It's Not Like It's a Secret

by Misa Sugiura

“Jibun no koto bakkari kangaen’no yame-nasai. Chanto henji shina-sai.” I don’t think I’m being selfish. But since “AAAGGGGHHHH! I’M NOT BEING SELFISH!” is probably not the “proper reply” she’s looking for, I just say, “I’m not pouting. I’m thinking.”

I want to remind her that she just said Dad’s start-up job was a teenage dream. But she has a conveniently short memory about things she’s just said that contradict other things she’s just said, so instead, I switch tracks.

“Oh, honey, we’re not being mean. It’s just so . . . sweet,” Trish says. “It’s like you forgot that you’re like, Asian or whatever. I totally forget, too. But that’s good, right? Like it doesn’t matter that you’re not white, you know? You’re like, one of us!”

Great. Why can’t she just leave us alone? Or actually . . . maybe she can stay. She’s about my age and height with light brown skin and black hair pulled into a ponytail that spills in waves down her back. Brown eyes, clear and wide, under delicately arched eyebrows. Cupid’s bow lips with a slick of rose lip gloss. A dimple on her chin. Shimmery dark green nail polish at the tips of slender fingers. And the way she stands—not clerkish at all. Graceful. Regal, even. Like she’s a queen in disguise. I’m hooked. Who is she? I stand up a little straighter.

“I just guessed. Mexican taste is not Japanese taste,” she says simply, as if that explained everything. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Actually, I can. You’d think that being a member of a racial minority would make her extra sensitive, but Mom has something racist, ignorant, or just plain weird to say about everyone who’s not Japanese: Koreans are melodramatic and smell bad; Jewish people like purple; white Americans are selfish, disrespectful, and love guns. And apparently Mexicans have bad taste.

“How about, ‘You’re going to be great?’ That’s what an American mom would say.” Mom looks stung. “Too bad for you, then. I am not American. I am Japanese. I don’t know if you’re going to be great—how can I say that? I can want all kinds of things for you, but I only know that you can do your best. I am teaching you to see the world the way it is, not the way you want it to be. That’s my job.”

If you’re Nobody together with someone, doesn’t that make you Somebody? At least to each other? That can’t be bad, right?

After a brief, mortifying, and very Japanese introduction to Mom (Hello, I’m sorry my daughter is such a loser, it’s so kind of you to be nice to her, I really owe you one), we escape to my room, and Jamie checks out my bookshelf while I run to the kitchen for some snacks.

I like her. Like, like her-like her. No doubt. Even more than I liked Trish. She’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s real, she’s romantic. She thinks pieces of sea glass are like pieces of a lost soul, for crying out loud. I like her so much I can hardly even breathe.

And now Arjun is preening and telling me he’s sorry to have to break my heart but he really only likes me as a friend, and everyone else is clamoring to know who I really like, and I don’t even care because Jamie Ramirez smiled and blushed when I (kind of) said I liked her.

I steal a glance at her and I’m overcome by how perfect she is—her brain, her poetic soul, her grit, her too-trusting heart . . . her hair . . . her eyes . . . her skin . . . that clingy . . . low-cut . . . camisole top . . . draped over the swell of her breasts. . . . And she likes my ass. And now here we are, alone. Oh, God. Okay. Just be cool.

OH. MY. GOD. Jamie’s left the poetry notebook in my locker, with a new poem: “Wild Nights—Wild Nights!” by Emily Dickinson. And a note: This makes me think of you. Not just because of the wild nights part (haha), but also because you’re like my harbor in a wild ocean. Love, J I reread the last part of the poem: Rowing in Eden Ah, the Sea! Might I but moor—Tonight— In Thee!

“I know. I wish you guys could get to know each other better. She’s been there for me through everything, and she’s just afraid I’ll get hurt again. I told her it’s not like that with you, but you know.” She shrugs, then takes my hand. “You wouldn’t do that to me, right? You wouldn’t just leave me like that.” “Never.” “Promise?” “Promise.”

“Do your parents know?” “I didn’t even know for sure until you.” “Really?” “Uh-huh.” “Hm. And what do you think so far?” I guess homework can wait a little longer.

Ay! No toques!” Then she reaches her arm out. “Ven aca. Dame un beso, mijo.” Tommy rolls his eyes and bends down to kiss Mrs. Ramirez. “¡Ya vete! Go!” She shoves him away and waves her spoon at him. “¡Ándale! ¡Vas a llegar tarde a trabajo!”

Nice. I lost Trish to a rich white boy with a Mustang, and now I’m losing Jamie to a rich white girl with an actual horse.

She was not pleased to see her at the meet, believe me.” At least Christina’s an equal opportunity hater.

And maybe just a teeny, tiny bit because, in an effort to make Jamie forget whatever intensity she had with Kelsey this summer, well . . . let’s just say I know a lot more about Jamie’s body than Elaine knows about Jimmy’s, unless she’s holding out on us.

Gaman. This is what Mom has been training me for since I was born, and it’s clearly what I’m best at.

The sun slides across the sky, the moon waxes and wanes, and I endure. I survive.

“Sometimes the parents have to run to catch up with their children, instead of the other way around.”

hiding the truth doesn’t stop things from being true. Not talking about things doesn’t stop them from happening. Pretending that a thing is something else doesn’t change its true nature.

“Hn.” She nods her head in assent. “But that’s . . . awful. You can’t call people freaks if you’re okay with them.” “Freak is bad?” “Freak is bad.” She frowns, then waves her hand dismissively. “I meant that the gay are different—they are! You are!” I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off. “Chotto! Be quiet and listen to me. In Japan, be gay is not a sin like in America. Just different—you cannot deny that gay is different from most people. But in Japan, too different is uncomfortable for the other people. It’s disrespectful to make the other people uncomfortable. Even if you can’t help being different, it’s your duty to become like others. It’s your duty to fit in. So in Japan, the gay can’t be out of the cabinet. They can’t get married. They can’t have children.” She puts her hand on my back, gently. “But different is okay in America, even though I forget sometimes. You are okay, even though you are different.”

Then I can’t help it. I say gently, “Mom, it’s out of the closet. Not the cabinet.” “Erasō.”

“Oh. Um, I’d rather just give it to her now, if that’s okay.” “No, it is not okay. You just interrupted my class to give your friend a personal message. If it’s important to deliver it this minute, you can read it to her from where you are.” “It’s kind of private.”

“Shhh.” Jamie puts a finger on my lips. “Later.” She leans just the tiniest bit toward me, and my heart jumps. “So like, I really want to kiss you right now,” she whispers. “But I know it’s not your thing . . . in public—” I don’t even have to think about it. I step forward and kiss her.

I don’t know which I like better—the serene and startling beauty of the sea glass on the sand, or the tenacious survivors I’ve found here, who reveal their secret, dreamlike lives to anyone who cares enough to wait for them.