Indigo Girl by Suzanne Kamata

Author:Suzanne Kamata [Kamata, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: GemmaMedia
Published: 2019-05-14T18:41:07+00:00

15

For the next few days, I help Otosan with the indigo. When we gather for dinner, my grandmother looks at me differently, as if she’s changed her mind about me. For the first time ever, she refills my empty glass with cold barley tea and gestures to my rice bowl.

“No, thank you,” I say, putting my hand over the top of it. “I’ve had enough.” Still, I’m moved that she’s thinking of me, trying to please me. She seems impressed by my hard work, which makes me wonder if Mom was a slacker when she was here in Japan. Maybe she avoided cutting indigo plants and washing dishes. For all I know, the animosity between my grandmother and Mom had nothing to do with race or nationality or my disability. I can imagine my mother excusing herself from chores to heed the higher calling of her art, and I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have gone over well with Obaasan.

Although I’m just getting the hang of farming, Otosan suggests that I go to school with Junpei for the last week of classes. It gives me a chance to see Sora and Taiga and invite them to the indigo stomping party that I’ve cooked up and my father has agreed to. On the last day of school, everyone gathers in the gymnasium again for the Closing Ceremony. Once again, I sit in a folding chair on the sidelines and Taiga is called upon to translate for me.

“The principal is telling everyone to be careful while riding their bicycles,” he whispers.

His arm brushing against mine raises goose bumps.

“And now the principal is reminding everyone to keep up with their studies.”

This time, I don’t have to go onstage or even say good-bye. Most of the students keep their eyes trained forward. At the end of the ceremony I remind Taiga of the party, prepared to tamp down my disappointment if he’s changed his mind.

“I’ll be there,” he says.

I feel a whoosh of joy.

The next time I call Mom, I ask to talk to Raoul.

“Sure, hold on,” she says, and calls his name.

He comes sprinting into view. “What’s up, buttercup?”

I roll my eyes.

“Okay, then. Aiko.”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“Another plant to water?” He claps a hand to his forehead in mock despair. Last year when we went to Paris, I’d left him in charge of the sprig of indigo that I was trying to grow. He did his best (he says), but it wilted in my absence.

“No. This is for something that you’re actually good at.”

“You want me to cook something?”

I note that he’s wearing an apron. I must have interrupted breakfast-making. Suddenly, I have a huge craving for his huevos rancheros. There’s nothing like tortillas and eggs with salsa in the morning.

“I need you to make me a playlist.” I explain about the leaf-crunching party that I have in mind.

“So . . . songs that have something to do with indigo or the color blue?”

“Yeah, that would be perfect. And maybe add that grape-harvesting song you played on your radio show a while back.

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