Love Makes Mochi

Chapter 1

At Least It’s Not Delaware

As I step through the doors of the Baltimore/Washington International Airport, there’s one thing I know for certain: I won’t return from my study abroad program with a boyfriend like my friends Archi and Whitney did. First of all, I’m a lesbian. So yeah, not happening. Secondly, if I’ve never been kissed in America, how is going to Japan supposed to magically change that? And lastly, I’ll be too focused on college applications. Well, application—­singular. There’s only one school I’ve got my eye on, and it’s the Contemporary Institute of Fashion in New York City. Their Asian Studies major was designed for me . . . as I’m sure it was for the thousands of other hopeful prospects who will be applying in the fall.

But I’m not going to stress—­even though the program only accepts thirty students each semester. Deep breath, Lilyn. I’ve got a trick up my bell sleeve. I’m interning this summer in Tokyo with the one and only Hana Matsumoto. Not only will working with her teach me the skills I need to recreate “Amah’s bridal” kimono, it’s also my ticket to standing out among the other CIF applicants. I’ll get her to write me an awesome letter of recommendation, I’ll design three stunning original gowns, and I’ll send along my personal essay explaining what inspired my well-­executed collection. Easy peasy, right?

I give Ma a weak smile as we shuffle forward in the check-­in line. She doesn’t need to know that I’m suppressing my panic. I tap my black stiletto nails on the hard shell of my coffin-­sized suitcase. My entire goth-­inspired wardrobe is sealed inside this thing. Most of my gowns are handmade qipao, hanfu, and hanbok. I even brought along my black-­and-­gold ghagra choli—­a design I sewed after Archi sent me pictures of Rajasthani fashion.

To be honest, I know hardly anything about the Japanese side of my family. Amah died when I was a toddler, and Ma mostly talks about the Chinese influence of our Taiwanese lineage because the Japanese side . . . well, it traces back to a dark time in Taiwan’s history. There is one thing from Amah that I do have, though—­her uchikake. It’s the outermost layer of her bridal kimono. I’m waaay too big to fit in it now, both in height and bust. I also don’t want to make any alterations to it and tamper with the history of something that has been passed down in my family for five generations. But I can use it as inspiration to recreate a yukata version for myself in a size that accommodates me.

A small family of three separates me from the check-­in counter now. I lock eyes with the baby boy staring at me over his father’s shoulder. He keeps his wide gaze locked with mine in the way that only kids do when they see someone dressed like me. Their jaws go slack. Sometimes they even drop what they’re holding. Once, I had a little girl run up to me thinking I was Mavis from Hotel ­Transylvania— ­a compliment, if you ask me. And judging by those unblinking blue eyes, this kid is bewitched, too.

I flash him a toothy smile. “Boo.”

The boy blinks. His lips quiver. And then—­ “Waaaaa!”

The boy’s father immediately starts doing the baby bounce two-­step. He’s patting the boy’s back while searching in his diaper bag for a pacifier.

Ma jabs me in the ribs and hisses my name. “Lilyn! Why would you do that?”

If I was being honest, I’d say that I needed to distract myself from the thoughts stewing in my brain. But Ma can’t know that leaving for Tokyo is kind of sort of really freaking me out. Not when she worked all those extra hours at the hospital to pay for my round-­trip flight. If she truly knew just how unprepared I am for my study abroad, then she’d make me repay her for the unused plane tickets by working at an uninspired clothing retail store. I’d rather be torn apart by feral wolves.

I reply with a deadpan, “That grubby little human was staring at me. I gave him something to look at.”

The top half of Ma’s face is fighting a headache. The bottom half is fighting a laugh. “Okay, look. That was kind of funny. But don’t draw attention to yourself, all right? Well, more attention than you currently do. The culture is different in Tokyo. You have to be respectful. I love all the ways you express yourself, but you’ll have to be even more polite than you already are because most people there will think you are loud and . . . unconventional.”

My breath hitches. In twenty-­four hours, I will be halfway across the world. This will be the first time I’ve traveled such a large distance without Ma—­which, on top of everything else, isn’t a terrifying thought whatsoever. So fun.

“Next,” the woman at the check-­in counter says, waving me forward. Her red lips are pulled up in a customer service smile, and her eyelashes are long enough to fan me away to Oz.

I march forward and hoist my luggage onto the scale, nearly breaking my back in the process. Even though I’ve packed all my documents inside my handsewn satchel, I still pat myself down like I’m forgetting something. Because I know I am.

The gate agent takes my boarding pass and passport but doesn’t look at them. “Where are you headed?”

“My final destination is Tokyo,” I explain, forcing confidence in my voice. “But I have a layover in LA.”

“Wow, that’s one heck of a dress for such a long flight,” she says, green eyes following me from the top of my pinned hair down to my platform boots. “It’s incredible!”

I resist the urge to say I know and do the polite thing instead. “Thank you.”

This particular qipao was cut from a giant sheet of black silk. Embroidered white chrysanthemums climb up from the hem. They were a pain to stitch into place—­especially the one on my bust, given how thick the silver beadwork is. But the result is a dress that is comfortable enough to wear on a six-­hour flight to LAX. Without compromising my sense of style, of course.

“I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The gate agent nods to Ma.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been told I look like her. At this point, it’s refreshing to not be asked which one of us is the older sister. We share the same big ears, petite nose, and heart-­shaped face. We even share the same wide shoulders and big thighs. But it’s not only the fact that half my DNA belongs to her—­Ma was the one who inspired my goth aesthetic.

When I was young, I used to scroll through Ma’s online photos. She grew up in an era when baggy black jeans with looping belt chains and edgy leather jackets were all the rage. Which is probably why she still wears distressed pants to this day—­when she’s not working at the hospital, of course.

“Where did you guys get your clothes from? Black Button?” the gate agent asks, weighing my luggage.

I wince as if Black Button is a derogatory term. It might as well be. Cheap materials? Labor exploitation? And she dares to reduce my talent to that of fast fashion? I take another deep breath and remember that most of the people who compliment me don’t fully grasp the details behind every stitch. Why am I burdened with living in a world of the fashionably impaired?

“I made it myself.” It’s the short explanation.

She whistles and prints my ticket. “Wow. You’re so young. I can tell you’re going places.”

I take my ticket. “Well, I am at an airport.”

At first the woman tilts her head to the side. Ugh. My joke is like an airplane. It went right over her head. Ma’s told me for years that, in addition to my resting bitch face, I have a resting bitch voice. Even my friends Whitney and Archi had to learn when I was cracking a joke. And now they know one thing for sure: I’m hilarious.

Finally, a light shines behind the worker’s eyes. “Ha! I get it. Good one.” She finishes loading my suitcase onto the conveyor belt behind her. “Have a good flight!”

I grimace, then march across the airport to the TSA checkpoint. Since summer break has officially begun, the airport is a mess of families leaving for vacation. A muffled voice on the intercom announces a delayed flight. A security guard directs a screaming adult to the correct information desk. A man races past me in sweatpants and dress shoes. Interesting fashion choice.

The TSA line is the length of the Yangtze River. Ma and I got here two hours before my flight is scheduled to leave. She made sure of that. Families stand in line with their carry-­on luggage and passports ready. A toddler twirls in circles to pass the time. Each person in the group behind me is wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Judging by their outfits and excited chatter about Animal Kingdom, they must be hopping on a flight to the most magical place in the world: Delaware.