Drew had always known she was beautiful. Much of it, she suspected, had to do with her hair. Her mother would bring her over to her neighbour's for their weekly gossip sessions and they—they being the Miyakos, the Tamakes, the Imadas—would gather her hair in two separate bundles for each hand and exclaim at the length, at the shine. Mrs Imada, of a poetic slant, would proudly, fervently exclaim that Drew had hair like a "wild ebony waterfall" as she pressed a tortoiseshell comb down on it; as a child, she had not understood, for her hair was always well-kept, it did not spill or tumble, it flowed.

In the early days, her mother had made her sit once every two weeks and perform the tea ceremony. The woman had watched, her lips pursed, as Drew poured the tea, tiny brow creased in concentration. Drew had adored those times; she had been fitted with a glorious kimono of rustling silk and she had felt unconquerable in her delicate wrap. When she got older, her mother would brush her skin with rice powder and rogue (to highlight her cheekbones) and taught her about posture. Drew's hair had been doused with a scent that had conjured images of a place she had never been to; of a land of the cherry blossom and the pine.

Her father had been a man of few words but much action. He used to take her fishing as a child. Sitting in their little boat, he would point out which fish were for the eating and which were to be left alone. He had taught her how to properly cast a line and to observe the weather. She had complained—using her mother's words—that the briny air would dry out her hair, that the salt would make creases in her skin. Her father would give his rare, rumbling laugh, and pass her a half a rice ball drenched in soy sauce.

Hawaii had been a land of various cultures and Drew had been proud of her own. She loved the food as well, especially tempura: first crisping in the wok, then slid (still sputtering) onto a piece of tissue for blotting, golden-brown and slightly so.

Her head had been turned by the constant praise of her prettiness, however, and she had developed an outlook on others that was both pompous and aloof. While her nature had been condescending and not helpful to her getting friends (amongst the girls especially, who had been tired of her arrogance; Drew had behaved a bit better with boys, even though many still were wary of her; except her childhood friend Mark Uehara, who knew that she wasn't all bad) one could not say she was heartless. Cold yes, but not as such, ice.

This was still the time when everything was bathed in the tranquillity of lazy island life.

-x-

Drew was out by the beach with Mark; it was just before dinner, the swell and bid of the Pacific running down their ankles as evening descended. Mark, his face tense, asked, "Have you heard, on the radio? My pa had it on. They say that the Japanese army is becoming more of a threat each day."

Drew scoffed, a hand over her eyes to shade herself from the fading sun, "They always say that. They're afraid, that's what it is. Nothing more. Paranoia, that's what it is. You watch."

"Still, I was on Main Street the other day and a bunch of them were looking at me funny, like I could attack them any moment."

"Now that," Drew said, "Would be a sight, hon."

"My dad's pissed off as well. He says that people are jumping to conclusions. They see us as the enemy because we're the closest thing they've got."

"How ingenious. As if that wasn't obvious."

Mark glared at her before shifting his position. "Whatever. I'm American after all; they can keep their damn looks to themself."

Drew shrugged, pushing her hair away from her face. They fell into silence once more.

-x-

It was breakfast (nothing more than tiny fish and a small-fry up) when the explosions began. Drew had been reaching across the table for a bit of vegetables when the sky had burst; it had erupted blood-red and sun-yellow, fringing up the coconut trees in its fiery tears. The house had rattled, the china display on the mantelpiece quivering in its holder.

"What's going on?" Her mother had shouted and her father had stood up, his face disbelieving even behind its stoic facade.

Remembering what Mark had told her about the growing threat of the Japanese army, Drew yelled, her voice splintering "Turn on the radio, pa! I think its Japan attack-"

The glare he had given her had been so cold, so icy, that she had almost preferred the wild heat.

"My country cannot do such a thing. They would not do such a thing."

Drew rolled her eyes when she caught herself, rushing over to the radio and twisting the dial. The announcer sputtered on mid-sentence, his voice strangely comical.

"Not a drill, I repeat this is not a drill! We are being attacked by the rising sun, folks, this is the real McCoy! We are- I repeat- we are being attacked by Japan! And on a Sunday too, I repeat-"

Her father had crossed over to the radio, switching it off. His face, like her mother's, was pained and shocked. Silence—if such a thing at that moment were possible—mocked them in the small room. Drew ran out of the house, standing in the drying patch of grass, her face turned to the sky. A barrage of planes, the symbol of Japan painted clearly on their wings, were blazing away from the scene, and leaving behind a trail of destruction. She could see blossoms of flame from Pearl Harbour just a little ways away, and even worse, she could hear it, the sounds of desperation beating themselves into her very bones.

-x-

Mark, by happy coincidence, had been drafted mere weeks before the attack and had been at home on leave when the planes had come. Once the bay had calmed—not completely, but still—he had rushed over to Drew's in his uniform; his shirt still un-tucked and blowing about in the wind.

"Did you—"

"Yes, yes, of course!" A stream of people lined the bay, their shocked eyes staring off into the distance. A child with a bucket filled halfway with packed sand was uncomprehending, her little fingers pulling at the clothes of the gathering crowd.

"Shit." Mark whistled, "Shit. We're in for it now, I tell you."

His face was angry; Drew knew that look, it was one that she had seen oftentimes. Mark was the type of the person who seemed to carry the fight within him, as if underneath the surface he was twitching with an animalistic dance of raw anger.

Drew tugged on a handful of hair. "Where are you going?"

"Off to base. We've all been called down. Shit." He seemed to be unable to express his frustration in any other way. "Where are your parents?"

"Inside the house. They couldn't believe it, my father especially."

"Even I can't believe it. How could they just—this—shit."

Drew sighed, still feeling foggy. "Shouldn't you be off?"

"Yeah, guess I should." He stared at her for a second before shrugging and pulling her into a half-hug before he jogged off past the crowd and the bay.

-x-

Her father had already been a man steeped silence, but he seemed to have fallen into something far deeper than that. In the days immediately following the attack he had only seem to speak to the other older Japanese men, always in their native tongue, always worried.

Drew had been privy to many suspicious glances from the other islanders. Sure, it had been bad enough before, but after Pearl Harbour, the need to blame someone was so thick in the air that she felt it permeating her skin the moment she woke up. She told herself again and again that she wasn't Japanese, that she was American, but the hostile glances in the eyes of the others only shoved her back into a box where everything was similar and therefore the exact same.

For dinner one night—her father had been late home, no doubt on the boat (contemplating, Drew thought bitterly, as if meditation was going to do him any good now)—her mother had laid down tempura, which they hadn't had for a while.

Drew had taken a bit of everything else, forgoing the crispy wrapped prawns. Her mother had noticed, her alabaster brow creasing.

She did not say a word.

-x-

The worst day was when They came. Drew was sitting in the living room, helping her mother put a thread through a needle (her father was out back gutting the fish) when there was a knock on the door.

Her father had come hurriedly through the back, his sleeves flapping on his too-big shirt. They were two men, tight and uncomfortable in the heat.

"Messer Yo-gee Ten-eh-ka?"

"Tanaka." Drew had said brusquely, standing up; her father glared at her.

"Yes."

The older looking of the two had shrugged. "We need to check your house, if that's okay with you."

"For what?"

"You need to understand," the younger one pushed forwards, "There's been an attack by your people mere days ago. We've got to take precautions."

Mr Tanaka pursed his lips. "The act was a dishonourable one, yes."

The younger one snorted, "Slick."

The older man looked apologetic at his partner's impudence and shrugged once more as they entered the tiny house. The family sat awkwardly in the silent living room as the officers brushed through the house. Finally they emerged, their arms laden. Amongst the items were an old album filled with her mother's pictures of when she used to live in Japan, a calligraphy set, and the family katana—a simple object.

"What is this?" Mr Tanaka asked, his voice still set in stone, impassive.

"Old Country stuff." The younger one glared, "Enemy stuff. Contraband stuff, get it?"

"Officer Cowles means," the older one sighed, "That we've got to bring this down—"

"You going to take the china set too?" Drew asked angrily, "You want my kimono, my mother's rice—"

"Be silent!" Her father snapped, the unkindness in his voice not directed at her. "I am sorry; officer, but you must take the katana? It is a family heirloom and I—"

"About that," Officer Cowles said, his eyes beady with distrust, "We've got to bring you down the station. It's enemy stuff. Dangerous."

"What he means is that it's a precautionary measure." The other one said and it was obvious that he was not happy about the way of things. "I'm sorry, but if you could pack an overnight bag… It's just a short visit, I promise. Just some simple questions. I'm sure you're innocent."

"My country does not speak for me." Mr Tanaka said coldly.

"See, he says it," Officer Cowles broke in, "His country he says, he says—"

"Carl!" The older one snapped. Mr Tanaka looked as if he wanted to speak but had decided that he was in a state that transcended mere words. He disappeared into one of the two rooms and Mrs Tanaka followed, leaving Drew to scowl at the officers.

"Don't that hair get cumbersome in this weather?" Officer Cowles asked and she flipped him off, enjoying the shocked expression that burst out into his face after. The older one sighed for the millionth time that day.

Her father finally reappeared; he had changed into a pressed shirt and slacks, a small pack in his weathered hand.

"We'll wait outside." The older one said and they left.

"Drew." Her father said and she stood to meet him. "Be good, child. Listen to your mother. I will be back soon."

"Yes, father."

He and his wife exchanged their goodbyes. Drew felt a thousand words tingling on her tongue but she said none of them, directing her thoughts into her eyes as she watched her father walk away, his figure small and straight-backed between the two hulking men.

-x-

Two days later, Drew was picking up some groceries—nothing much—from Main Street when she was accosted a carful of boys outside the store. The one who spoke had an angry looking buzz cut and pale green eyes.

"Look guys, if it isn't some Jap whore."

She resisted the urge to scream at them and made to turn on her way but the bunch of hyenas only churned out more insults.

"Traitorous slut!"

"Go back to your country, bitch!"

"I bet your father was on those planes—"

She had turned then, her eyes blazing, all thought of decorum forgotten, "You bastard," she snarled as hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. "Why don't you just go home, boys? I'm sure your ma is waiting with your bottles, sweetie." She took care to put as much venom as she could into the last word.

One of the shopkeepers—a man of Polish ancestry that even they could not mistake for Asian (Chinese, Hawaiian, Filipino, Japanese; they were all the same to them) came out of his store to glare at the boys.

"Any trouble?" He asked Drew, sucking on his teeth. She shook her head and stalked down the street. She had made it to the end of the curb when they flung their last stone.

"We knew you were a Jap even from your back! Hair like that—you probably have to eat cats to get that kind of hair!"

She hurried down the corner and she did not cry.

-x-

The house was empty when she returned. She had set down the groceries slowly, methodically. Then she retreated into the kitchen, sunspots from the heat still dancing in her eyes, and pulled out a pair of scissors.

A wild ebony waterfall—jap slut—we knew you were a jap—hair like that; don't it get cumbersome?

She hesitated, one hand holding her hair in a coil, the other tight on the scissors.

Just before she could muster the courage to snip, her mother had entered. Gasping in shock, Drew turned. The woman's face was set.

"What are you doing?"

"Cutting my hair."

"You said when you were younger that you would never cut it short."

"I said many things!" Drew snapped, even as she laid down the scissors. "It's… cumbersome."

"Who told you that?" When Drew did not respond, her mother sighed, "We can have tempura for dinner as well even though I only made it last week—Mrs Miyamoto was kind enough—"

That was when Drew had snapped. "I don't want tempura, mother! Don't you understand! How can you still eat that, how can you still do these things now? We are not Japanese!"

She had never shouted at her parents before. Her mother drew out a chair and sat, deliberately and slowly. "Sit." She instructed.

"I don't want to."

"Sit."

Drew obeyed.

"You are ashamed," the woman had said simply. "You want your hair short? Go do it. You can cut it off but the base will still be there. What will you do then? Shave it all away?"

Drew plucked at the tablecloth, it was clean but there was a hole on the left side, wide and gaping. Sunlight fluttered in through the windowpanes and a gentle lilt of honeysuckle drenched-air entered the room.

"Drew," her mother instructed, "Look at me. You are Japanese. You are also American. I cannot pretend to understand the confusion. Your father and I are both first-generation. Just because you come from the same family does not mean they will speak for you or act for you. Do you understand?"

"But they say—"

"Let them say." Her mother said in a final tone. "Come here."

Drew walked over and her mother gathered her air, letting it spill over her right shoulder. "Shikataganai."

It cannot be helped.

Drew sniffled and her mother told her to stand. "Your father is coming back today. He phoned at Miyamoto." She stood as well, prising open the lid of the container that held the tempuras. The scent of it wafted through the room, wrapping itself subtly around the furniture.

"Keep your back straight, Drew." She said as her daughter plucked the crust off one and placed it delicately on her tongue. She tapped gently on her left shoulder blade to stop her daughter from slouching. "Posture is important. Hold your neck high. Then only you walk."