Faking Reality Read online

  “Whoa, slow down there, Santa,” I say, and Dad winces at his latest internet nickname.

  “Hey, Santa is fine.” Mom plants a kiss on Dad’s cheek above his now fully white beard. “Santa is a positive thing.”

  “So, you’re saying that I can now refer to you as Mrs. Claus?” Dad says.

  “Absolutely not.” Mom pats at her hair. “Why? Are my roots showing?”

  People routinely think my parents, who are both sixty-two, are my grandparents. Nope. Go back to Season 4, Episode 12: “A Christmas Miracle.” It’s the episode that Mom revealed that at forty-six, she was going to be a first-time mom. She had planned on being quiet about it. After the tabloids kept mistaking Mom’s horrible morning sickness—which made her look gaunt and pale on-screen—as cancer, they decided to put the rumors to rest.

  Producers couldn’t have scripted a more emotionally charged plot arc than Mom collapsing at a book signing and going into premature labor. Me being born eight hours later and spending an overly complicated three months in the NICU was ratings gold. As fans helped pay for my outrageous medical bills—by continuing to watch our show—my parents still feel an obligation to put more of themselves out there for their True Fans than most people would. That’s why they agreed for me to be on TV with them. So I could play the role of the Miracle Baby. Then the Miracle Child. Then the Awkward Adolescent. And thanks to last year about this time, the Angsty Teenager.

  Now I’m ready for this role to be over. I want to be Just Dakota. I don’t know who she is or what she wants though.

  Strike that. There is one thing I definitely want. Only I can’t have him. Yet.

  “Let me prep for shooting tomorrow, and then I’ll go shower.” Dad slides Mjölnir, aka his favorite hammer, back into the loop on his tool belt. “Since it’s my night to cook, I vote we get takeout from Matsuda and binge-watch something.”

  Never one to turn down dinner from Matsuda, I say, “Or we could eat at the restaurant and then come home. I have a kanji test tomorrow in Japanese to study for and an essay due too.”

  “Do you want me to quiz you on the kanji? That way I can practice too. I wish I started studying Japanese before I was an adult, but my mother—and especially my grandmother—didn’t want us to. She wanted us to leave our Japanese side behind and become one hundred percent American.”

  “Well, that’s biting me in the butt right now.” Granted, I barely squeak under the Asian bar at only one-quarter Japanese, but it’s still a part of me. A part of my history. “If we eat at Matsuda, then I can ask Mrs. Matsuda to check my Japanese essay at the same time.”

  “Dakota, we are not asking Jen to check your essay while she’s working,” Mom says.

  Part of me wonders if Mom’s resistance to her closest friend checking my work has more to do with the fact that a zero-percent Japanese person knows more about Japanese language, culture, and food than her fifty-percent Japanese self does. But Mom has never lived in Japan, and Mrs. Matsuda did for years.

  “Only if they’re not that busy,” I say.

  “Fine. I have a couple of more emails to do, but I’ll be ready to go by six, Doug.” Mom kisses Dad’s cheek again. “I love it when it’s your night to cook.”

  “I’m not that bad!” Dad says.

  “Weren’t you the person Food TV specifically called to be on their Worst Cooks in America show, the celebrity charity edition?” I say.

  “Maaaaybe. By the way, I see right through you, Dakota Rae. You want to go to Matsuda so you can see Leo,” Dad says, and my heart trips. “I know we’ve been working a lot lately. You miss your friends. Why don’t you invite Leo over? Order some pizzas. Spend some quality couch potato time together.”

  I guarantee that the version of couch potato time with Leo that passes through my brain is 100 percent different than what Dad’s thinking.

  “Yeah, I’d like that. A lot.”

  Chapter

  2

  “Tell Mom and Dad that I had an extra sectional rehearsal today.” Aurora intersects Leo and me outside Japanese class after school the following Monday. “I’ll be home by five … no, six.”

  Leo puts his arms across his Kitsune Mask T-shirted chest. “I’m not lying for you.”

  “You’re not, Favorite Matsuda Child.” Aurora checks her hair in her phone’s mirror. “You are repeating bad information. One day, when you finally get a life, I’ll do the same for you.”

  “Um, ow,” I say as Aurora breaks off our trio without even a goodbye.

  “I can’t wait for you to leave for college,” Leo says to her back.

  “You and me both.” Aurora makes a beeline for her boyfriend, Jayden, at the end of the hall.

  I follow Leo into the classroom for JCC—Japanese Culture Club. We take our usual seats next to Nevaeh, whose hair sports a new hot pink streak today.

  “Mina-san,” Iwate-sensei says in a warning tone to try to focus our members—a ragtag group of anime-obsessed teens mixed in with a few students who have some Japanese blood flowing through their veins. After everyone settles down, Iwate-sensei continues, “Let’s talk about Homecoming. Cooper-san, tatte kudasai.”

  Nevaeh stands up on command and comes to the front of the room. “Okay, weebs, Homecoming is coming up in a little over a month. We need to pull something together for the annual carnival. Something easy because seven of us are in marching band and won’t be able to work much the night of the Homecoming Carnival.

  “I still have some of the traditional Japanese festival games in my garage.” Jax stops and puts an index finger up. “Wait. Maybe not. I think the citrus rats got into that box too.”

  “Ew. Get back to us on that. Let’s come up with another idea. Cinnamon Roll Prince.” Nevaeh points a bedazzled finger at Leo. “You know I want you to be president of the JCC next year. Give me a good idea.”

  Leo pulls at the neck of his T-shirt. “We could sell Japanese food. Low-cost stuff so it can compete better against the higher-priced food trucks’ stuff.”

  “Yes! See, I knew you’d come through.”

  “Mina-san, you can’t sell food without a food handler’s certificate. Gomennasai.” Iwate-sensei gently shoots down our idea. “Keep going. I know we can work together to find a good idea.”

  “Aurora and I both have a food handler’s certificate from working in the restaurant,” Leo says.

  The wheels in my mind begin to turn in true Dynamic Duo fashion. Leo comes up with the good—okay, and occasionally bad—ideas, but I’m the one who brings them to life.

  “We could sell pre-packaged, closed food.” I look at Leo before handing the mental ball back to him. “Maybe the Matsudas could buy some Pocky and Ramune and a few other simple snacks through their food distributors at wholesale prices for us?”

  “I can definitely ask,” Leo says.

  “Great. Find out and get back to us on this ASAP,” Nevaeh says and then moves on to planning our next event, a Japanese movie night at a local, indie movie theater. It’s even on a Matsuda Monday night.

  Leo looks at me and whispers, “Want to go?”

  I shake my head no. I don’t go on outings. HGTV would insist on documenting it, and I’m not sure our middle-America, forty- to sixty-year-old, white, suburban Super Fans are quite ready for genderfluid Nevaeh. I would be happy to broaden their horizons, but I don’t want ignorant comments or rants directed at my friend. It’s taken a while, but most people at school are used to Nevaeh’s unapologetic personality and pronouns. But that’s this small world. The bigger world hasn’t always been as kind to Nevaeh. Plus, I learned my lesson last Homecoming. I don’t mix HGTV Dakota and High School Dakota. It’s safer for everyone that way.

  “You should go,” I whisper back, but Leo shrugs.

  The meeting rolls on about other things that I can’t participate in until Iwate-sensei retakes the floor.

  “One last reminder before we go. Those of you going on the Japan trip with us this summer”—Iwate-sensei gestures at the giant poster
on her classroom wall—“the first payment of the three is due on the Monday of Homecoming week. That will be your nonrefundable deposit.”

  * * *

  Leo and I walk out the front doors of school after the meeting and drop our skateboards on the ground.

  “Do you have enough? For the deposit?” I say.

  “Not yet.” Leo blows air out of his puffed cheeks. “Last weekend was slooooow. I even told Aurora to go home so I could up my tips—don’t look at me like that, she was cool with it—and I’m still over five hundred dollars short.”

  “Then let me give you the difference.” When Leo balks, I say, “Loan, not give you the money then. You have to go. It’s our Tanabata wish.”

  Back in early July, I designed an interactive display inside Matsuda to celebrate the Japanese holiday of Tanabata, the star-crossed lovers’ holiday on July 7. Along with the traditional bamboo and tanzaku—bookmark-like papers people write their wishes on—I created a Milky Way on the ceiling of the restaurant out of my family’s entire collection of Christmas twinkle lights. A local food critic even did an article about it. This gave the restaurant a much-needed boost since business is always slow during the broiling summer months. That’s when Leo and I wrote the GO ON JAPAN TRIP wishes on our tanzaku and hung them up.

  One small problem—the Matsudas think that Leo and I want to go to Japan after our senior year. Not this year.

  “Did you come clean to your parents yet?” I say.

  “No. But I’m going to. Soon. Probably. If I can’t make the deposit, then I’m not going to be able to go anyway. Why create unnecessary drama for myself?”

  “Okay, once it is a definite go—and it will be—then you have to tell them. Iwate-sensei isn’t going to let you go if she finds out you forged your dad’s signature.”

  “I didn’t forge his name. Dad signed it. He just wasn’t paying attention to what he was signing. That’s why I specifically asked him during monthly inventory.”

  “That’s sneaky.”

  “Sneaky but effective. You still coming over?” Leo says as we roll away from school.

  “Of course. It’s Matsuda Monday. Plus, I’m looking for some inspiration for my art class project. I’ve got nuthin’ right now.”

  “Want me to set up a still life for you or something?” Leo ollies his skateboard onto the metal handrail of the stairs in front of our school and slides down. Meanwhile, I take the wheelchair ramp.

  “Show-off,” I say when I catch up to him.

  “Or if you need a model, here I am.” Leo flexes as we roll down the sidewalk next to each other.

  “Awesome. So, can I tell Mr. Udall you want the human modeling job next month? It pays fifty bucks a class.” I can see the cash signs in Leo’s eyes. “We can’t do nudes at school, but you are okay modeling in basically a Speedo, yes?”

  Leo hits a deep crack in the sidewalk and stumbles off his board. As always, it only takes a few steps before Leo gets his feet under him again. He doubles back to get his skateboard and hops back on. “Never mind. I’m going to pass.”

  “C’mon. It’s an easy $250. At least do my class. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never seen you in a Speedo before. We were on the same summer swim team that one time.”

  Season 12, Episode 23: “BBQs and Belly Flops.” My first and last attempt at being on an organized sports team. It’s one thing to suck at a sport. It’s another thing when all of America sees you suck at it.

  Leo does an exaggerated shiver. “We were eight, and Beth Roberts called me ‘Chunk’ all summer. I still have bad flashbacks about that.”

  It’s true. Up until about eighth grade, Leo was the slightly overweight kid with glasses. Then puberty finally kicked in, and, bam, he shot up six inches in one year. He still wears his glasses instead of contacts occasionally, but overall, Leo went from Zero to Hero by the time we started high school. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to notice his transformation.

  “Beth is in my art class. Come show up in the Speedo and let her kick herself a few thousand times.”

  “I’m desperate for money. But I’m not that desperate.”

  The Speedo fantasy stays stuck in my brain all the way to Leo’s house. I blame the Tanabata display I did for Matsuda for creating this problem. Because when Leo and I hung up our tanzaku, we did a pinky promise. What Leo dismissed as static electricity, shorted a fuse in me. The fuse that has always insisted Leo Matsuda is only my friend.

  * * *

  “Tadaima!” Leo yells when we step through the front door of his house.

  “Okaeri!” Ojiichan’s welcome echoes down the hallway.

  “Hungry?” Leo says after we leave our shoes and skateboards at the door.

  “Always.”

  I follow Leo into the kitchen and park myself on a barstool at the counter my dad installed for the Matsudas, back when Leo and I were babies. We’ve always been Matsuda’s best customers, but this low-level “weekend project” build turned our parents into friends too. Soon after, Leo and I became Toddler Time buddies. We were not instant pals though. Leo’s skull probably still has the dent from when my toy backhoe collided with it. On purpose even.

  While Leo goes upstairs to drop off his school stuff, I pull my drawing supplies out and spread them all over the island. I have to come up with something today. Anything. I flip through pages upon pages of abandoned ideas. I knead my gum eraser while I rack my brain. Leo’s fluffy, gray cat Maru strolls into the kitchen for a snack. When she sees me, Maru drops her tail, flattens her ears, and takes off in the opposite direction.

  “You will love me”—I yell after her—“one day.”

  “What?” Leo says, appearing from around the corner.

  “Your cat is still salty about the Great Painting Disaster.”

  “Yeah, if I had to be shaved to get all the paint out of my fur, I’d be salty too.”

  “You looked fierce, Maru,” I say when the cat peeks her head around the corner. “Like a lion.”

  “One day, she’ll forgive you.” Leo moves Maru’s food bowl closer to her. “What’s your assignment?”

  “For the first part, we have to do a two-dimensional drawing. That’s due tomorrow. The second part is building that 2D drawing into a 3D piece of art. We don’t even have to stay in the appropriate medium. Like I could draw a pirate ship and then make it out of cake instead of wood.”

  Leo pulls a bag of rice crackers wrapped in seaweed out of their cupboard and pours it into a decorative glass bowl. “Too bad Sasha isn’t here. She could probably help you create anything out of sugar.”

  Five years older than Leo, Sasha has been more of a babysitter than a friend to me. She’s always been kind to me, even when Leo and Aurora were on her very last nerve. Honestly, I think she likes me better than Aurora. Then again, maybe I would feel the same if I had to share a room with my sister.

  “Is Sasha coming home for a visit soon? Maybe I could talk her into helping me make some kind of sugary masterpiece.”

  “She’s supposed to be here Homecoming weekend. Not for the game, but so Mom and Dad can sign over the car and a couple of other things now that Sasha is twenty-one.”

  “I thought it was Aurora’s car and then yours next year?”

  “Not anymore. Sasha talked Mom and Dad into giving it to her. Warning: There may be a WWE-worthy smackdown between my sisters when Sasha gets here.”

  “At least get it on video.” I pop some rice crackers in my mouth. “Don’t forget, we have to ask Ojiichan about the wholesale Pocky and Ramune.”

  “Right. I will.” Leo opens the refrigerator and pulls out a liter bottle of Mitsuya Cider. He pours the ginger-ale-Sprite-ish kind of soda into two small glasses and slides one across the counter to me. “I was thinking on our way over here. Since I have a food handler’s certificate and everything, what if I tried cooking something super simple at the Homecoming Carnival? Like, on my own so I can make some extra money? What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a gr
eat idea. What would you make?”

  Leo sits on the barstool next to me and bites his lower lip in thought.

  “What about ramen?” Leo’s deep brown eyes light up as the cogs in his brain start turning. “We still have all the equipment in the storage shed left over from the restaurant’s kitchen rebuild three years ago. Dad wants to put it in a food truck one day.”

  “What if you made a small, free-standing booth instead? Like what I saw the last time I was in Japan.”

  “Leo-kun, kochi kitte,” Ojiichan yells from his bedroom off the kitchen. As always, Ojiichan pronounces his name so that it sounds like something between Leo and Rio.

  “Hai!” Leo yells back, both of us understanding that Ojiichan wants him to come to his room.

  While Leo helps his grandfather with whatever, I sip my soda and gnaw on my 2B pencil.

  I think back to my family’s trip to Japan when I was nine. Season 13, Episodes 1 and 2: “Summer Fun in the Land of the Rising Sun.” It was mostly fun, if a bit overwhelming. Nobody knew who we were in Japan, so on the days that we weren’t filming our two-part special, Mom, Dad, and I wandered around the streets of Nagoya freely.

  That’s one of the reasons why I want to go back to Japan. I want to be part of the group of teenagers from my school putting their limited Japanese skills—except for Leo, of course—to work and learning about our bigger world. Though the official itinerary hasn’t been set yet, we would be coming through Nagoya right around the time when the Tanabata Matsuri—the Star Festival on July 7—is happening in nearby Ichinomiya. I hope we can go.

  A spark of an idea hits my brain. I pull up that episode of our show on my phone and fast-forward through it. Aha. Finally inspired, I sketch. I slip so deep into my creative zone that I yelp when a hand suddenly touches my shoulder.

  “Sugoi,” Ojiichan says in surprise at my sketch.

  “Did you ever go to the Tanabata Matsuri outside of Nagoya, Ojiichan?”

  “Of course. Many times.” Ojiichan sits down on the barstool on the other side of me and pulls my sketch pad toward him. “This brings back many memories.”