I’m My Own High School Rival: Nakamura’s Arc: Heritage

  We sat at the kitchen table; Dad was across from me, resting his left hand on the table, strumming a rapid, inconsistent rhythm before the battalion of vegetables and a cutting board waiting for their execution, too. I swallowed the bitter taste of salt, blended with shame. My dad prepared a cold cup of grief to accompany this sour concoction.

  I rested my hands on my knees, waiting for the wrinkles in his face to change, but the air in the room grew warm with the heat of the broiling stove.

  My father, Kito, sat across from me, slightly elevated atop his new moving chair, emitting low growls from enduring hours of pressure.

  The kitchen window would have provided substantial lighting, but my father closed the shutters and dimmed the light, creating an eerie glow behind him from the belly of the stove, like a yoki, rising from the blazing depths of the earth.

  A wrinkle in his nose, a twitch beneath his eye, and a solemn sigh; he was ready to talk.

  “Tiffany, you’ve rarely lied to me in the past,” he said warmly. “However, Antwon came to us under pretenses. And when you tried to clear up everything, he kept pushing the lie,” Dad said, reaching for the cooking knife on the table, stroking the blade’s handle. The sound of his fingernails scraping across the black, wooden handle, the scraping sound vanishing each time his nails passed by a rivet, sending shivers down my spine.

  I took a deep breath—the beat made it unbearable, but he sat across from me, unfazed by the brutal heat of the roaring stove or sizzling pans.

  “Yes. In the past, Antwon has told a confirmed lie, but we aren’t lying now, Dad.”

  I brought my hands up to my chest, moving them in a rolling motion, evoking something from within me to assist in convincing him.

  The sound of the knife dragging against the wooden table rattled my teeth as he lifted the knife, lifting it so that the tip threatened to pierce the table.

  His eyes narrowed, chair wailed, and the stir-fried noodles hissed, causing my hands to drop to my sides.

  “Tiffany!” he roared, “How do you know he isn’t lying right now, taking advantage of us for what little we have. And now your reputation is at stake?!” He dug the knife into the table. I bit my lip.

  No one saw us, so how is my reputation jeopardized?

  “If anyone’s reputation is at stake, it’s Antwon, Dad. Besides, a maiden’s virtue is an archaic concept.”

  He lifted the knife, stabbing down, hard, grabbing his first victim: an innocent carrot. Faint moans emanated from beneath my father as he lined the carrot up on the chopping block.

  “Dad, maybe you should,” chop, the knife sliced through the carrot, “s-should let An—” the knife scraped against the wooden board, sliding slowly from the mutilated carrot. “Antwon could,” chop, scrape, and I was caught in my father’s cold glare.

  “M-Mr. Nakamura… the stir-fry ne..nee—”

  My father frowned, holding his nose to the air, taking in the stove’s heat.

  “Antwon, chairs don’t talk,” chop, chop, chop, chop, “they carry weight. Nakamura, turn down the stove to medium so the noodles don’t burn, and add this to it. Don’t forget to stir, hun.”

  Dad pushed the cutting board toward me, and I winced.

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  His method of vetting was also archaic, sitting on someone whom you suspect of deflowering your daughter, forcing them to submit under familial pressure when it’s common for girls to have slept with four or five boys before marriage.

  I reached over, lifting the orange aftermath of my father’s precise cuts, perfectly even carrot slices. I walked past him and saw Antwon crouched on all fours beneath my father, directly beside the table, blocking my path to the stove.

  The pan hissed its noisy irritation.

  “Tiff, the stove.”

  Sweat ran down Antwon’s face in flowing streams, departing his chin in small droplets, pooling beneath him.

  I shook my head and continued to the stove, the source of the blazing inferno, to offer the stir-fry the sacrificial carrot carcass; it hissed in approval, sizzling the fallen carrots until they were submerged in stir-fry juices.

  “You may not see your virtue as something you must protect, but I understand the importance of purity for both members.”

  Antwon grunted.

  “Chair,” my father said, “your left leg seems to be bent. I think I may fall.” I squeezed the spatula’s handle as Antwon groaned out his suffering, but I found the strength to stir the stir-fry while Antwon suffered under my father.

  The juices in the pan popped, landing on my naked arm as scorching liquid blazed on my skin, fizzling away to normalcy.

  “Dad,” I said, swallowing bitterness, “I understand your concern, and I will consider your words, protecting my virtue, even though that hasn’t been a concern since the Azuchi-Momoyama Period.”

  I heard the click of my father’s tongue while I stirred.

  “I don’t need your sarcasm,” slice, chip, chop, scrape, “Tiffany! Now, turn the stove off and check on the Doria in the oven.”

  I stirred the noodles, adding in the extra vegetables Dad handed me, mixing joy, sadness, and empathy.

  “Please get off of Antwon, Dad. Don’t you think that he has suffered enough?” The pan hissed.

  “No—”

  The front door opened. A noise escaped Antwon, unshaped and unexpected.

  “Kito, I’m home from work,” Mom said. Tunk, the sound of shoes being kicked into the ganken.

  The temperature dropped, and I rotated my body in anticipation of my Mom’s arrival. However, my sudden motion caught Dad’s vicious side eye, warning me to stay silent. My bottom lip quivered as I turned the stove off and opened the oven, checking on the doria.

  The steady tapping of approaching footsteps echoed throughout the silence, save for the gentle hissing of a frying pan.

  “Humm, that smells good, like Kito’s cooking—”

  Mom stepped into the kitchen, searching for something or someone.

  Her long red hair, tied into a bun, complemented her brown plumbing uniform.

  “No Antwon today, Tiffy—” loud moans erupted from beneath Dad, causing Mom’s eyes to narrow, entrapping him within burning embers.

  “Excuse me, Emiko. My chair hasn’t quite settled,” Dad said with a honeyed voice.

  Thunderous footsteps rapidly approached and circled the table.

  “Kito, get off of him right now!”

  Dad frowned, shifting his weight, and causing Antwon to growl with shaking arms and legs. His eyes focused on my Mom’s scowling, her red cheeks, and her seething disposition.

  “But, Emiko, I found this chinpira in bed with our Tiffany,” I gasped because Dad wasn’t telling it how it was, “snuggled up like… like—”

  Mom raised her fist high into the air before rapidly bringing it back down in a fist pump motion. “Finally, I’ll get some damn grandkids!

  My face burned with the rising heat of the stove, making it harder to breathe. “M-Mom!”

  Grandkids… that would insinuate that Antwon and I…

  I grabbed a chunk of my hair and started weaving my fingers through the long red locks, wincing whenever I snagged a knot.

  That Antwon and I… did it… on my bed.

  I covered my face and sank to the floor.

  “Emiko!” Dad screamed! He held out his hand, and Mom lifted him off Antwon’s back.

  “Why aren’t you upset that our daughter’s virtue is compromised?"

  “Hiss, don’t pretend that we were each other's first, Kito. Besides, who thinks like that anymore?”

  Mom bent down to Antwon, who started to slump.

  “Hey there, son-in-law. Are you okay?”

  Antwon’s knees popped, and his elbow buckled as he held up his thumb, fighting for air.