Chapter Seven Ren #3
Mama settles on her bed. Mr. Nomura keeps folding paper flowers.
Emi ignores the cold hot dogs and undercooked rice.
I keep reading. A hot morning sandstorm hollers outside and the barrack rattles, but we are all here, together.
It’s a weird scene—me, Emi, Mama, and Mr. Nomura.
This is what our living room would’ve been like every night if Papa hadn’t left.
Four of us instead of three. I don’t know what to do with the thought, so I keep reading, glancing up every now and then. Everyone listens.
Hell, I think even the baby is listening.
I hate this place. But, bizarrely, this is the least alone I’ve felt in a long time.
An hour later, I head to work, the story vivid in my mind. I keep looking for the man. Don’t find him. Maybe he’s used his powers and gotten the hell out of dodge. I certainly would. Why would some sort of god or spirit want to be here, anyway? Makes sense that he poked around and then took off.
When I arrive, I get right to work. Kai isn’t there yet.
He’ll come after school. I want to ask him if Violet is at school and have even considered passing by myself to see if she’s there.
But if I say her name or see her face again, I’ll give her more space in my head. And it’s already consumed by her.
Back home, I unloaded oranges, strawberries, raspberries, and peaches driven in from the Orange County orchards.
Here, everything passes through my hands.
A lot of it is in questionable condition, like wilted vegetables and strange cuts of meat packed in slushy ice.
There are also vials for typhoid, diphtheria, and whooping cough immunizations, construction materials, sewing machines, and our rations, which include coffee, sugar, and chocolate bars, though I’m told those are rare because of wartime restrictions.
A guard oversees us, but he leaves to go smoke and doesn’t return.
Chirp, chirp.
Peeps come from a truck. I look inside and discover white chicks nestled in cardboard boxes full of straw. They bob about, covered in soft, fluffy down.
“We get two thousand white leghorn chicks a week,” James tells me. He’s appointed himself my unofficial boss. “The administration is having us set up coops with lawns and everything. At the very least, we’ll have fresh eggs.”
“Great,” I say, and pick up the first crate.
My shoulder aches, but at least the chicks aren’t as heavy as the furniture for the WRA offices.
I spy something blurry on James’s arm and squint.
He notices me noticing and gives a wolfish grin.
It’s a tattoo, I realize. Its borders are uneven, the ink driven deep under the skin.
The penmanship is poor, and the tattoo is ridged in red, clearly irritated. I fight the urge to smirk.
“You like this? I made it here with ink from a pen and a razor blade,” James says proudly.
“It means freedom. They think we’re weak and submissive, when samurai blood runs through our veins.
Or”—he looks me over in a way that suggests he assumes I have more rice paddy farmer lineage than samurai—“at least through mine.”
“Great,” I say again, only this time it’s a mutter.
I carefully carry the crate over to the wall as Kai enters the warehouse.
The guys greet him, and I do, too. The chicks make me think about Emi and the baby.
Dr. Suzuki says it’s a good sign that she hasn’t had a fever for the past twenty-four hours.
But I still can’t relax. I need to figure out a way to get Emi to the hospital when she gives birth.
I set down the chicks I’m carrying and stop at the window, glancing out. From it, you can see the WRA offices and Main Street.
I freeze.
It’s Violet. She’s walking along the firebreak, a pencil tucked behind her ear and a bag so large in her hands it can only be laundry. My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster. I feel sweaty and gross, and she looks as pretty as a newly sprung flower.
Then someone else appears. That officer who bothered Violet before. What does he want with her? James and Kai, noticing me linger, come and peer past my shoulders.
“That mucky-muck is Boser,” James says. “Everyone says he wanted a prestigious government job because his daddy is high up the chain, but he got stuck here. Must be a grade A screwup.”
I believe it. The guy is a loser. I watch as Boser speaks to Violet, who drops the bag of laundry.
He picks it up, says something. She holds out her hands for the bag.
He motions for her to follow him toward the back of the warehouse.
My heart races, some crazy mix of rage and hate. She follows him.
James lets out a disgusted growl.
“Traitor girls are the worst of all,” he declares.
“They spread their legs for the officers to get steak dinners in Bishop, whispering our plans into their ears—” Whatever he’s going to say is cut off when I give him a straight-armed shove with my left hand.
He should be happy it isn’t a right hook with what he’s accusing Violet of, and it would’ve been if I didn’t have to get to her as fast as possible.
I push past him and stride across the warehouse.
The sweetly innocent chirping of the chicks follows me, a strange contrast to the fury building deep inside me.
I burst out the back door and head straight for Boser and Violet.