Chapter 10 She Said Yes!
She Said Yes!
The bus tour to Gunma was exactly what I needed.
Now that I’m back home with the Nakamuras, I’ve had enough time to think about the topic for my essay.
It clicked into place after I marinated on what Yua said about the waste created at her family’s mill.
Now that I’ve landed on an idea, all the creative pieces that were missing have finally fallen into place.
I hardly leave my room for the rest of the week. Each day, I churn out another design. Sometimes even two. Then I send the images to Yua and wait for her input. For the most part, she has nothing but praise. But she also doesn’t shy away from giving me genuine criticism.
If there’s something she doesn’t like, not only does she tell me that, but she explains why.
Either the design will be too difficult to make in such a short amount of time, or the details of the outline are muddled and I need to clarify the patterns.
But knowing that she’ll tell me when she doesn’t like something makes her praise that much more real.
She’s not saying she likes something simply because she’s kind.
Yua starts sending me designs of her tattoos, too. And boy, does she have range. One minute, she’s designing a cute ankle tattoo with Studio Ghibli characters. The next, she’s sending me images of onryō and yūrei.
I know next to nothing about tattoos. But when she asks for feedback on a floral shoulder one, I try to do for her what she’s done for me. It’s one thing to draw something out on a 2D surface, but it’s another to tattoo a very 3D body.
Lilyn: I think the design is great, but it might look a little too busy once you put it on your canvas.
Maybe try higher-contrasting colors to break it up?
Now that Yua and I are texting daily, I’ve started streaming Ink Master from my phone while I sketch.
It plays in the background while I brush my teeth.
It sits in front of me while I eat my breakfast. I even fall asleep to the buzz of needles sometimes.
Yua’s world of art is so fascinating that I’m now considering getting a tattoo while I’m here.
Ma would kill me. The American in her is all about defiance, but she’s still traditional Taiwanese at heart.
Though it would be kind of cool to take home a permanent souvenir.
Yua: That’s brilliant! More pops of yellow!
I’m in the middle of watching season three of Ink Master on my futon when Yua changes the subject.
Yua: So how are you feeling about tomorrow?
It’s Sunday night, which means I’ll have to show Mrs. Matsumoto my portfolio tomorrow.
I’ve decided to make an entire collection of yukata featuring embroidered phoenixes on them.
And the renewable part comes from the wasted silk from Matsumoto Silk Mill.
I’ll cut the material into shapes and sew them together like stained glass.
It’ll be a lot of work to cut and hand-stitch each piece onto black silk.
But in the end, I envision something regal, majestic, and above all else, it’ll be a renewable way to pay homage to sericulture.
Even though I have more than enough designs for her to look at, I still can’t stifle that monster of worry screaming at me from the darkest corners of my mind.
What if it’s still not good enough? What if Mrs. Matsumoto sees Yua’s influence in my art and thinks I’m plagiarizing?
Or worse, what if she notices that Yua’s been helping me too much?
Lilyn: I’m still a little anxious, but I’m also excited to get this part over with and to start sewing
Yua: I know Mum is going to love your designs. You have nothing to worry about
In fact, after you get her approval, I think we should go out and celebrate!
I nibble on my lip as I stare at Yua’s last text. That sounds like a fun idea. We could explore Tokyo’s nightlife and bring Aiko along. Except something flutters inside my ribs.
Maybe I don’t want to bring Aiko along. Maybe I want it to be just Yua and me. Maybe I’ve been thinking about her for so long that I’m starting to feel things I shouldn’t about my mentor’s daughter.
Snap out of it, Lilyn. I need to keep things professional.
Besides, it’s not like Yua and I could ever be anything more than platonic friends.
Because at the end of the summer, I’m going back home to DC.
Yes, there’s something about Yua that occupies every corner of my mind.
But even I have the foresight to know this relationship isn’t built to last. It’ll be a fling as short-lived as one of Ma’s relationships, and that’s the last thing I need right now.
It’s been a solid five minutes, and I don’t know how to respond to Yua’s text. But when I glance at the time, I realize I should be asleep by now. Yua’s probably thinking the same thing. I’m sure she knows I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, so I hope she can forgive me for not responding.
As I lie on my side and tuck Boba under my arm, I try to tell myself that this is for the best. Seeing her name on my screen has been nice.
Comforting. But now that I’ll be working one-on-one with Mrs. Matsumoto, I can’t keep pretending like what I’m doing isn’t putting me in some sticky situations.
My head knows I need to stop this even though it feels like my heart doesn’t want to.
Before handing my portfolio to Mrs. Matsumoto, I explain the vision behind it.
Her eyes seem to light up when I tell her about the trip out to Matsumoto Silk Mill and my mission for renewability.
She seems to especially like the idea of me incorporating the scraps of leftover silk from her farm into my designs.
But that could just be me projecting my wants into her steely gaze.
I present my portfolio with both hands per Aiko’s advice from earlier this morning.
Mrs. Matsumoto’s lips are pursed as she flips through the pages.
I have no choice but to sit on the other side of her office desk and wait for the verdict.
Considering how put-together she is, I expected her office to be as immaculate as a hospital room.
But instead, it looks more like Santa’s workshop.
Packages are piled on her desk and in each corner of the room.
Rolls of fabric lean against the wooden walls.
Even a pyramid of wrapped garments is stacked on a shelf behind her.
My eyes keep sliding to them as if I can figure out what’s inside the packaging.
Mrs. Matsumoto does one quick skim through the images before circling back to my first sketch.
Though Aiko fried me up a tasty breakfast, my stomach squirms like I’ve eaten a bowl of worms. I rub my palms against my thigh-high stockings and hope I slathered on enough deodorant before coming here.
It’s been a solid minute, and Mrs. Matsumoto still hasn’t said a word.
Can she tell I threw this nine-page portfolio together in less than a week?
Sure, the lines could be cleaner, and the colors could be sharper.
There’s always room for adjustments in the creative process, and surely she understands that this is merely an outline of my ideas, not the final designs.
I’m proud of the direction I’ve ventured into and the accompanying essay I want to write to secure my spot at CIF.
Mrs. Matsumoto finally turns the page. The paper crinkles, offering a melody to the harmony hummed by the AC unit.
I bounce my heel and lick my lips. Should I say something about this second drawing?
This yukata has a long train. The phoenix is curled up between the model’s shoulder blades.
The bird’s tail falls down and takes up the length of the back side.
Obviously, something this grand will be tedious to make, especially after I explained my plans to utilize the unused silk from the mill.
But if someone knows how to execute these designs in one summer, it’s Mrs. Matsumoto.
I clear my throat and lean forward. “I-I know these sketches probably aren’t what you were…” No—interrupting your elders is rude. I should stop while I’m ahead.
Mrs. Matsumoto hums. Was that a response to me? Or is she thinking to herself? Oh God. What if she hates this whole idea?
Mrs. Matsumoto flips the page again, revealing the next design.
Unlike the one prior, this black yukata has a dozen smaller phoenixes scattered across the silhouette.
Maybe I should’ve stuck to three outlines and done more of a quality-versus-quantity thing.
After all, I only need three designs for my application.
But considering that I’ve sketched nine and a half designs over this past week, I figured it would be better to let a master decide which ones I should work on.
But so far, she’s said nothing. She’s still skimming my art with those tight lips. That rigid spine. Those cold, hard eyes—which are actually very hauntingly beautiful when not directed at my artwork.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when she finally settles on my last outline. It’s something that I sketched out but haven’t colored in. “What’s this?”
She doesn’t flip the paper around for me to see, but I know what she’s asking about.
Before we left the silk mill, I’d taken pictures of the various patterns and colors of silk left behind at the looming class.
It was such a visual cacophony that I had to incorporate them.
So, for my last design, I sketched something that had a little bit of everything.
Big, girly bows are tied in my model’s teased hair.
Zebra print shorts pair with a knitted crop top.
Frilly lace gauntlets are accessorized with large fruit-shaped buttons.
It’s the epitome of being not-Lilyn while simultaneously encapsulating the side of me that Tokyo is starting to bring out.