If I told my mother teenage girls stayed at my father's the other night, she would call off dinner. My father doesn't know I'm in on the secret, but he and I now scheme together, even before meeting again. While I walk with my family through the hotel lobby, the same one I sat in with Cynthia that time, the one with escalators to a balcony-like upper floor, my heart races. My mother doesn't know I think like my father, but he might see through me. Mr. Lombardi does.

We pass from the hotel lobby to the foyer with the restaurant. "Hello." Before we reach the restaurant entrance, my father greets us from behind. I turn, but as anyone who knows me will predict, I only meet his blue eyes for a second. Instead, I gaze at the shiny tips of his dark brown chukka shoes. I don't know what to do with my hands or what to say. "It's great to see you," he says.

My father is tall with a circular chin and the relaxed, patrician air of a politician. His suit jacket is made of fine, rich blue cloth and the ironed fold of his tan khakis are like strong pillars, but he wears his clothes rough and relaxed, like a comedian with an Ivy League education. I barely take him in before I look away completely. I don't note much except the baritone of his voice, and his readiness to laugh. I remember that so well. His laughter and smiles.

"It's great to see you too," Sophia says for me. She met him in January, at school, and feels like he's her best bud. She's so funny, while I'm so stiff. My father ignores that and hugs me. I don't hug him back, even as my heart melts. The next thing I know I'm standing beside my mother with her hand on my arm and our cheeks together. My father waited so long to visit, like I'm a despised half-Japanese daughter, a blight on his gene pool. Even if it's not like that, I have to protect my mother.

Mr. Lombardi shakes my father's hand. "It's nice to finally meet you." As an experiment, he switched to Italian, since my father's last name is Pirone.

"Sorry." My father shakes his head. He's not yet fifty, and his hair's still the dirty blond color I remember. Those girls with Cynthia who jumped into his bed might chase him even if he looked old, because he's famous and connected to The Gears. "I picked up zero Italian growing up," he says.

No one makes a move to enter the restaurant. My sister and Mr. Lombardi keep a conversation going with my father while I zone out. I can't look directly at him or he'll engage me, so I don't. I don't think about anything in particular, but whatever I'm doing I hardly listen until he laughs about something.

"Makiko met Anna Lord," he says. "Anna's father Alan and I palled around, do you remember?"

I make the briefest eye contact possible, but it's long enough to notice my father is hungry for more. "Yes," I say. Watch out, I think. He's an expert at making women feel happy and wanted. He flies all over the world. Afghanistan and Iraq must be harder to get to than Japan. A lot harder. What took him so long?

Suddenly, Sophia yanks my arm playfully. I don't know why, because I zoned out again. When I dodge her grasp, she grabs my father's arm. They're talking about a model, and Sophia's excited that my father knows her. Trying not to picture them, I wonder how well he knows her, if his womanizing is that successful, because that model's half his age and even more gorgeous than Joel Susugi's harem.

"Let's sit down," Mr. Lombardi says. "We have a reservation?"

"Yes," my father says. "My assistant made it."

My mother grips my arm just a little bit tighter. I'm obsessed with people who get to work for celebrities, and she knows it. On the outside, I'm as stiff as crinoline, but inside I'm gushing. Who is my father's assistant, and how'd she get the job? Maybe she works for Cluster Management.

When the hostess leads us to our table, Mr. Lombardi makes sure my father and I sit together. I hide behind the menu. Even though my father just moved to Tokyo, he has an assistant here. I don't want to work for him, but he's a Pulitzer Prize winning war photographer turned rock group photographer, and that's cool to a lot of people. When my mother orders her food and is partly distracted, I tap my father's hand. "You have an assistant?" I say.

His face lights up. "Kind of. Her name is Margot. I rent her." He leans in, eager to have me to himself. But the waitress comes around. He's very polite to her, and cooperative, but when he glances at me, his frustration shows in his eyes. He's crushed that our conversation was interrupted, or he's such a performer that he makes me think that, out of habit, because he always wants to have that effect on women. I pretend to dive back into the menu, pretend to contemplate what I'll order, when really I'm excited.

Margot, my father's assistant, probably works for Cluster Management. I know all about them. I could probably find a Margot on their website or a networking site.

When the waitress leaves, my mother talks about my father's upcoming photo exhibit at a nearby museum. She only brings it up to stop him from talking to me. She's intimidated that my father can open doors I want open. I'm going to have to pay special attention to her this week. She creates fears that don't exist, like I'll leave and forget her. Mr. Lombardi is a great husband and father and stepfather. She needs to live in the moment and stop worrying. When I leave, I'll leave. Let me live.

Maybe I'm like one of those women my father seduces. Men thrill me. Attention thrills me. Some men's attention. A lot of men's. Even that dumb Yakuza pops into my mind, at least his muscly arms do. Ah!

The main meal arrives, and I take delicate bites of fish over a long period of time. Usually, that's what my mother approves of. During this meal, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if the white veloute sauce got all over the front of my black dress. Anything that might displease my father would suit her. Anything that might turn him away.

My father pays attention to Mr. Lombardi's stories of his childhood. Sophia and I know them all, but my father's amazing, I have to say. He's on his best behavior. Mr. Lombardi is older than him, and my father defers and listens like an eager little boy. I know he's not always like that. When I was little, my egotistical father deferred to no one, except his friend Sylvester.

Years later, my mother told me Sylvester was a gangster. My father got his start as a photographer in Boston, and my mother is convinced he was in the right place at the right time for photographing crime because of tips from Sylvester. Sometimes, my father brought me to Sylvester's restaurant. Sylvester gave me little gifts and showed me off to his staff like I was his granddaughter. Last year, I went to Boston on exchange for a month. I wanted to peek into the restaurant but chickened out. If Sylvester is still alive and saw me, he'd recognize me for sure because he's like that, and I didn't want my father to know I was in town. I don't remember my real American grandfather. I remember Sylvester.

"Makiko," my father says. "You asked about my assistant earlier. Any particular reason?"

I smile, because he noticed and came back to it before dinner ends. I smile, because he really does see me, and I need that badly. "Yes, there's a reason," I say.

"I'm no longer in the mood for dessert." My mother hands back the dessert menu to the waitress. "Let's skip it."

I don't look at my mother. "I'll have the raspberry mousse," I say. Sophia immediately orders ice cream, and Mr. Lombardi asks for an espresso before handing his menu to my mother. "Does Margot work for Cluster Management?" I say.

For a moment, my father looks confused, but he pulls out his wallet and takes out a business card. "Yes." He gives me Margot's card.

Mr. Lombardi laughs. "There you go, Makiko. An in. But first go to college."

"You're interested in them?" my father says.

"She's always loved celebrities." Mr. Lombardi watches the waitress put the espresso on the table. "Especially ones I've never heard of."

Sophia rolls her eyes. "Like Johnny Depp and Brian Keating!"

Mr. Lombardi places his hand on his chest, pretending to be wounded. "I've heard of them. I meant... you were talking about who the other night, the Brazilian actor in New York?"

"Joel Susugi," I say.

My father's blue eyes sparkle. A thin, content smile appears on his face. It makes me think he might know Joel Susugi.

***

After dinner, Sophia cajoles the grown ups into more. My mother won't go to karaoke, but she relents to tea at my father's apartment, which is in a nearby building famous for its celebrity residents.

I don't show my excitement, except for walking with my father upfront. Sophia stays with my mother and Mr. Lombardi against her will. I hear them keeping her away from us.

Cynthia came here the other night. Someday I'll tell him I know her. When we are more comfortable. No, someday I'll bring Cynthia around, and we'll see if he even remembers her. Maybe he'll shrivel up in embarrassment. I don't care that he let random girls stay at his place. They wanted it, but he didn't touch them. I do think that means something. He isn't as bad as my mother thinks. He could have done anything to them. I'm not the only teenager obsessed by fame.

My girlfriends and I hang out in this area all the time. The sidewalk to his apartment is a short, downhill stroll. His building is visible from the hotel and is close to shops, bookstores, museums, and a movie theater. Of course, I imagine staying over someday. It's dark between streetlights, but people notice him. He's tall and confident. People recognize him too. He's Vintage Rob.

When we wait at the crosswalk, I check out the lobby of his building on the other side of the street. Security guards inside keep out the curious.

"We stay again with you," a Japanese girl shouts in stilted English. She runs up the sidewalk toward us with a friend. Both of them wear short skirts. Their perfume stinks the breeze ahead of them. Their make-up and hair is as loud and bold as their sparkly cleavage.

My father grabs my hand. "Let's cross. Gear fans are crazy."

But the light's red. "The light," I say, resisting.

One of the girls plows into my father. "Vintage Rob," she yells.

Before I do anything, before I even think, the other girl pushes me away from my father. She snarls at me and tells me in Japanese that I'm a dumb slut.

"These girls are crazy," my father says, trying to be low-key, but the girl clings to him. He tries to peel her off.

Mr. Lombardi comes to my side, and my mother and sister are right behind him. The girl who pushed me hugs her friend and my father. She kisses the side of my father's face. "Do me again," she says.

"Girls, stop," he says.

"They know you," my mother says. She takes my hand and pulls me toward the hotel. When I look back, Mr. Lombardi and Sophia hurry to keep up. My father tries to get the girls off without hurting or groping them. He's too busy to notice us leave. He topples over with them on top of him.

You and Makiko finally meet her father, Robert Pirone. What was your impression of him?

If you were Makiko, would you hold the fans' behavior against him?

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