Chapter 6 I’ll Swallow My Pride and This Cake, Too #2
I’m not sure why her words surprise me, but they do.
She’s the only daughter of the legendary Hana Matsumoto.
But the more I let her words sink in, the less shocked I am.
Because I know where her heart is when she’s not working for her mother.
At least, I think I do. It’s written on the skin covered by her all-black uniform.
“You want to become a tattoo artist.” It’s a question, but it leaves my lips like a statement.
Yua pulls her gaze off the wall. “I do. And I already am. Sort of. I’ve been apprenticing at Studio Pink out in Shibuya since I graduated from high school last year.
That’s about the only district in Tokyo that’s accepting of body art.
Well, more accepting. It’s what I want to do for the rest of my life, but it feels selfish to give up my family’s business just because ‘I don’t want it.
’ I have a great-grandfather who moved our family over a mountain to keep the shop from being bombed during World War Two.
I feel like I don’t have a right to choose if I want to hold on to the shop or not. It’s my duty to carry on the legacy.”
My attention dips to her shoulder as if I can see the cherry blossoms stained into her skin.
Yua knows what she wants. I recognize it in her posture, in her voice, in the way she moves—Yua loves body art.
It probably turns her existence into a thrill.
I get it because that’s what designing and sewing does for me when I’m at my best.
I didn’t realize how quickly I could see myself in a stranger. We both wear our art on our bodies. We’re both going through our own familial issues. We both feel the weight of expectation, and we’re both struggling with the threat of failure. But above all else, we’re not alone.
“Does your mom know about your apprenticeship?” I ask. My voice is low, as if someone might overhear us in the booth.
Yua shakes her head. “No. So please don’t tell her.”
Yua’s asked me to keep a secret from her mother.
I might as well be wearing a backpack of rocks because I’ll be carrying this promise with me every time I go to Matsumoto Alturations.
But my shoulders don’t sink, and my spine doesn’t crumple.
Instead, I’m light as a feather because we’ve entered into a silent agreement. She’ll keep my secret if I keep hers.
“I like having this job outside of the alteration shop,” Yua continues. “I can always tell Mum I’m working when she asks me where I’ve been. And technically, I’m not lying because I’m being paid for my apprenticeship.”
Clever. But if Yua’s got so many part-time jobs, how can she add me into her busy schedule?
Just then, Keiko is back, and she’s holding two tall cups of Japanese coffee. She sets the drinks down on the table, ice clinking against the glass. A pillow of marshmallowy cold foam sits atop the dark brown beverage. I rub my hands together like a fly at a picnic.
Yua giggles. “You have to stir it first. Half the fun is watching the cold foam mix with the coffee.”
I know exactly what she means. When Ma makes homemade brown sugar boba milk tea, I always stir the drink slowly because it’s hypnotizing to watch the brown and white swirl like tides.
I take the metal straw and churn my cauldron of coffee. A drop of whipped milk rolls off the side of the glass. But inside the cup, the brown coffee bleeds into the white cold foam like rain clouds rolling in on a sunny day. It’s too mesmerizing. I can’t resist taking a sip.
Only a hint of acidic coffee flavor is there, sweetened by the foam and brown sugar.
But there’s another layer to the coffee, too.
It’s bold and warm with almost an earthy charcoal taste to it.
Maybe it has something to do with the way the beans were roasted.
Either way, Yua was right. The drink is refreshing for a hot summer morning.
“Oh my God.” I groan then take another sip. “Oh my gawd.” I can’t think of anything else to say because all I want to do is live in this moment forever.
Yua giggles at me from across the table. She’s mixed the coffee so well that it’s all one shade of light tan. “Drink up. Something tells me you’re going to have a tough time finding this in America.”
My chest pangs with a beat of homesickness. But then it melts away. Knowing I won’t have this in DC only makes me love it more. That’s the beauty of things that end, right? I get to savor it.
“This coffee is only the beginning,” Yua says, cutting off a forkful of white sponge cake.
“You haven’t even experienced Japanese street food yet.
When you get a chance, you should tell Aiko to take you to Tsukiji fish market.
It’s one of the few touristy places in Tokyo that I actually like visiting. ”
The cakes and coffee are already making my stomach bulge, and yet the thought of fresh sushi and giant oysters leaves me starving again. All I can do is groan.
Yua continues. “Speaking of touristy places, there’s a park I like to go to when I feel like my creativity is blocked. I have some free time later this week if you and Aiko want to come on a walk with me. I find that taking pictures is a good way to reawaken inspiration.”
I swallow my coffee and relish the chocolatey aftertaste. Yua brings up some good points. Going on a walk tends to free up my mind. Besides, Whitney’s Polaroid is begging to be used, and a stroll through a park may be the perfect opportunity to take some photos for the album.
“Actually, you know what would really help you impress my mom?” Yua says, setting her cup of coffee down.
I freeze mid-sip. There’s a drop of coffee on my lip, but I don’t move to wipe it. “What?”
“If you do some research,” Yua adds, then reaches for the vanilla sponge cake and cuts up another slice.
“What kind of research?” I ask, but Yua’s already chomped down on the cake.
Yua opens her mouth, then closes it right away, as if realizing she took a bite at the worst time possible. Even though I’m eager to know what suggestion Yua has in mind, I can’t help but chuckle. She looks like a chipmunk while she chews with full cheeks.
“Sorry.” Yua waves her hand then swallows hard.
“But yeah—research as in you should check out our silk farm in Gunma Prefecture. There’s actually a bus tour that can take you all the way up there.
Even if sightseeing doesn’t spark your creativity, you’ll still learn so much more about sericulture. Mum will love you for it.”
Sericulture: the process of making silk.
It’s a topic I considered writing about when my school counselor told me I’d need to write an essay for my submission packet.
It’s one thing to be an artist, but it’s another to know where said art comes from.
I’ve got nine days to draw a collection.
As much as I feel like I might need all 216 hours to focus on designing, there’s still plenty of time to work in some educational sightseeing.
Besides, Yua hasn’t just given me the golden egg.
She’s given me the entire goose. Learn more about sericulture and impress my mentor all in one.
“Unless,” Yua says, breaking me from my thoughts, “you’d rather me give you some creativity exercises instead?”
I pop my knuckles, ready to get to work. “Why not both?”