Amanda Sun: Rain

“Hold still,” Yuki said, threading the thick obi ribbon through the back of the bow. She pulled the loops tight. “Okay, now breathe in.”

I took a deep breath as Yuki shifted the bow to the center of my back, but didn’t look up from my phone.

“How’s that?”

No messages in my inbox. “Looks great.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Yuki snatched the keitai out of my hands. “Hey!”

“Ano ne,” she said, an expression which meant we needed to talk. That didn’t surprise me. “You’re starting to look obsessed. Yuu will call you; I’m sure of it. You don’t want to be the needy girlfriend, right?”

I didn’t say anything. How could I? Yuki didn’t know that not being able to get ahold of Tomohiro could mean the Yakuza had him, or the Kami had kidnapped him, or that Tomo had drowned in an ocean of his own sketching. The Kami, descendants of the Shinto goddess Amaterasu, could make ink come alive on the page, although the power came with its own curse—a plague of nightmares and threats, scars carved by the claws and talons of their own feral drawings.

It had been two weeks since I’d almost left Japan, since the revelation that Tomo was one of the most dangerous Kami alive. Takahashi Jun, Tomo’s kendo rival and the leader of the Kami in Shizuoka, said he hadn’t seen anyone as powerful in a long time and wanted him as a weapon to help destroy the Yakuza. He also said that somehow, I was making it worse. I was making the ink in the sketches do strange and deadly things. Tomo lost control when I was around, his eyes vacant and his nightmares worse.

How? I couldn’t be a Kami. I was blond...and more importantly, not Japanese. But whether Jun was right or not, after watching Tomo’s sketched gun go off and put his best friend, Ishikawa, in the hospital, I knew the ink wasn’t something to play around with.

It could’ve been Tomo in the hospital.

It could’ve been me.

Yuki grinned and sidestepped, pulling the sleeves of my yukata straight. “Now look,” she commanded.

I looked.

The summer kimono made me look elegant, the soft yellow fabric draped around me like an origami dress. Pink cherry blossoms floated down the woven material, which Yuki had complemented by lending me her pink obi belt to tie around my waist.

“Dou?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”

She grinned, smoothing her soft blue yukata with her hands.

“Yuu is a jerk for not calling,” she said. “But let’s forget about that. It’s Abekawa Hanabi festival, and you’re still here with us. So let’s go celebrate!”

Was he being a jerk? I hadn’t been able to get ahold of him since deciding to stay. It didn’t make sense, unless he was in trouble. Or avoiding me, in which case he’d clearly learned nothing from the first attempt to scare me away and I would pound him into tomorrow.

But it didn’t matter if he was avoiding me. Sooner or later, I’d have to get in touch with him. Because as much as I’d wanted to stay in Japan to be with him, the real reason was that I wanted control of my life. I was connected to the ink, and I belonged here. If Jun was right, Tomohiro was a ticking time bomb, and I was the only one who could defuse him.

It was hard to believe Jun was a Kami, too, one of the many secret descendants of the goddess Amaterasu. Most weren’t powerful enough to bring their sketches to life off the page, but Jun and Tomo could. I remembered how cold Jun’s eyes had been as he’d talked about using Tomohiro as a weapon to wage war on the Yakuza, the Japanese gangsters who’d tried to force Tomo into their ranks. Jun had wanted Tomo to kill the Yakuza boss, Hanchi, and had talked about ruling the country the way the ancient kami once had. Did he really mean all that? He’d seemed so normal before—charming even—when we’d walked to school together. And he’d saved us from the Yakuza with his sketched army of snakes. Sometimes it was hard to know what lay beneath the surface of someone you thought you knew.

Which I guess was the case with Tomohiro, too.

My aunt Diane entered my room, carrying a tray of glasses filled with cold black-bean tea. The ice clinked against the sides as she set them down. A pink spray of flowers unfurled in a corner of the tray.

“Don’t you girls look beautiful?” she said. “Katie, here. I picked this up for you on my way home.” She lifted the spray of pink flowers off the tray, the little plastic buds swaying back and forth on pink strings. She tucked it into the twist of blond hair Yuki had helped me pin into place.

“Kawaii,” Yuki grinned. “You look so cute!” I turned a little red. They were fussing too much.

“You, too,” I said, trying to get the focus off me. I was the wrong shape for the yukata —too tall, too blonde, too awkward. Yuki looked stunning in hers. “We should get going.”

“You should,” Diane said. “I think Tanaka’s starting to sweat a little out there.”

Yuki took a gulp of tea and slid the door to my room open to find Tanaka waiting in shorts and a T-shirt.

“You guys are taking forever,” he said. “Can we go now?”

“Let’s go,” I said, the long yellow sleeves tangling around my wrists as I slipped on flip-flops—no chance of finding geta sandals for my American-size feet—and shoved my phone into a drawstring bag.

“You look cute,” Tanaka said.

“So do you,” Yuki said, and she stuck her tongue out at him while he turned red. She grabbed my hand and we headed out the door.

“Itterasshai!” Diane called after us.

Go and come back safely.

The only word Tomo had written in the farewell note he’d pressed into my hands, the one with the moving ink rose that had sent me tripping over my own feet to catch Diane at the Narita Express platform before she left the airport. The goodbye that had made me stay in Japan.

Tanaka pushed the button for the elevator.

Jun had said we didn’t know what Tomohiro was capable of. We’ll find out together, Tomo had answered.

It didn’t make sense. Why would he push me away again now, when I was so determined to help?

The light was fading outside as we stepped into the heat. It was the last week of summer holidays, before school started for the second semester, and the hot weather wasn’t going to give up easily. We clattered down the street in our geta and flip-flops, hopping onto the local train for Abekawa Station.

“We’re gonna be late,” whined Tanaka.

“It’s fine,” Yuki said. “We’ll still make good time for the fireworks.”

The train lurched around the corner and I tried not to press into Tanaka’s side.

“If the takoyaki ’s all gone by the time we get there, I’ll blame you.”

“How would that even happen?” I said. “They won’t run out.”

“Right?” Yuki agreed. “Tan-kun, you and your stomach.”

By the time the train pulled into Abekawa the sun had blinked off the horizon. We stumbled through the musty train air toward the music and sounds of crowds.

It felt like all of Shizuoka was here, the sidewalks packed with festivalgoers while dancers in happi coats paraded down the street. Lanterns swung from floats and street signs glowed, and over everything we could hear about three different songs competing for attention above the crowded roads. It was a little claustrophobic, sure, but filled with life.

“What should we do first?” Yuki shouted, but I could barely hear her. She grabbed my hand and we pressed through the thick crowd toward a takoyaki stand. Tanaka rubbed his hands together as the vendor doused the battered balls of octopus meat with mayonnaise.