Chapter Thirteen

Winter came. With it, the snow: great heaping waves of it that swamped the streets. Snowplows roared down the roads; cars disappeared under drifts. The people on the sidewalks bundled up in winter coats and slipped on the icy pavement. I borrowed Fujita-san's binoculars to watch them from the warmth of the glasshouse.

I grew taller, more proportional. I had more of a human shape—even a dip in my sides that suggested a waist. My hair began to grow in more thickly as well, something that excited me to no end. I could actually comb and shape it. Soon my head was completely dark with it, and there was hair on my arms and real eyebrows besides. Dr. Hernandez thrilled over me, took measurements, and drew constant vials of blood. I took my pills and shots eagerly and without complaint.

The food took a lot of getting used to. It wasn't that it tasted bad. In fact, most of it was delicious. It was that I had never eaten anything remotely like it before and I rarely received any American cuisine to ease the transition. Once I was in the middle of stuffing my face with Fujita-san's okonomiyaki, a fried cabbage pancake drizzled with mayonnaise, and almost as quickly started throwing it back up again. Another time I was given some variation on udon, oddly textured noodles with odd-tasting broth, and my throat simply closed up, and I couldn't swallow it even though I tried. Fujita-san had looked horrified, which made it worse.

Breakfasts were particularly difficult. Fujita-san would make me toast, eggs, or pancakes if I asked, and I got some orange juice eventually, but even when she did her best, nothing she made was like breakfasts at the farm. Her pancakes were so modest and overcooked. One morning when Takeru appeared, having feigned illness from school, I threw one at him like a frisbee. Ideal pancakes should never work as frisbees. They should collapse in big fluffy partitions when you try to lift them.

Mom disappeared for six weeks and reappeared for one. She spent most of it with me. It was no visit of love. I gritted my teeth at the impersonal way she treated me: grading my every movement, correcting my Japanese in snips and snaps, growling at me during my katas, complaining about how I ate and dressed and studied. My only constants were my tutors and Fujita-san.

Fujita-san! I followed her like a dog. I would have done the housework myself if she would have let me. She spoke to me the entire time, and as my Japanese blossomed, so did my conversations with her.

She told me in her sweet, wavering voice about growing up in Kyoto; the great burning kanji on the mountainsides in August, the grating drone of the cicadas, the whispering bamboo thickets clustered around her garden. My favorite was Kiyomizudera with its line of grinning gods, prayers tinkling from the crimson roofs. She said that if you leaped from the platform at the very top and lived, you would be granted any wish you liked. A difficult matter, she said, granted the sheer height and the sharpened bamboo stakes at the bottom. She remembered someone attempting it—some love-stricken man.

"Did he live?" I asked.

She only smiled.

I asked about my mother eventually. Fujita-san was remarkably closed-lipped about it. Mother's family was from Kyoto originally, she said. They'd moved to Tokyo later and married into the Watanabes. It was really very simple. She brought out a little sepia-toned photograph that had been creased around the corners. It showed a little girl standing in front of a shrine in a handsome yukata, her hair pinned up with flowers and beads. She looked furious.

"That's my mother?" I asked, incredulous. "Has she always been angry?"

Fujita-san looked pleasant but said nothing, and I felt foolish for having asked.

I did not practice katas with Fujita-san as I had hoped. Instead, a tutor came in the afternoon after all my other teachers had gone home. He had crooked fingers and a crooked nose, and when he looked down on me, I felt a prickle of discomfort. His name was Mr. Satou. I had just learned that "satou" meant sugar, so I couldn't stop thinking of him as Mr. Sugar.

One afternoon, as we were practicing with bokken, Mr. Sugar said, "How is your old man, anyway?"

I startled. It was the first time anyone else had mentioned Dad since my first conversation with Takeru.

"I don't know," I said. I was surprised at how powerful the homesickness was, welling up in my chest. "I've been gone for… about four months now."

"Good ninja, that one," he said. "Gave you a good foundation."

"Oh," I said. "Thank you."

Mr. Sugar looked over my posture and nodded. "Do you ever want to go back?"

I paused.

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't tell your mother."

I shook my head no and settled lower into my back stance.

"I wouldn't run for it yet if I were you," he said. "She's got them under complete surveillance right now. They seem to be planning something. You can guess what that is."

"Why does she care so much?" The words burst out of me. "She doesn't even see me. She doesn't care about what I like or want. She doesn't even know who I am."

"Love is a strange beast," said Mr. Sugar with winking eyes, "and your mother cannot bear it. To be close is a torment. Very few who she loves are still alive today. Some of them, she locks up in little boxes to keep them safe." He shrugged. "Her fears are not without merit. Even you have enemies."

My heart jumped.

"But I haven't done anything!" I said.

"But she has. Your father has," he said. "There are some who see you as a sign of a cancer rotting the Foot from the inside out. Ah… I can tell you have been alone most of your life. You don't understand our social politics. If anything is the death of you, it will be that." He raised his bokken. "Your weakness will always be other people."

I shuddered as I deflected his swing.

"I want to go home," I said.

"I know," he said.

On Christmas, I woke up early and lay in the dark, listening to the snow rattle on my window. When I rose, I wrapped myself up in a robe and crept out into the hall.

Mom was gone and Takeru hadn't mentioned Christmas at all, but that morning I couldn't stop thinking about Dad and our last conversation. A real Christmas, with a real tree, and presents piled up to the ceiling. For a second I stood in the living room and squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the rickety farmhouse filled with lights and a store-bought plastic tree just like the ones I'd seen in countless store windows. I thought of presents stacked on top of presents and Mike dressed up as Santa. There would be a fire. Did they drink eggnog? Eat Christmas cookies, cook a Christmas dinner?

To be honest, I wasn't sure if I were thinking about an actual event that could or would happen, or if I were stealing imagery from advertisements.

I slipped out into the white living room with its white sofa and hesitated. The apartment was cold, the light cool and pale. The tatami room windows were butter yellow from the greenhouse. I didn't feel like stepping out into the greenhouse that day. Abnormally warm and bright, it would have broken the illusion: that something different would happen, something miraculous and chilly and dove-gray as a snowy morning. I pushed the curtains aside and stared down into the street. Christmas lights as far as I could see, twinkling and swaying in the breeze. The whole city was alive with them. It all seemed so far away. Might as well have been on the moon.

Have you ever felt like someone was thinking of you far away? Somehow I felt that that morning.

Fujita-san slipped out of the kitchen. "Good morning, Saya-chan," she said.

"Good morning."

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Christmas lights," I said.

"Oh! Well. I have something for you. It is not very much. Very small." She held out her hands. Cupped in her palms was a little pearlescent box wrapped in red and green ribbon.

Prickles ran down my neck. Slowly, I reached out and took it from her with both hands. My breath stuck in my throat.

"Thank you so much," I said. "But… I'm so sorry. I didn't get you anything."

She laughed. "It's all right. I'm not an American."

Her words panged at me, but they did not stick. Slowly, I slid the ribbons free and popped the top of the box off. There was a thin golden necklace inside, a thin glittering cord.

"It's beautiful," I said, and tugged it from behind its cushion. It swung between my fingers like a thread of sunlight.

"It was made in Japan," she said, eyes disappearing into her smile. "Your mother's favorite jeweler."

I had never really worn jewelry before. Oh, Dad had given me a little bead bracelet when I was small, but I don't remember what happened to it—probably broken and scattered all over a field or something. But that had been a fifty-cent bauble out of a plastic egg.

When I struggled with the lobster clasp, Fujita-san slipped behind me and helped me fasten it. She smoothed my hair out of the way.

"Very nice," she said. "You are growing into a woman. It is good to have tasteful jewelry, just in case."

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I burst into tears. It was so sudden and explosive that even Fujita-san jumped. I wanted to hug her, I wanted to throw my arms around her. But like she said, she's not American. The Japanese don't hug, they don't touch like we do. So instead, I threw my arms around myself.

"Saya-chan!" she said.

"I'm sorry!" I said, bowing deeply. "I'm so sorry. I'm just so happy. Nobody ever thinks of me but you. Why are you so good to me?"

She bent before me, eyes crinkling. "Saya-chan, why wouldn't I think of you?"

"Because I'm a monster."

"Who told you that?" she asked. "Did Takeru tell you that?"

"It's just what I am," I said, pressing my hands to my eyes. "Nobody has to tell me that. I have a mirror."

Her smile fell away. "Saya-chan," she said, "you will be a leader of the Foot someday. If you let this wound fester, your enemies will sniff it out."

"Leader! Are you joking?"

She held up her hand. "No. No. Listen to me. There are many in the history of our clan who were foul to look upon. But their skills were great, and their personalities powerful. A person's personality eventually becomes their true face. Do you believe that you are a monster?"

"Yes."

"Then do not half-heartedly embrace it. Put it on. Use it as a tool against your enemies." She smiled again. It was genuine. "Did you know that some in the Foot say you are the devil's daughter? That it was not Watanabe-san who brought the Foot out of their deep decline, but a deal with the devil?"

My jaw dropped. "But that's ridiculous!"

"Use it," she said. "Become the devil's daughter. When the atheist laughs at his superstitious friends, let him retain a niggling suspicion. Make your weakness theirs."

"But how do I do that?" I asked.

"Come here, Saya-chan," she said, and turned toward the kitchen. "Sit down. I will make you some tea. There are some things we need to talk about."

We sat across from each other in the dining room. The cup burned in my hands, but I didn't raise it. Fujita-san had stirred up the most loathsome green tea imaginable—thick as soup. The bitter stink of it made me nauseous. I looked up and Fujita-san was smiling.

"Saya-chan, your Japanese is very good," said Fujita-san.

"What? Really?"

"Yes. Soon you will be good enough to speak to those outside. You won't run away, will you?"

I shook my head no.

"Very good!" she said. "Now, there are new lessons to teach you. Soon you will be among the Foot. You will be put in a squad, where you will train alongside teammates of your age. It will be quite fun!"

I sat up straight. "You mean I'll get to go outside?"

"With your squad and squad leaders. You will not be alone at any time." Her smile suddenly had a pointed look to it.

"I understand."

"I am sorry it has taken us so long," she said. "It is just that… Watanabe-san and I had thought it was best that you accustom yourself to our ways before we made large changes. So far, you have done very well!"

"Thank you," I said, and forced a sip of tea. It was like drinking a heated algae slurry.

"Although you are quite good at our art, your training will not be easy, I'm sorry to say," she said. "There are children there who will sneer at you and call you names. They will try to overpower you in word and deed and subterfuge. They will pretend to be your friends and then try to manipulate you. Do not let your weakness grow any more. Turn it into your armor and your sword. Put fear in them: fear of you and respect for the Watanabe family."

I stared at her blankly. She said all of this with the same gentle, lilting voice that she had named the kingyo.

"You will find the way," she said. "I will help you, as will Watanabe-san. You are not alone."

I knocked back the tea in one gulp and grimaced as it went down. I could've breathed fire, it was so hot. Fujita-san looked scandalized.

"Saya-chan! That is not how you drink your tea."

"What will happen when I join the squad?" I asked.

"You will train. You will accompany a more advanced company on safer missions. As your skills grow, so will your responsibilities."

"And when can I go outside whenever I want? Or get the Wi-Fi password?"

"Everything in its time," said Fujita-san softly. Her eyes searched my face. But I didn't show her. I had wrapped up the summer in Northampton and stowed it away in a safe place by then.

"I want to go outside," I said. "I'm sick of this apartment. I need fresh air."

"We will know when you are ready," she said.

"I promise that I won't go anywhere," I said.

Fujita-san only smiled.

I started dreaming of fresh air—specifically, walks with Dad. Miserable marches through bar ditches morphed into unattainable paradises. Memories rolled over me in irrepressible waves: glorious sunsets, endless horizons, glittering clouds of migrating butterflies, the peeping of frogs. I would dream of the scent of rain so vividly that the taste lay on my tongue even when I woke. I thought of Dad's face; his hand on the back of my head; the companionable way he sang to me when I was a baby in his rough, croaking voice. In some dreams, all I did was eat pancakes with my shoulders squashed between Mike's and Shadow's. The pancakes came in every color of the rainbow and were soaked in melted butter. Sometimes I woke up gnawing on my pillows.

Mad for freedom, I went out of my way to study Japanese. Fujita-san bought me children's books, beautiful illustrated collections of Japanese fairytales, manga. My empty bookcase filled out with colorful bindings. I struggled over the swiftly-spoken sentences in TV shows and movies. I even tried to speak Japanese to Takeru.

"Why are you doing that?" he asked.

"Because then I can get into a squad and out of this apartment," I said.

"Yeah, well, you sound like you're five years old," he said.

My fingers curled into fists, but I didn't hit him. I could have taken him, though. He was just as shitty at ninjitsu as he was at algebra.

Mother returned at the end of the first week of January, shaking icy droplets from her jacket. I saw her from the corner of the living room, speaking in low terms to Fujita-san.

"Okaeri," I said. It was the "welcome home" used in most Japanese households. I'd been using it on Fujita-san after shopping trips.

Mom's eyes lit on me only briefly and her expression did not change. But her ambivalence did not hurt me. Nothing that she did could hurt me anymore. It didn't matter what she did or did not do as long as I got out of the apartment.

I got up at 5 AM to practice my katas with her. She seemed surprised when I walked in.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm practicing with you," I said as I began my stretches.

She stared at me like I was a piece of the furniture come to life. I wondered what she had seen, what she had been doing. I had this feeling that she hadn't really thought about me at all for all that time she had been gone. I was astonished at how little this bothered me.

At the end, when I had grabbed a towel and was about to leave, she said, "Wait."

Without saying anything, she stepped into a deep back stance and began a kata. I'd seen her doing it early in the morning; it wasn't one I was familiar with. She had gone three paces when she looked back at me and I realized that she was teaching it to me.

For an hour she went through that kata with me, uttering only single words, adjusting my hands and my stance. She spent it asking me short questions in Japanese; I answered as long as I could, as well as I could. They weren't questions worth sharing here. Things like what shows I was watching, and what I did on my time off, and how I was studying, and my grades. I carefully avoided any subjects that could have led to the farm.

We were late to breakfast, and she was late to wherever she was going. I could tell because Fujita-san started up a passive-aggressive background murmur, exclaiming over the clock every five minutes as though she had just been introduced to the concept of time.

That night Mom returned late. I had fallen asleep on the sofa waiting for her. I woke to her touching my shoulder.

"Get in bed," she said.

"Okaaaeeri," I slurred.

"Get up. Go."

She followed me up the stairs. I was unnerved by her silence, her dispassionate face. Something was different; something had changed. Before, she seemed to have been obsessed with me. Now, she seemed to look at me as a strange new acquisition that she wasn't sure she wanted after all.

At the door to my bedroom, she stopped.

"You have a new schedule beginning on the first of March."

My head jerked up.

"You will join a squad of children your age, overseen by two working genin," she said. "You will be taught what we require of you. You will go out on missions that escalate according to your abilities; this may mean fighting and the threat of injury or death. Are you ready for that?"

"Of course," I said. We were both thinking the same thing. We didn't say it out loud.

"You will be taught our business, the layout of the city, how best to travel it, and where our enemies are most likely to give us trouble," she said. "You will be taught how to respect and work with others in a group, and how to respect and work with your team leaders. Satou-san will take you back and forth to your squad. If I so much as hear a whisper that you are trying to run away, you will regret it."

She pivoted on her heel and strode to her bedroom. I wavered in the hallway. I could just see my window out of the corner of my eye. My reflection glanced back at me. Her newly-grown bangs covered her right eye rakishly, and she actually had hips like a human being. She looked strangely strong and taller than I remembered.

So I pushed my hair back, walked after my mother, and knocked on the door.

No answer.

I stuck my head in. She was standing at the door of her closet, itself the size of a room, her blouse draped over her arm. Her face was expressionless, closed off. She said nothing; she only looked at me. Her arms and chest were heavily toned with muscle, and there was a particularly vicious scar running from her left shoulder down to her right hip.

My plan had been to wish her good-night. Instead, I stared at the scar.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"I left myself open," she said, folding her blouse.

"Who did it?"

She shrugged. "Oroku Saki. His Elites. Long ago. Not important."

"Shredder?"

"Oroku Saki, yes."

"Did you know him?" I asked.

"Who?"

"The Shredder. The Elites. Both?"

"Both, of course," she said. "Most of us grew up together. We were in the same squad. My father sent them here."

"Were they your friends?"

She began to laugh. "What kind of question is that? Go to bed."

I had wormed inside of the room by this point. "I'm just curious."

She shook her head and unclasped her bra, shrugged it off, then began to fold it as well. I stopped, a little startled. I never wanted to be seen without my clothes; she didn't seem to care. She certainly was no beauty—her body was all straight lines and sheer drop-offs. For some reason, this was a relief to me.

"You have chosen an odd time to be curious," she said. "It's late. Go to bed."

"You've been gone a long time, that's all," I said. "I missed you."

The words came out strangely. They almost felt like lies.

Her hands paused over the buttons on her slacks. Her face was hidden by a curtain of her hair, but I could feel her staring at me. The silence was heavy with unsaid things.

I rubbed at my forearm. "So... are you going to practice tomorrow morning?"

"Yes." She began unsnapping buttons.

"I'll be there," I said, and backed away toward the door.

She turned to me, the slacks hanging loosely on her hips. I was startled by the look on her face. It was open, softer. I felt as though I were looking through a window into a hidden passage.

"We will be going over the new kata," she said. "The one I taught you last time."

"I've been practicing it," I said.

"Nnn. Good." She turned away. "Good-night, Saya-chan."

"Good-night, Mother."

I closed the door as quietly as I could behind me and leaned on it. My heart was thudding. Was this a victory? I wasn't sure if I could call it one. It felt like a betrayal, although of whom, I wasn't certain.