Chapter 10 She Said Yes! #2
“I was playing around with a concept that’s not so yukata?
” Why am I answering her question with a question?
Get it together, Lilyn. “You know, since I’m in Tokyo for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I—um—want to make the most of my summer here, so…
Maybe if there’s a different design that I can design, then I can design it differently. ”
Nailed it.
“So, you went with Harajuku?” Mrs. Matsumoto isn’t smiling. She’s not even blinking.
The corners of my lips twitch. All right. I admit, Harajuku may not be the most traditional. But it was a great way to vomit all my ideas into one sketch. Besides, Ma’s style is a mix of punk and Harajuku. I had to pay homage to my roots somehow.
“I mean, I’m open to sticking with my usual black color schemes and muted tones,” I say, sinking back in my seat.
“But I wanted to leave that sketch as an outline to see what your thoughts are. Should I color it in? I can always pivot and fill it in with the colors I have in the other designs. Or I can stick to something more familiar and—”
Mrs. Matsumoto shakes her head. It’s the slightest movement. Not even her hair sways. But it’s enough to shut me up, like infomercial-quality duct tape.
“This isn’t your typical Japanese version of Harajuku, though. I appreciate your very…Western take on it.” Mrs. Matsumoto flips the sketch around, as if I need to be reminded of my own design. “Why did you add this to your portfolio?”
My gaze dips down to the smudged charcoal.
As I’m staring at my own drawing with the eyes of a well-rested artist, I realize that Mrs. Matsumoto isn’t asking me about the sketch at all.
She’s asking about the tattoo climbing up the model’s thigh.
An image inspired by one of the outlines Yua sent me.
“Stockings.” I blurt the word out before I can think twice about the fact that I’m kind of, sort of, lying to my mentor.
Okay, not kind of sort of. I am lying. But what else am I supposed to do?
Tell her that I’ve been texting her daughter—the same daughter who made me promise not to reveal her apprenticeship as a tattoo artist?
Mrs. Matsumoto may scare the crap out of me in the same way that the depths of the ocean floor do, but the idea of coming between Yua and her mom goes beyond fear.
“Or boots,” I ramble on. Mrs. Matsumoto knows how to make me blurt by stretching the silence.
One of these days, I’ll figure out how to remain cool as a cucumber.
Today is not that day. “Again, it’s a half-thought-out design, and I always have room to pivot.
We don’t even have to consider it if you don’t think it’ll strengthen my skills while I’m here.
I do think grasping color theory and utilizing modern Japanese sewing techniques would ultimately make my application stand out.
But I want to challenge myself while you are my mentor and also recreate my amah’s uchikake so—”
Mrs. Matsumoto holds up her hand, and I shut up. Jesus. How does she keep doing this? Her tiniest movements have the same effect as a clap of thunder. One day, I’ll be able to silence an entire room with one gesture, too.
The office is dead quiet—even more so now that the AC unit has stopped spitting out cool air. Holy crap—it’s so deathly silent, I can hear my nose whistle when I exhale. Do I really breathe this heavy?
“I like it.” Mrs. Matsumoto’s voice is no louder than the blood pulsing in my ears and yet the weight of it makes me want to collapse in my chair.
She what? “I find it ambitious that you want to expand your designs outside of your usual goth-rock aesthetic. However, those familiar Lilyn-esque elements still bleed through. Also, incorporating otherwise wasted silk further pushes a depth of culture and heritage into your application that will resonate with the CIF admissions committee. Furthermore…this collection is familiar to me. Even if I can’t explain why. ”
A lump forms in my throat. Mrs. Matsumoto flips through the pages again.
Her attention is fixated on the fourth design—my favorite.
One side of the yukata is black and lacy.
The other side is pastel. There are phoenixes on either side, but their backs are turned like they are unaware of each other.
It’s the story of who I was before meeting Yua.
I was there. She was here. Opposites being pulled together.
“Your daughter really helped inspire this work.”
Mrs. Matsumoto’s gaze sharpens when she looks up at me. “Excuse me?”
An invisible mortician has drained all my blood and replaced it with formaldehyde. Oh no. Why can’t I just sit here and be antsy? Why do I have to make things more difficult for myself? It’s this drowning silence that forces things from me like truth serum.
“You met my daughter ten days ago and she inspired this?” Mrs. Matsumoto’s voice is calm. But not calm like a tropical beach. Calm like the eye of a hurricane. “Are you saying these designs weren’t made before you came to Tokyo?”
I’m sweating, but chills prick my skin. “Uh, well. Uh…I mean, when it comes to art, aren’t we always finding inspiration to refine our craft?”
It’s such a bogus answer that I can taste it leaving my tongue. I would have been better off saying nothing at all. Lilyn, quit while you’re ahead.
To my surprise, Mrs. Matsumoto chuckles. Well, the corner of one of her lips quirks and she makes a soft snorting sound. So that’s basically her version of a laugh, right?
“That is true.” She’s agreeing with me. Oh my God.
Am I in the clear? “Yua’s been refining her art lately, too.
She’s not here often these days. It seems like her various jobs pull her away from helping me around the alterations shop.
But when she is home, she’s locked away in her room designing things, sketching things…
She seems more inspired these days. Happier. ”
There’s a distant look in Mrs. Matsumoto’s eyes. Is she talking to me? Or is she saying this to herself?
“What designs has Yua been working on lately?” I ask. I’m nosy, and this is the first I’ve heard about her mood being happier. It’s strange, because I can’t exactly picture her unhappy.
Mrs. Matsumoto sucks in a deep breath like she’s not going to respond.
I mean, I’m here to start my first session with her, not gather information about Yua.
Especially since I know that our friendship can’t keep growing.
Not when I know I’m starting to catch feelings, and I’m not wasting my first relationship on someone I’ll inevitably have to say goodbye to. But Mrs. Matsumoto answers me anyway.
“Yua says she’s been commissioned by a school to paint a mural for them.
It’s strange, though.” Mrs. Matsumoto’s voice wanders.
“When I glimpsed the designs on her workbench, none of the pieces looked large enough for a mural. If I had to describe what they looked like, I’d say they resembled tattoos.
It’s as if she’s been busy designing another piece to ink onto her skin.
You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Lilyn? ”
I blink. My throat is dry, but my palms are wet. Even my feet are stinking up my stockings. And once more, the silence is lingering. Lingering. Lingering. A clock drums out the seconds like a nagging question. What do you know about Yua’s tattoos, Lilyn?
A ball rises in the back of my throat. Here it comes.
I can’t stand the silence. I can’t tolerate the way Mrs. Matsumoto stares at me with those piercing eyes—like she’s a panther in a tree and I’m her prey.
She’s waiting for me to drop my guard. To spill.
To reveal Yua’s secrets, even though they aren’t mine to tell.
It’s like she knows I know, and she’s testing me.
I vomit my response. “Oh, the mural? Yeah! Aiko was with me when Yua showed us that painting. I haven’t seen the finished work, but I know it’s going to be amazing. Talent runs in the family.”
Did I just excellently swerve the question? I wring my hands in my lap, but with the mound of packages on Mrs. Matsumoto’s desk, I doubt she can see me hide my anxious tic. For good measure, I give Mrs. Matsumoto a big smile.
My mentor offers no response. Just when I think she’s going to ask me again, Mrs. Matsumoto rises from her seat and glides to the office door.
She opens it for me, revealing the workshop set up in the back of Matsumoto Alturations.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to ask her about it then.
Perhaps she can show us both when she’s ready.
But for now, we should begin your lesson. ”
I rub my palms down my thighs. Thank goodness.
That was close. If I’d accidentally revealed that Yua has an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor out in Shibuya, Yua would never trust me again.
Besides, she could still tell her mom that I needed help on this portfolio.
That I’ve already lied to my mentor’s face. Twice.
As I rise onto my wobbling legs, I consider something else: If I keep talking to Yua, she’s going to tell me more about herself. Things that she won’t tell her mom. Things that I’m going to have to keep secret from my mentor. And then what happens when they all inevitably intertwine?
“Are you coming?” Mrs. Matsumoto asks.
I snap back into the moment. I’ve been staring at my portfolio on her desk this entire time, so I scoop it up. “Yes. I—I’ll bring this with us. Just in case.”
Mrs. Matsumoto disappears out the door. I follow behind with the sketches in my hand.
When I look back down at the incomplete drawing, I realize how smudged the design is.
It’s practically a blur that requires imagination to fill in the gaps.
Everything except the tattoo on the model’s leg.
If Mrs. Matsumoto has been in Yua’s room, then she probably knows it’s not a coincidence that I also drew the exact same dragon in my design.