Flying the Dragon (5 page)

With a nudge from her dad, she stepped forward. “I am Sk—Sorano.” Now the relatives looked confused—probably thought her name was
Sksorano.
Better start again. “I am Sorano. Welcome to our home. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Now for the bow—but should she do a general bow, or bow to each person one at a time? She glanced at her dad for some kind of sign, but he obviously wasn’t picking up her distress signal. Luckily Hiroshi’s parents stepped forward and were still smiling, so that had to be good. Although her dad had said that Japanese people always smile in public, even if they’re sad or embarrassed.

“Sorano, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Hiroshi’s mother said with a smile. She had spoken slowly, like she was afraid Skye wouldn’t understand her Japanese. When her aunt bowed, Skye bowed back. But how was she supposed to know right in the middle of bowing if her bow was lower than her aunt’s? Skye ended up bowing with her head raised. Then she repeated the same thing all over again with Hiroshi’s father.

When Skye glanced at Hiroshi, he had a grin on his face, but it didn’t seem like a happy grin. Or an impressed grin at how well his American cousin was doing with his parents. No, Skye decided he was amused. There was probably a no-peeking-when-bowing rule.

Next came the grandfather. He looked younger than she’d imagined. Sure, he was wrinkly, and his hair was as white as milk. Only his eyebrows had traces of the black his hair must have been. But he didn’t stoop, like lots of old people do, and he was tall, like Hiroshi’s dad. His eyes were the youngest thing about him—bright and smiling. She was so busy studying his face that she forgot to bow at first. And she’d completely forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to stare an adult right in the face.

“You are just as lovely as your mother, and your grandmother before you.”

Lovely? No one had ever described her that way, except maybe her parents after they made her dress up for something. She wasn’t pretty like the Ambers of the world, or even pretty like the Chinese American Lucy Lius of the world. Skye was somewhere in the middle—not Asian, not white. Caucasian applied perfectly to her—“Asian” hiding in a word meaning “white.”

“
Arigato goziamasu,
” Skye said, thanking him for the compliment. “It is an honor to meet you.” Now she remembered to bow, and this time she didn’t look up. She had to hope that her bow was lower than her grandfather’s.

“Please, come and have something to eat.” Skye’s dad pointed them toward the table.

They all murmured about how good the food looked and smelled. It should, since her mom had picked it up from Taka-hashi’s Take-Out over on Little River Avenue. They always had the best Japanese food. Not that Skye liked most Japanese food, but she spied miso soup on the table, her favorite. At least she could use a spoon with the soup—she’d always been a little shaky when it came to chopsticks, like her mom.

“Why don’t you sit next to Hiroshi?” her mom said.

“Excellent idea,” her dad added in Japanese. “I’m sure Hiroshi will have many questions about school.”

Skye only hoped she could answer his questions in Japanese without sounding like an idiot. Maybe he knew enough English so she wouldn’t have to resort to Japanese. Although she was supposed to be practicing so she could pass the stupid exams.

As the plates were passed around, she tried to think of the Japanese words she’d need to answer Hiroshi’s questions about school. She decided to start with the basics. “We’ll be in the same class,” she told him.

“For which subject?” He added some soba noodles into his bowl.

“All of them.” Hiroshi looked surprised, so Skye tried to explain. “We have a different teacher for music, art—”
What did they call P.E.

in Japan?
—“and sports.” Hiroshi nodded. “Oh, and computers.” Luckily
computer
was the same word in Japanese.

Hiroshi set his chopsticks down. “You have the same teacher for everything else?”

Skye nodded. “Mrs. Garcia. She’s nice. She knows you’re coming, and she told me you’ll have another teacher for English.”

“Mrs. Garcia doesn’t teach English?”

“Sure, she does. Kind of.” This was turning out to be more complicated than Skye had thought. “It’s more like she teaches everything
in
English—reading, writing, math, science, history.” Skye picked up her spoon. “But you’ll go to another teacher for help with the basics in English.”

Speaking of basics, Skye decided that this conversation was exhausting. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d uttered such a long string of words in Japanese.

Hiroshi looked disappointed. He switched to English: “I speak little English. I learn in school.”

Skye hadn’t meant to insult him when she said he needed the basics. Even though he did. Big time. “I’m still working on Japanese,” Skye said. “I go to classes on Saturdays. I still make lots of mistakes.”

When Hiroshi didn’t argue with that, Skye wondered how many mistakes she’d already made in the last five minutes. She figured now would be a good time to stop talking and eat the soup.

Hiroshi seemed lost in his thoughts throughout the rest of the meal, and Skye was relieved she didn’t have to come up with any more Japanese words.

Finally her dad said, “Cathy and Sorano have prepared the rooms upstairs for you. I’ll help you get settled in.” Skye’s aunt, uncle, and grandfather thanked Skye’s mom for the meal. If only they knew they should have been thanking Mr. Takahashi and his Take-Out.

As they filed out of the kitchen, Skye stayed back to help her mom clear the table. Once she was sure the others were out of earshot, she whispered, “What are you going to do for lunch and dinner tomorrow? And the next day?”

Her mom sighed, and Skye realized how tiring the whole meal conversation must have been for her, too. “Good question. We can still order out a few more times, I suppose. The house they’re renting over on Kemp Lane is ready for them to move in. But I’m sure they’ll want a few days to get over jet lag before they get settled.”

Skye pushed the takeout boxes further down into the trash. “I could help you smuggle the food into the house.”

Her mom laughed and pulled Skye into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “I was so proud of you today. And I’m sure Hiroshi appreciated the effort you made to talk with him.”

“He seems nice. I’m sure my Japanese will get better just by talking with him. And maybe it’ll get so good that I won’t have to take that morning class, so the All-Star schedule won’t even be a problem.”

Skye’s mom loaded the dishwasher in silence, plate after plate, glass after glass.

“Mom, did you hear what I said?”

Her mom turned, dried her hands, and leaned against the counter. “Yes, talking with your relatives in Japanese will help, honey. But I just don’t think it’ll be enough.” She walked over to the calendar and lifted the page. “You’ve only got a little over six weeks to get ready for the placement exams.”

Skye didn’t need to look at the calendar to know she had exactly forty-three days left.

She looked outside. The sky was still light. A perfect time to practice some backyard goals. Instead she went into the computer room, pulled out the hated list of the next hundred
kanji
she was supposed to memorize, and flopped into the chair. This was going to take a while.

Hiroshi awoke as soon as he hit the floor.

Where am I?

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, then opened his eyes again. Instead of his futon, he saw sheets and blankets tangled at the foot of a high wooden bed. A photograph of Grandfather and Hiroshi holding a trophy was propped on the nightstand—the picture from last year’s
rokkaku
battle. He felt the scratchy carpet underneath him instead of cool tatami mats that smelled of sweet grass. Of course—he was on the floor of his new American bedroom.

He heard a soft knock on his door.

“Come in.”

Mother peered into the room. “Hiroshi, are you all right?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

He climbed back onto the bed and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m fine. I miss my futon.” After a week in America, he still wasn’t used to sleeping on such a high bed.

“There’s not enough room in the closet to store a futon during the day.” Mother came and sat next to him. “Things are different here, but we’ll get used to it. It takes time.” Hiroshi stared at the carpet. “Now that you’re starting school, you’ll make friends. And Sorano will be there to help.”

School. The familiar knot clenched his gut again. “I don’t know enough English. How can I make friends if I can’t even talk to anyone?”

“You can practice what you learned in your English classes back home. Soon enough you’ll have too many friends to count.”

“I guess.” Hiroshi thought about his classmates in Japan. They’d be starting sixth grade when the academic year began in April. Not Hiroshi. He was stuck in fifth grade again for another four months.

“Are you hungry? I’ve made your favorite breakfast.” Even the thought of fish and rice didn’t cheer him up. Mother smiled and rose from the bed. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

Hiroshi opened his closet door. He never thought he’d miss his school uniform, but at least getting dressed for school had always been easy. What did American kids wear to school? He should have asked Sorano. He chose a pair of jeans; Americans on television always wore jeans. And a red polo shirt—red would bring him luck. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and followed the scent of fish downstairs for breakfast.

Hiroshi stood in front of his new class, head down and cheeks burning. Mrs. Garcia spoke to the other fifth graders. Hiroshi didn’t understand a thing she said. He wondered what Miss Dillon, his English teacher in Japan, would think. Mrs. Garcia smiled and pointed to him with an open hand. The only word he understood came out as “huh-RO-shee,” with that hard American
r
sound.

He jumped when the class chorused, “Hello!” but at least he knew this word, too. He automatically bowed to his classmates. A few snickers broke the silence.

That’s right—no bowing.
Next time he would remember.

Mrs. Garcia spoke again to the students, frowning this time. They leaned over their desks and began writing in their notebooks. Hiroshi followed Mrs. Garcia to his desk, and he slid into his seat. She put her hand on Sorano’s shoulder, who sat across the aisle from him. Mrs. Garcia said something to her, patted her shoulder, and walked away.

At least Hiroshi knew someone in this school. It didn’t even matter that she was a girl and his cousin. In the days since he’d arrived in America, he’d asked Sorano every question he could think of about school. But now that he was here, he had questions he hadn’t known to ask before. Why didn’t the students wear uniforms? Why didn’t they start the day with a class meeting? Why was everyone wearing their outdoor shoes inside? And the English class he was supposed to go to—when would that happen? Maybe Sorano wouldn’t mind asking the teacher for him.

He leaned across the aisle and whispered her name. When she turned, he asked about his English class. A boy with spiky yellow hair sitting in front of Sorano turned around. He looked with wide eyes from Sorano to Hiroshi.

Sorano glared at the spiky-haired boy, then hissed something at him. He smirked and started whispering to the girl sitting in front of him. Hiroshi couldn’t help but feel like he had done something wrong. The boy seemed to be making fun of Sorano, but Hiroshi couldn’t figure out why. Or was the boy making fun of him?

Sorano stood up. She passed by Hiroshi’s desk and whispered in Japanese, “Maybe you should call me Skye here at school.” Then she headed off toward the pencil sharpener. Hiroshi sat staring at the stack of school supplies on his desk. How was he supposed to remember to call Sorano by a different name? Had the spiky-haired boy been laughing at her name?

Sorano—Skye—slipped back into her seat just as the classroom television came on. Two students appeared on the screen. It looked like they were announcing the news, except they didn’t bow first. They held up a weather forecast sign, with the high temperature of forty-five degrees. That seemed really hot, but Hiroshi knew that Fahrenheit was different from Celsius. When a picture of the American flag appeared on the screen, everyone stood, put their hand on their chest, and started reciting something in a monotone. Hiroshi had no idea what they were saying. When it was over, Hiroshi was the only one left standing. He quickly sat back down, hoping no one had noticed.

Mrs. Garcia began the math lesson. Hiroshi had always hated math. Not that it was difficult—just boring. There was always only one right answer. Not like art. In art there were a million ways to do things. Hiroshi remembered watching Grandfather paint kites for customers. He’d painted whatever they asked for, but he always added a personal touch, too. Like the time when Yamamoto-san asked for a carp, and Grandfather had painted the scales in a rainbow of colors. No one ever minded when Grandfather did his own thing, because his own thing was what made the kites so special.

Hiroshi almost jumped when he realized Mrs. Garcia was standing next to his desk, handing him a worksheet covered with numbers. At least he knew what to do—he didn’t need English to do equations.