for the surprise,” Taichi murmurs. “I thought you were home alone on Friday afternoons.”
“I usually am. But it sounds like you handled it well. If Mama suspects anything, it’s because I couldn’t keep my blasted emotions in check.”
A smile plays with the corners of Taichi’s mouth. “I like your emotions.”
He has on a red plaid shirt beneath his brown work coat, and one of the points of his collar is flipped funny. My fingers itch to adjust it. I push them deep into my trench coat pockets.
“What time do you leave on Tuesday?”
His smile vanishes. “We’re supposed to be there by noon.”
“Be where?”
“The civic control station is what they called it. I don’t know when the buses leave.”
“Where is it? What’s the address?”
Taichi gives me a look of caution. “You have school, Evalina.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears that press against my eyelids. In a matter of days, Taichi is going to load onto a bus and be taken to an unknown location until the end of the war. How can he think I care about school?
“I already have my scholarship and acceptance to Berkeley. What’s the address?”
“Evalina, you can’t.”
I open my eyes and take in his handsome face. The angle of his brown eyes. The sharpness of his cheekbones. His thick black hair. Near his right eyebrow, there’s a small scar I’ve never noticed before. His face is one I’ve spent more time with in my thoughts and hopes than in actual reality. “I’m not asking you, Taichi. I’m informing you I will be there. We’ll tell your family . . . I don’t know. Something. But I’m going to be there.”
I glare up at him, anticipating how he’ll argue.
But instead he releases a breath, and that faint smile returns. “2020 Van Ness,” he whispers. “You should get back inside.”
My toes wriggle in my shoes, longing to push up closer to Taichi. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“See you Tuesday.”
Taichi’s fingertips brush over my arm, and then he turns and strolls down the hill, back toward his borrowed corner of our city.
I linger until I lose sight of him, and then I turn back toward my front door. Is Mama on the other side, fists on her hips, waiting to badger me about the true nature of my friendship with Taichi? She realized before I did that Tony liked me, and I only figured it out because of the way she tried to hide her smile as she asked about why he had walked me home from school or stopped by the house. I don’t think she’ll be smiling about Taichi.
But Mama isn’t waiting for me just inside the door. Instead, I hear her at the kitchen sink. My feet want to carry me up to my room, where I can throw myself on my bed and weep, but I know if I do that, I might as well flat out tell her who Taichi is to me.
Instead, I go to the kitchen and refill my teacup. “I’m so sad for them.”
Mama turns to me, and her eyes are red. She’s been crying. “I’m sad for all of us. This is a bad path for our country to travel down.” She places the teacup she had washed on a towel to dry. “He seems like a really nice boy.”
My throat is dry, and I take a gulp of tea. “He is.”
“You have become friends this last year.” Mama looks at me as she says this, and her expression is so open and kind, a piece of me longs to confess it all. Every last ounce of my feelings for Taichi.
I just nod.
“You have seemed so distraught since the attack on Pearl Harbor. More so than I might expect. I couldn’t figure out why. I hadn’t put together that you had built a friendship with a family that is personally impacted.”
Again, I nod.
Mama crosses our tiny kitchen and hugs me. “I love your tender heart, my Evalina. If we could all feel the empathy that you do, our world would be a much more beautiful place.”
“Thank you,” I say into her shoulder. All other words are choked out by guilt over not telling my mother the truth.
Mama smiles at me and cups my face, tears glistening in her own eyes. Then she releases me, and I turn back to my tea. “I’m glad I had a chance to meet your friend before he left. He’s very kind and respectful. And quite handsome, don’t you think?”
I feel myself stiffen and can only hope that she didn’t notice. “Yes.” I sip at my tea. “I suppose he is.”
Mama finishes wiping off the counter, and then leaves me alone in the kitchen, wondering if I only imagined the pointed nature of her questions.