Page 69 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“Yes. What is it?”

“You.”

At that, the fervor flares in his eyes, a lit match head exposed to gasoline.

“You’ve had me for a long time, slugger.”

Emotions tumble over me. I’m taken to the shore again, but this time instead of being a wave, I’m simply me. I’m in the ocean with my white shells, and the ancient being who I always think is displeased has surfaced. He’s as I always imagine him—monolithic, made from deep sea rock and petrified coral, streaming saltwater tears—but this time he isn’t forbidding. This time he’s given me more than I could ask for, and he wonders why I’ve always feared him.

“Will you tell me everything?” I ask softly. I draw my fingers along Ren’s brow and down his cheek, outlining him with touch alone. “Everything about you?”

At that his eyes lower and when they lift again there’s no wariness, simply a tender vulnerability. I think it’s an expression only I’ve ever witnessed.

“I will,” he chokes out. “If you want.”

“And will you let me do one other thing?” Suddenly, I’m shy. “Will you let me draw you?”

“Why would you want to draw me?”

“Because you have the only face I’ve ever wanted to sketch.” I lean over and kiss him. “Because you’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.” I kiss him again. “Because I don’t ever want to forget this moment.” I kiss him once more. “And because you also happen to be one of the most handsome boys to exist.”

He takes a shuddering, yearning breath. Then he nods. I pluck my pencil from my sock and pick up one of the sketches I did for the council. This one won’t ever make it into the newspaper.

It’ll be for me.

At first, he sits up so I can see him clearly. Then, as I draw, his arm wraps around my shoulders and his fingers stroke my neck. I tsk at him because it’s hard to draw him when he’s so close, and he reluctantly pulls away. His hand, though, remains on my ankle. I’ve never sketched anyone while they touch me, but I love it.

As we sit in the truck bed close to the lamp with its colorful mosaic of glass, it seems like we aren’t just in a house. It’s our home.

Everything is all right, and I fear nothing.

Mama is waiting for me when I return. She sits at our table with some stew in a thermos and a hunk of bread. She’s brought it for me from the mess hall, I realize. Our barrack is cold because she hasn’t lit the stove. When I enter, she motions for me to sit and, once I do, says, “I know you were with him.” She sounds more tired than angry. I don’t deny it. There’s no point. “Violet, don’t you understand? One day there will be time for love, but not now.”

My heart pounds. Cold settles in my lips, making them numb so that I don’t feel the words they say.

“What’s so wrong with Ren, Mama?” I ask. “If he was from a well-respected family, you’d be thrilled. You know his mother drinks and Emi was pregnant out of wedlock and it’s all you see.”

“You think it’s all I see?” Mama doesn’t back down. “It isn’t what I see. It’s what I know. Life is hard. It is harder if you’re with someone who doesn’t know how to love. Even more, it is harder if you’re with someone who doesn’t know how to fight. During marriage, you will do both. You will love and you will fight. You learn how to do these things from your family. Who taught that boy to love? His father who left them? Who taught that boy to fight? His mother who drinks when she’s angry? No, Violet. This is not for you.” She takes a breath, and this time adds spaces between her decree: “You. Are. Not. To. See. Him. Anymore.”

Cold flees me, replaced with the heat of anger. Mama says she knows things, but she doesn’t know Ren. She doesn’t know that he defies everything I know about people, about love, about life.

I straighten up and face her—and she’s doing the same. We’re preparing to battle, to lock against each other like old foes. Her eyes are steely, and her mouth is set.

But then I notice how weary she looks.

I take a quick, harsh breath of the icy air. It stings my lungs and steals the heat of my anger. I know she’s trying to protect me. In fact, I know there’s wisdom to what she’s saying, even if I don’t agree. Just as she tries to protect me, I’ll do the same for her.

“Don’t worry, Mama. I don’t have any plans to run off and get married…After all, I wouldn’t get very far before running into the fence.” She doesn’t smile but she does at least nod. Her shoulders sag a little in relief. I get up and light the stove with oil from the can for warmth and sit across from her. “Though if you’ll recall, you were younger than me when you met Otōsan.”

“Hai.” The sliver grows into a real smile. “I was sixteen.”

“And you saw him at the library.”

“The East Los Angeles Library. I kept going because it was new and smelled so good. He was browsing books on philosophy. I told him he didn’t need them. I told him he needed books on engineering.”

“Because you thought he was handsome and wanted to make sure he had a good job.” I know the story nearly as well as she does.

“Yes. I had plans.” Mama’s eyes sparkle and I can imagine her as a girl my age, noticing an attractive boy and wanting to whip him into a promising marriage prospect. “Only, he had plans, too, and they weren’t for engineering.”