First Contact Page 4

  The only sounds as we finished dinner were the strains of “Jail House Rock.”

  I was barely able to keep my eyes open. “I’m going to head up to bed.” A harmless enough statement, but I could tell by Aki’s face the news wouldn’t be well received by Okasan, who quickly went ballistic again.

  “Chickusho! Gaijin totemo bakatari.”

  Aki looked tired of her translating duties. “My mother has not run the bath, so you cannot go to sleep. You must go to the kitchen and do the dishes.”

  The Mori’s really did believe my stay would not be complete unless I functioned as their manual dishwasher. I’d been here less than a day but I had a feeling there were other duties to be added to my list. Remembering the handbook motto, I merely smiled, bowed my head, and got up from the table.

  I trudged to the kitchen and faced a sink that overflowed with dishes. The pots resembled Lego blocks stacked a foot high as they sat like a fortress on top of the stove. Wait a second. The handbook said the Japanese found cleanliness to be a virtue. Did my family break every rule in the book?

  Pulling on a pair of yellow rubber gloves, I picked up a saucepan and scrubber and began to pry off the caked-on goo at the bottom of the pan. After what felt like twenty minutes, I finally had the pot gleaming. I moved the other pans aside and attacked the stack of dinner dishes. Things were moving along much more quickly until I felt a hand resting on my shoulder. The white vinyl sleeve was unmistakable.

  “You finish come to my room. Habe drink. Feel better.”

  The thought of being alone with Hiroshi sent a shiver straight down my back.

  “Thank you, but after I’ve done the dishes, I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.” Hiroshi ran his hand down my arm. “I habe best bed in house.”

  Pushing his hand aside with a flick of the scrub brush, I stepped back and ground my heel into his toes. “So….rr…y.” I stepped out of the way. Oh great. Hiroshi screamed and ranted in Japanese while grabbing onto his foot. Then he hobbled straight to his mother. She took his head into her chest and stroked his ratted mass of hair. Okasan glowered at me as she wagged a finger in my direction. How dare I hurt her one and only son.

  Leaving the dishes half done, I took the opportunity to run for the safety of my little room and shut the door. I dug through my luggage, looking for my pajamas, when my hand hit a small thin box. How did this get in here? Inside was an old pen with Mukagawa engraved on the side. Attached to the back of the box was a note. “Please give this to my relatives when you complete number eight.”

  Crap. Tori was serious about her to-do list. A wave of exhaustion swept over me. All I wanted was to pull on my cool silk pajamas and crawl into bed. While taking off my jeans, a piece of paper fell out of the pocket—the schedule of my duties. I couldn’t help wonder why people were giving me things to do. Wasn’t coming to live thousands of miles from home and starting a new school enough responsibility?

  I threw the covers over my head, and crossed my fingers that coming to Japan wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.

  There was a knock on my door.

  What now?

  Aki had the weirdest smile on her face. “The police are here to see you.”

  Chapter 3

  Music Appreciation

  September 3, 9:30 PM

  I stared at Aki in disbelief. “The police are here to see me?” Okasan must have decided I should be sent home immediately. What a short stay this turned out to be. My hands shook, as I quickly got dressed. Somehow I managed to button my blouse totally crooked as I followed behind Aki.

  Sure enough, two policemen stood at the base of the stairs. They looked so authoritative in their stiff black jackets, tightly clinched ties and crisp white shirts with matching gloves. I flashed on standing in the principal’s office in ninth grade. Once again, my foot tapped the floor like the Energizer Bunny. Had the news I could be a bit of a troublemaker made it all the way to the Tokyo police headquarters?

  The policemen spoke to Aki as I stood with a huge lump in my throat.

  “Amerikajin doko passuporto?”

  Aki translated for me. “The police are here to record you. You need to show them your passport and foreign papers.”

  How did they know I was even here? Scary. I could be the only American in town. Back upstairs I dug around in my backpack looking for my passport while taking deep yoga breaths to calm myself. I went back downstairs, paperwork in hand. The police, with their pens flying fast and furious, filled out a stack of forms. I stood running my fingers through my thick mane. When I hit a snarl, I realized I should have thought to brush my hair. The taller policeman motioned for me to stand directly in front of them. His partner, a Sulu look-a-like, had a camera and took my picture.

  Would they fingerprint me next?

  Instead, the tall officer made a notation in a black book handed me my papers, and a bright shiny new ID card. Sulu said something to his partner.

  A look of concern spread across Aki’s face. “They say you will be watched closely. If you talk to the wrong people, you will be arrested.”

  What the hell? I’d only been in Japan a day and I was a suspect? “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Aki shrugged her shoulders. “The officers say the last American woman that lived here was blonde like you and a bar hostess. They think you must be friends.”

  I stared at the policemen in disbelief as they packed up their gear. Talk about stereotypes. “Tell them not all American girls aren’t hookers.”

  She looked confused. “Hooker? What is that?”

  “Not me.” I stormed upstairs. I had to give Tori credit; I was definitely out of my rut. Wasn’t every day a girl with two sexual experiences gets accused of being a hooker. The list seemed to be the least of my worries. Okasan already hated me, and Hiroshi thought he was the King and I was his Priscilla. I wondered what crazy personality traits Aki and Otosan might be hiding. Would I find myself behind bars one day because I ticked off someone in the family?

  August 29, 3:00 PM

  What Day Is It?

  The Hello Kitty clock meowed three times. The sunlight streamed through the bedroom drapes. I counted the hours I’d slept on my fingers. Fourteen? Talk about jet lag. I threw on my terrycloth robe and staggered downstairs. The house echoed silence. Not only had the family not bothered to wake me, but they seemed to have abandoned me. Maybe that wasn’t so bad considering the way things were going.

  My stomach sang out and I made a beeline for the kitchen. I headed straight for the fridge. Tacked on the door under a sushi magnet was a note:

  Erin—Today you vacuum the house. The machine is in the front closet near the bathroom. It’s the blue canister next to the broom. Please don’t touch anything else. Be done by the time my mother returns at four o’clock—Aki

  Now I really needed some breakfast. I’d never had to vacuum a whole house before. Scrounging through the miniature refrigerator, I found a container of plain yogurt and an apple. Not much, but brunch was served. Wishing I could escape to a tropical island, I opened the door to the closet only to be greeted by a giant cardboard sign that said in all caps: THIS IS A VACUUM CLEANER. An arrow pointed to a plastic hamper-NOT THIS.

  Boy they really must think I was a moron. Japanese appliances didn’t look all that different from the American version. I pulled out the machine and looked for an electrical outlet. Luckily for me, the vacuum was pretty straightforward. I pushed the big button on the handle and the engine roared to life. It took a while to get the hang of it, but I managed to vacuum the entire first floor in under thirty minutes.

  I unplugged the vacuum and plopped down on a living room chair to catch my breath before heading upstairs. Closing my eyes, I almost fell back asleep until the sound of the vacuum engine started up again. Wait a sec. Hadn’t I unplugged the dang thing? As if it wanted to taunt me, I opened my eyes and discovered the plug was resting on the gleaming hardwood living room floor. Swallowing hard, I tried to gauge what just happened. It c
ould be one of three things. Either I fell asleep and dreamed the machine turned itself on, or the Mori house was haunted. Nah. I know Tori said Japan was a spiritual and mystical place, but what were the odds that anything spiritual would happen the first day I arrived—zero. I must be suffering from one heck of a bout of jet lag.

  I shook off my doubts knowing I still had all of upstairs left to do. Not to mention the fact that Okasan could be on her way home. After dragging the machine up the stairs like a beached whale, I knocked out the second floor in fifteen minutes. Okay, so I did a crappy job, but it was my first time. Okasan was a bit crazy, but I didn’t think she’d do a white glove inspection. I flashed on her walking through her bedroom with a magnifying glass. On second thought, I raced back to her room and gave it a thorough vacuuming.

  Finally done with my chore, I went back downstairs and wondered what I was going to do with the rest of my freedom. Tomorrow would be my first day of school. Back home I’d gone to the same school from eighth grade until now. The thought of learning my way around Seda Academy made me want to take up cracking my knuckles again. I really should study the academy handouts. Nothing made me feel more secure than being prepared. But for now, I just wanted to enjoy a Mori-free house.

  I headed straight for a giant basket filled with magazines next to the low table in the living room. The assortment of brightly colored covers promised everything from the latest teen fashions, to bonsai gardening tips, to a tattered Japanese Elvis fanzine. Even though I couldn’t read a word of Japanese, I decided to check out the pictures of the local teen scene. How different could it be? The magazine, titled SWEET, had a girl on the cover, probably fifteen, but who could pass for drinking age. With her heavy black eye makeup and her sexy satin fuchsia mini dress, she looked ready to take on Tokyo. The pictures in the entertainment section highlighted club after club. Japanese parents seemed a lot more lax about what their teenage girls were up to. I reached over to grab the Elvis fanzine and there was a tap on my thigh.

  Hiroshi appeared out of nowhere. “Parent gone. Y’all go see Fudo mother play. We eat him.”

  I stifled a laugh. His English was open to so many interpretations.

  He continued to hover. “Y’all meet here after y’all get nice.”

  My translation of Hiroshi’s meaning was to go upstairs and dress like a lady, not like a student. The event probably had a dress code. My Sketcher boots and torn denim shorts were out of the question. I rifled through my meager wardrobe and had to admit I was a bit apprehensive to be alone with Hiroshi after the pass he made in the kitchen. Maybe he had plans other than a musical performance. Still, I didn’t want to tick him off in case his invitation was sincere. If he tried to make another move, I’d do more than step on his foot.

  I decided to blow his mind and put on my special outfit I always wore to gallery openings, a long black embroidered skirt with a matching camisole and flowing cropped silk jacket. Of course, this meant wearing all black, but that might be appropriate, as I could be heading to my own funeral.

  I wondered what Fudo’s mother played. Something Western like the piano, or maybe a traditional Japanese stringed instrument like the koto? Grateful for a distraction other than magazines or studying, I looked forward to going out and getting some culture—offered up by Hiroshi no less.

  Someone I hardly recognized greeted me at the bottom of the stairs. Hiroshi had on a white button-down shirt, a navy and white striped tie and a pair of black pleated pants. Totally preppy well, except for his usual Elvis-style slicked back hair and the wide sideburns.

  He gave me a smile. “Y’all look good.”

  I curtsied like I was standing in front of the Queen of England—revealing way too much cleavage. Hiroshi grabbed my hand and practically dragged me to the car. He opened the door and threw me in. Guess that was the last time I’d try to be funny around him.

  We drove in silence, climbing farther up into the foothills. Hiroshi seemed to be splitting his time between looking down my top and the road. I pulled up my camisole. No way was he getting to know my cleavage that well. We finally came to a stop in front of a huge steel-clad building. As we approached the oversized double doors, I admired the roofline jutting out from the building like a giant wedge of pie. I had seen this type of modern Japanese architecture in books, but to be right in front of one took my breath away.

  The inside of the auditorium continued the modern theme with bright white walls and a simple stage made of bamboo. We walked down a long gray-carpeted aisle scanning the crowd for Fudo. As we reached the orchestra pit, I heard a familiar voice yell, “Over here.”

  Fudo waved, and Hiroshi and I politely stepped over several people to join him. “Erin, I am glad you came. This is the first time my mother has played in over ten years. Once she was very famous, but then she had me.”

  Just as I was about to laugh, an elderly man in a tuxedo walked onto the stage. He gave a little speech. “Minnasan, soshite suburashi.”

  Fudo leaned over and whispered in my ear, “He is telling everyone please be ready for a wonderful performance.”

  The man bowed deeply as a stunning woman came out onto the stage dressed in a shimmering gold and silver kimono. She towered over the MC.

  I leaned over and whispered in Fudo’s ear, “Is that your mother? She’s very beautiful.”

  He smiled and nodded his head as the announcer made a grand gesture. “Imarisan desu.”

  Fudo’s mother, Imari, kneeled down on a grass tatami floor mat placed in the center of the stage and gracefully positioned her pick clad fingers over her gleaming koto. I’d never been interested in seeing a live concert back home. When my parents asked me to a performance of the local symphony, all I could do was yawn. Now I couldn’t deny the goose bumps that prickled my arms when a haunting melody filled the auditorium.

  Imari chose a nice medley of European classical and Japanese music. A bit on the downer side, but pretty. Leaning back in my chair, surrounded by the beautiful strains of the koto, I had to pinch myself that Hiroshi thought to ask me to the concert. After Imari finished her performance, she bowed while the audience lightly applauded. They seemed to have a rather understated appreciation for her performance.

  Fudo turned to me. “We are having a small party for my mother at my house, and you must come. I told my father you are an artist, and he wants to show you his paintings.”

  Strange Fudo’s parents were so artistic, as all I’d seen Fudo care about was drinking and mahjong. He didn’t seem to have a creative bone in his body.

  Talent could skip generations. My great-aunt on my mother’s side had a habit of changing her snow-white hair to a different color every month—especially holidays. Pink for Easter, orange for Halloween, and green for Christmas. Aunt Liz’s hair was her canvas. Otherwise, not an artist in sight in my family tree.

  We got back in the car and drove down the hill until we came to a small group of houses. Except for a quaint traditional teahouse at the top of the property, Fudo’s house screamed ultra-modern. A series of large steel blocks joined together to form the building. I guess fine artists could make a lot of money in Japan, as Fudo’s family lived in Architectural Digest style.

  As we stepped through the front door, we ran into a small group of people milling around and drinking. The house continued the contemporary theme on the inside. Stark angular furniture in white and gray lined the walls of the living room. The interior looked like one in America, except for a few Japanese accessories. A stunning kimono with silver cranes hung over a huge concrete slab fireplace. In the foyer, a single bonsai tree stood proudly on a sleek glass pedestal.

  In such a stark environment, the bright colors in people’s clothing stood out like neon signs. Everyone laughed and talked, totally oblivious they were making an artistic statement. Hiroshi walked over to a makeshift bar set up on a white console table in the living room. I decided to join him even though I normally don’t drink. A small sake might make me more relaxed. One benefit of living in J
apan was that even though the official drinking age was twenty, the law seemed to never be enforced. The half-empty beer and sake machines near the academy gym were all I needed for proof.

  The beverage choices at the party was limited to two different types of scotch, sake and shochu, a sixty-proof Japanese hard liquor. I’d learned my lesson about hard liquor after watching a group of guys at a party make fools of themselves downing way too many Jell-O shots. My nerves were getting the best of me though, so I grabbed a small cup of sake from the bar and took a sip. The warm wine burned slightly as it slid down my throat. Suddenly the crowd of strangers seemed far less intimidating.

  Hiroshi grabbed two shochu. “Me go party.”

  He headed straight for the girl wearing the shortest skirt I’d seen since the pages of SWEET. Nursing my cup of sake, I wandered around the house looking at the paintings that covered all of the available wall space—especially in the adjoining hallway. The brush strokes were very precise and in the corner of every painting was a subtle but graceful signature—Kawana. Interesting he didn’t sign his name in kanji. Maybe it was because he painted European style landscapes. You would never know he was a Japanese artist as all the scenes were set in Europe. He must have traveled there on a painting trip.

  Soon Fudo and his parents arrived. The party quickly swung into high gear. Many of the people congratulated his mother while others remained busy in conversation. I, on the other hand, kept trying to stifle a yawn. For once, no one seemed particularly interested in me. Just when I wished we could leave, Fudo came up to me.

  “Erin, my father wants to show you his studio and the picture he is painting now. He has to finish it for a show tomorrow.”

  Guess that explains why Fudo’s father disappeared after making a quick round at the party. Fudo led me to the back of the house. My mouth dropped open at the site of the studio of my dreams. The room had an impressive vaulted ceiling and a huge bank of windows across the south wall to bring in the natural light. Oh how I envied the artist who had such a place to work. Why couldn’t I get the Kawanas as my host family? The sun gods sure didn’t like me.