A few days after New Year's, more stores and shops reopen. That's when I head to Roppongi to hang out with Cynthia. We meet in the same area as last time. I haven't seen him, but my father's still in Japan, and he's staying at a nearby luxury hotel. If my mother thinks of him while dropping me off, she doesn't let on, and neither do I.

Of course I think about him, knowing he's somewhere close. I'm like him in some ways. He secretly met women, and I secretly meet boys. My mother doesn't forbid it exactly, but telling her would just cause problems.

I get out of the car. As soon as my mother turns the corner at the bottom of the hill, I catch myself on the lookout for my father. He probably won't recognize me, so I don't worry about him spotting me first. My mother claims that women interest him for only one reason. She doesn't say it like that, but I got the idea years ago. She means I don't interest him.

According to her, my father came to Japan to attend a Buddhist ceremony for a Japanese journalist killed the day he survived. When he leaves in a few days, I'll disappear from his mind, but he never disappears from ours. My mother left him years ago and is remarried, but he still makes her so angry. That means something, even though she obviously loves Mr. Lombardi. I don't think she still loves my father... but something keeps her anger burning so long.

A pedestrian bridge spans the road where my mother dropped me off. Beyond it, a playground is tucked away among the buildings. To get there, I take an escalator and a roundabout way I know, on the lookout for my father the whole time. A morbid feeling swells up inside me that one of the boys will be there first, or all of them. Before Cynthia. It freaks me out and thrills me too. When I get there, Cynthia's armwrestling a boy on a circular bench. She doesn't break her concentration to greet me. Two boys milling around nearby notice though. They drift over like pleasure boats.

"Hi." He keeps his hands in his coat pockets. His perfect hair does not move. His soft features and K-Pop style will conquer the world, just like they conquer my poor heart. "You're Makiko, right?" He smiles.

The other boy, a white boy, massages one of his biceps like he lost to Cynthia before I arrived. He looks me up and down with a casual, curious lechery. I don't mind, because I notice him too, both of them: lean bodies in long coats, square jaws, and tight jeans. I want to shout, Kiss me, you fools!

Cynthia wins and stands up. "Happy New Year."

The third boy shakes out his arm and looks at Cynthia admiringly, then at me. My guess is he's Chinese, but his chiseled Hollywood cheeks and forehead could be Japanese or Korean too. He pushes past his two friends and shakes my hand. "Any friend of Cynthia's is a friend of mine." If he lifted me off the ground, I wouldn't protest. I rock back and forth from my toes to the balls of my feet, but I don't launch myself into his arms, even though I really want to.

It's cold in the park, and there are no little kids or parents around. Besides the boys, my favorite thing is a long slide made of tiny metal wheels. I crash into them, and they crash into me. They make trains with me crushed in the middle. Other slides are large, brightly-colored, plastic tubes. We go down in pairs and end up face-to-face, eye-to-eye, hip-to-hip - I'm in heaven. Those seconds to the bottom of the slide dig deep grooves into my mind and heart. They chase away my mother and the demon.

After playing awhile, we sit on earthwork steps that go down to a narrow service road. The white boy is from Australia. He throws the occasional wood chip from between the steps and listens more than the others, but I listen the most. The two Asian boys with dreamy good looks like to debate. Cynthia throws out opinions too. They talk about things I rarely or never do, like physics and the universe. They don't talk about runaways or demons, and I wonder if they know Cynthia is bi. They must.

"What about you, Makiko?" the Korean boy says. He sits on steps below mine and is able to lean over and rest his chin on my knee. I want to stick my hand into his black hair, but it's sticky with gel, and he might get annoyed.

I want to be smart, but I'm new to this kind of serious conversation and to them. "Me?" I'm happy just listening, but I suddenly blurt out. "I like celebrities."

They laugh, not unkindly, but unabashedly, outright, with loud voices, reminding me they have a shared, tight-knit past with running jokes and gags I don't know. They may decide I'm silly, or that I was joking, both of which could be okay. Either way, I don't follow up or add that I want to work for a celebrity. I play it safe. As they laugh, no one side-eyes someone else. Eventually, I feel good about getting a laugh and enjoy myself, without worrying. That's probably because of Cynthia. She really does like having me around, I think.

After the movie, the boys leave together. None ask for my number, but maybe they can't in front of each other. Nothing much happened, but I'll probably remember this time at the park and the small talk and the tiny occurrences forever. If I never hear from Cynthia or the three boys again, I will remember today because of the fun and the touching. But I'm not in love, I don't think. Not even close. I'm on a high though and don't pay attention to where Cynthia leads me, except that it's the mall.

"Did you like any of them?" she says.

They're her friends, and I don't want to offend her. "They're cute and smart, but I don't know."

"When I'm around, they're easy to talk to, but beware. They're introverts." She plops onto a smooth black couch and pulls me down too. "They're hopeless like me. Maybe you noticed."

I fold one leg on the couch, so we're facing each other. "What do you mean hopeless?"

"We think too much."

"You're not hopeless, Cynthia."

"I am." She stretches her arms over her head in triumph.

That's when our surroundings catch my eye. There are no storefronts like the inside of the mall. A concierge quietly types on a computer at a front desk. Behind us, escalators reach an upper balcony with a view. We sit in a large lobby with a revolving door and a doorman. It's not the mall. When I was in boy bliss, we must have used an inner door and entered the hotel.

I look around in case Robert Pirone, my father, is actually nearby and can overhear us. "This is the hotel," I say.

"Yeah, the couches are comfortable."

I check who is on the escalator, but no one is near us, and no one looks down from the balcony. I whisper. "My father is staying here."

"Your Dad?"

"No, the other one. My father."

Cynthia's eyebrows shoot up. "He's visiting you? You saw him?" She pushes her back against the couch like she needs space and time to think. She frowns.

I cover my lips with a finger. "No, I haven't seen him. Speak really quietly please."

Cynthia slides her arm along the top of the couch. Her attention moves languidly around the lobby like mine. "He's a celebrity."

"Kind of, but not a super famous one. He's a photographer, not an actor or singer."

"If we see him, you should make a scene. That would be fun."

"You're joking."

"Am I?" She bites her lips in concentration. Then she rotates her finger in a little circle. "There's more going on around here than you think. Some of the girls I talk to know girls who come here and do things, sometimes with celebrities." A grimace of disgust distorts her whole face. Real malice pours out of her. She shakes her head, and her dirty blond hair shivers. "I hate celebrities, to be honest. They're creeps on power trips."

I don't like that, and not all celebrities are users, but I understand her feelings a little. My father isn't perfect. I know that.

Her legs are folded on the couch too, and I touch one. "It's late, I have to go."

"I hope you're not mad at me," she says.

"No. For all I know, my father does that. I hope you're not mad at me." I swat at her leg and stand, like the ceiling will fall in a moment and we'll die.

***

When I get home and lock the door behind me, my mother calls before my sneakers are off. She appears in the front hallway with her hand covering the phone. "Your father's been calling all damn day. Tell him how you feel." She thrusts the phone at me.

I take it. The entire way home, I thought about Cynthia and the runaways and the wealthy, old scumbags who take advantage of them. It's hard not to wonder if those cute, funny boys I met will grow old and act like that too. "Hello," I say.

"Makiko? I love you and want to see you."

Wow, it's really him. But we have not spoken since I was nine. "I don't want to see you," I say. "Please leave us alone."

Did anything in this chapter surprise you, good or bad?

If Makiko ends up with one of the boys, which one do you think it'll be?

Thank you for reading. If you voted, thank you for that too!