Picking Bones from Ash by Marie Mutsuki Mockett

a
bento
lunch and ate in the park.
    “Let’s go for a walk,” I said to her. “I want to see the Ginza.”
    “We’ll need to take the subway for that.”
    “Don’t you know how?” I asked, for I still believed she could do almost anything, and indeed, she navigated the maps and the fares and soon we were standing in that fabled neighborhood, in front of the Mikimoto storefront where girls with white gloves had just begun to remove strands of pearls from the windows to put away for the evening. Nearby was a small café selling Parisian pastries. Men stopped to look at my mother—she was so beautiful—and I felt pride because she was
mine
.
    “Let’s eat cake,” I said, steering her into Fujiya, where I ordered a mont blanc because I’d once overheard someone describe it on a train. She ordered an éclair.
    “Is the cream fresh?” she asked the waitress.
    “It’s been refrigerated.”
    “Yes, but is it
fresh
?”
    “I will ask.”
    I smiled. Here we were in Tokyo and my mother knew how to behave with such dignity. Even here everyone deferred to her.
    “Like this.” She showed me how to hold my fork. “Mmm. Isn’t it delicious?”
    “Like the moon,” I said.
    Later we walked along the perimeter of the grounds of the imperial palace; the actual castle was buried deep within a forest of trees. We craned our necks to see past the palace walls, hoping for a glimpse of the emperor, but of course he was probably fast asleep already. Now it was night and taxis whizzed by and neon filled the sky. “I wish it was always this way,” I sighed.
    “When you are rich and famous, it will be,” she said. “You can hire maids to look after Mr. Horie and Mineko and Chieko, and I can be with you.” She said it like a challenge.
    “So you
do
wish it could just be us.”
    She paused, then smiled at me a little sadly. “It’s just us right now.”
    In the morning, she took me to the school, whose campus was made up of an impressive collection of very Western-looking brick buildings that dated from the Meiji period. Together we completed my registration and paperwork, all of which took longer than expected, and this meant she did not have time to get me settled into my living quarters.
    “I will call you,” she said as we said good-bye at the entrance to the dormitory.
    “Can’t you take the next train?”
    She shook her head. “Mineko needs my help with some sewing.” She touched my face. “Don’t cry. You will come home at the end of the term.”
    I waved halfheartedly and turned so she would not see my tears.
    The inside of the dorm was musty and smelled of rosin from violin bows, old
tatami
mats, and freshly laundered curtains. I pretended to sneeze and wipe my eyes from dust in case anyone saw me crying. Then I began to search for the room I would share with four other women. A familiar shape was sitting in the middle of the
tatami
floor when I slid open the door. The surprise was enough to stanch my tears.
    “Hello.” The girl turned to look at me. While I stared at her, she smiled and asked, “Are you still stealing competitions?” It was Shinobu, the Korean girl from the competition in Akita.
    I set my bags down in the corner of the room. For the next four years, my roommates and I would move low wooden desks onto the floor to study. At night, we would put the desks away and pull
futons
out of a cupboard and unfurl them onto the floor. I would be alone only when I practiced the piano or went to the toilet.
    “Are you still flirting with judges?” I asked.
    “I can’t help it if I am charming!”
    “Where did you go to high school?”
    “Kikuzato. My parents moved to Nagoya just for me.”
    “To make sure you could get into university in Tokyo.”
    “I’ve always known my future.” She grinned. “That’s why I never bother with fortune tellers.”
    We became friends. Our bond was partly inevitable, for we discovered early on in the semester that we were outsiders: Shinobu because she