Tokyo Heist (32 page)

And yet the mural isn’t just some copy. Its style is uniquely my dad’s. Those are his colors, his details, his way of capturing light and air.

I glance at Kenji’s face, and then at Mitsue’s, to see their reactions.

They’re both staring hard at the panels. Kenji is frowning. Oh, no.

I take a few steps closer to hear what Kenji is saying to my dad. “Sorry, but Glenn, where is the bridge?” he asks quietly. “I thought surely any revision you came up with would include the key element that everyone had agreed on.”

He’s right. There is no bridge.

“Well, Kenji, if you look closely,” my dad says, “you will see that there is, in fact, a bridge. It’s right there, in this boat.”

“A bridge in the boat? How could that be?”

“Take a look,” he says, pointing to the front passenger boat in panel three.

In the boat are four young people—Japanese teenagers, boys and girls—eating snacks, holding sparklers, smiling. They look like any of the young people we saw in the crowds at the Gion Festival, before chaos took over that night. The kids are talking with two girls sitting opposite them, one in a red kimono with a yellow
obi,
and one in a green kimono with a pink
obi.
American girls. And not just any American girls. It’s Reika. And it’s me. I’m sitting right where Tomonori had painted Hanae. One of my hands is trailing in the water, just like hers.

I now get what Hanae, the
okami-san
, meant about seeing herself in a drawing. Feeling invisible, and then finding out you were seen all along.

“This is my concept of a bridge, now that I’ve spent some time in Japan,” my dad says. His voice grows louder, more forceful, as he speaks. “See, a bridge isn’t just something we build out of wood or steel. A bridge can also be the people that connect our past to our present, or the people that connect one country to another. And making or sustaining a bridge can be as simple as people talking. It’s people making connections.”

So he not only saw me, he heard me. My dad used the seed of my idea.

Kenji turns back to the mural, hands clasped, and studies it in the same way he looked at the lone madrona tree the very first time I saw him in Margo’s gallery. A slow smile spreads across his face. Mitsue, also smiling, comes up beside him to study the painting up close.

“Yes,” Kenji says. “Yes, you are right. I can see the bridge. And I feel my brother here, too. Your painting, for me, is a bridge to him. Thank you.” He turns to my dad, his eyes glistening. He bows. Then, surprisingly, he turns toward me. “And Violet-chan,” he says. “I think I have not properly thanked you.
Go-kuro-sama deshita
. Thank you for going out of your way.” He bows deeply to me, and Mitsue does, too.

“Domo,”
I murmur, bowing back.

3

9

“H
old still, Violet.” Reika jabs a bobby pin into my head.

“Ow. You’re making me a human pincushion.”

“I know what I’m doing. There. You’re done. Take a look.”

I lift my head and look in the ladies’ room mirror. She’s done wonders. Half a tube of gel and one million bobby pins later, my hair is slicked back in a tight bun, at the nape of my neck. My makeup is perfect; she’s applied everything from foundation to mascara in a way that looks natural. And my new glasses—thinner ones, with delicate rims—look elegant. You’d think we were back in Japan, not in a ladies’ room at the Seattle Asian Art Museum.

“I love it. You look like a brainy geisha,” Reika says. “Let me just fix your
obi
.”

“It’s my work on exhibit, not me,” I remind her, but I let her tighten the sash. It feels good to wear my Tamura-ya summer kimono again, for the first time since the Gion Festival.

I have to stand by the bristol board versions of
Kimono Girl
, with final inking, and talk about my work to anyone at the Seattle Asian Art Museum Teen Manga Show who’s interested in learning what the third place winner—me—had in mind when I created my story.

Reika inspects her own makeup in the mirror and wipes a lipstick smudge off her teeth.

“Who’s coming tonight? Edge’ll be here, right?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I told him about it. He probably has plans with Mardi. I haven’t even seen Edge since I got back from Japan.”

“You’re kidding! I thought you guys made up.”

“We’ve talked on the phone, emailed a lot, talked about our creative work. But I’ve been so busy. Anyway, that’s fine if he’s not here,” I add, almost believing myself. “I have more than enough people coming tonight. My mom’s here, and my dad is coming. And Skye.”

Reika raises an eyebrow as she applies her mascara. “Is that going to be weird?”

“There is a high probability of a weird factor.”

My dad decided, sometime in our last days in Japan, that he was going to give things with Skye another try. On the plane ride home, he told me that he was really touched at Skye’s concern for my safety throughout this whole ordeal, and by what she’d done behind the scenes to help out on the case. After we found the art, her name was cleared. And her “windfall” of money she talked about? When I asked him, he laughed at the idea I thought it came from stolen art. It was a small inheritance from a grandfather who recently died. Not a ton of dough, but enough that if they combined their resources, they could fix up the Fremont house better. “We could add some nice touches,” he said. “Get some real furniture. Make it more livable for two people and an occasional guest. We both hope you’ll be coming over a lot more. And we’d love you to paint a mural in the guest room.”

Reika leans in toward the mirror and asks, “And the Yamadas? Will they come?”

“No. They’re still in Japan, taking care of a bunch of legal stuff. Hey, Reika . . . I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . thanks.”

“For what?” She paints her eyelashes with a practiced flick of the wrist.

“For helping me fix
Kimono Girl.
It’s a lot better now. But more than that, thanks for coming with me to the show this evening.”

“It’s the least I can do. You saved me, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“By letting me hang out with you and letting me help find the painting. I was totally depressed in Japan, I could hardly get out of bed. I couldn’t write any poetry. I was just dragging through the days.”

I’d
saved
her
? I never thought of it that way. I guess in a way we saved each other.

“You’re a good friend,” I tell her.

She punches my arm lightly. “Your friendship worms my heart.”

“Thanks for the heartworming sentiment.”

“Well,” she says, “they’re going to open the doors. We should probably get to the show.”

We enter the gallery on the ground floor, which has been turned over to the Teen Manga Art Show. Manga-influenced drawings and paintings hang on the walls, and sculptures rise up from tables in the center of the room.

“Violet!”

I turn to see Margo Wise waving at me, her scarf light and loose around her neck. I can’t believe I ever pegged her as a villain type. Not only did she come to see my work today, when she must have a million other things to do—including training her new assistant—but she’s major sponsor of this show. I saw her gallery listed in the program.

She comes over to me and pats my shoulder. Thank God I changed the appearance of the Scarf character in my last revision. Now she looks nothing like Margo.

“I must tell you, your graphic novel looks very engaging,” Margo says. “Your characters are precisely and consistently drawn, and you have a real eye for details and landscape.”

“I do? Th-thank you.” I wait for her to compare me to my dad. To say something like, “Maybe one day you’ll be as great as Glenn.” But she doesn’t. Instead, she pats my shoulder again and says, “Stay with it. Keep honing your vision. While I can see the manga influence in your work, you have a style that’s all your own beginning to emerge. Cultivate that originality. Be true to your vision. You’ll go far.”

I’m still tingling from her words as I join Reika at my exhibit area.

The gallery is quickly filling up with kids, parents, teachers, strangers—some of whom come up and congratulate me and Reika on finding the van Goghs, recognizing us from TV interviews or newspapers. But I feel a pang in my chest. There are two gaping absences. I’m missing Edge. Powerfully. And my dad isn’t here yet, either.

I start to get a sinking feeling. I’ve expected too much, thinking my dad will show up.

He’s started a new project since we got back from Japan—a series of paintings inspired by our stay in Arashiyama—and he’s probably locked up in his studio, lost in time, oblivious to the outside world and all its responsibilities and demands.

“Hey.” Reika pulls my sleeve. “Isn’t that your ex-boss coming this way?”

I look up and see Jerry from Jet City coming toward us. “Am I dead or something?” I whisper to Reika. “Is this my life flashing before my eyes? What is he doing here?”

“Hey, Violet,” says Jerry.

“Hey,” I say, instinctively backing away. I figure maybe he’s come to seek revenge and bawl me out for quitting.

“So you’re famous now.”

“More in Japan than here.”

“Still. That’s cool.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I saw your name mentioned in the paper. Not just about the stolen art and the gangsters, but in an article about this show. That’s great you got into this. Third place! That’s something.”

“Thanks, Jerry. And thanks for telling me about the contest.”

“No sweat. I’ll expect you to come back to the store and do a big signing of
Kimono Girl
when you get it published someday.” He coughs. “I don’t suppose you’d have any interest in coming back to work? Now that you’re a celebrity and all? I was thinking you could take the whole back wall, build up our manga section.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah. You could do the ordering—I’ll teach you how—and maybe plan some events around manga, to help bring people into the store.”

“I’ll think about it. I’m not sure if I’ll have time. . . .”

“Yeah, sure. Let me know. Anyway, if it doesn’t work out for you, drop by all the same. I’ll still give you your employee discount. See you around.”

“See you around.” I stare at him in wonder as he walks away.

Before I know it, I have a big crowd gathering at my exhibit. Kids are studying my storyboards, asking questions about how I did certain drawings, how many techniques I borrowed from manga and which were my own. But I don’t know if I can completely explain how I created
Kimono Girl
. It was so tangled up in my attempts to solve the real-life mystery; it was hard sometimes to keep track of what was real and what was not. It’s why I had to write and draw the whole thing over again. Twice. But maybe not everything about art has to be explained. My dad likes to say that part of the process of making art is always a mystery, and now I think that must be true.

Reika helps by holding up or pointing to various poster boards as I talk. “In this one, I tried to give a sense of movement, so I used extra speed lines here. And here, I had Kimono Girl bust through this panel and into the next one to interrupt the boundary between . . .”

My words trail off as I notice the door to the gallery opening. Could it be my dad?

It’s Edge. Wearing his most dapper, vintage pin-striped suit. And Mardi, less dressed for the occasion, in blue sweatpants and a Crestview High hoodie.

Edge catches my eye, smiles and waves. Mardi looks away and yawns.

I finish my sentence, then ask Reika to hold down the fort. “Back in a second,” I murmur, and I hurry over to Edge and Mardi. I’m going to welcome Mardi as a part of my friend’s life. Suddenly, I understand that fortune from Sens
o
-ji. That person with the open heart, awaiting me at the end of my journey. That was me.

“Hi, guys, thanks for coming!” I make a special point of grinning at Mardi, even though it feels like smiling through a mouthful of really gross food.

“Of course! Crikey, I wouldn’t miss your big debut for the world,” Edge says.

Am I imagining it, or does Mardi look just a teensy bit annoyed?

“There’s food over there. Help yourself. Walk around, enjoy the show. There are a lot of great exhibits here. I mean, if you like manga and anime stuff.” I look at Mardi and shrug.

Mardi rolls her eyes, then turns to me. “Congratulations on finding that art,” she says. “I saw the
Today
show interview.”

“Thanks, Mardi.” It’s funny; I thought outdoing Mardi would feel amazing. Violin music and triumphant drumbeats. But that’s not the case. I guess I’d feel better if she acknowledged not what I did but
who I am.
Edge’s friend. Her own former friend. A manga fan. An artist. A regular, decent human being with feelings. But she says nothing else, and when her gaze drifts to look at the refreshments table, I realize that’s as far as I’m going to get with her. And I suddenly feel really sorry for Mardi.

The revised
Kimono Girl
ends with Sockeye and the Cormorant both stuck in their animal forms, so deeply entrenched in their evil, underworld selves that they lose their ability to return to their original shapes. They’ve lost their way. Mardi’s a bit like that, too, I see now. She’s not a villain out to get me. It’s more complicated than that. She’s like a shape-shifter who transformed in order to survive in her new world—a rich-kid neighborhood—and never got back to her original form.

“I’m going to get some food. I’m starving,” Mardi announces. “You coming, Edge?”

“In a second.” As soon as Mardi wanders off, Edge grabs my arm. “Can we talk?”

“I can’t just leave my exhibit. I’m talking to—”

“Please? It’s really important.”

Reika seems to have things under control, explaining some of the storyboard sequences.

“Okay. But make it fast.”

4

0

I
t’s a beautiful evening, the sunset sky stained pink and orange. Edge and I walk out of the museum, past the greenhouse filled with exotic plants, and into Volunteer Park. We find a boulder in a grove of trees. Madrona trees, like the one my dad painted. But in real life, these trees don’t stand apart. They lean toward one another. Their branches reach out, touch, and meld together, as if the trees are holding hands.