When You Were Here

tabby. The cat stops and stands on its hind legs, like it’s holding itself up on its haunches, hands-free, or paws-free. Then a dog appears, a Dalmatian riding a red bicycle down a busy sidewalk. When it finishes, the screen switches to a water-skiing squirrel.
    “Bet they don’t have squirrels like that in Santa Monica.”
    I turn around to see a girl who’s about my age. She is the most strangely dressed person I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something, considering I’ve strolled up and down VeniceBeach. She wears five-inch-high red vinyl shoes with huge straps across the tops of her feet and equally huge buttons securing each strap, then pink socks with purple polka dots up to her thighs, then a black pleated skirt with yellow lightning bolts. On her top, she has gone conservative with a long-sleeve white blouse, but over the blouse are suspenders with cartoon pink saxophones on them. Her hair is teased out in two pigtails, and she’s tied purple bows around each one.
    She gestures to the pink suspenders and the purple bows. “See, it pulls the colors from the socks all together.”
    “Right. Of course.” I am boring in my white T-shirt, beige shorts, and black flip-flops.
    She sticks out a hand. “I’m Kana Miyoshi. I figured you were the American boy, since, well, you’re the American boy.”
    “That’s me. The American boy. Danny Kellerman.” She has a strong handshake. I notice her fingernails. Each one has been polished a color of the rainbow.
    “And, just in case you’re wondering, I’m not a Harajuku girl.” She glances down at her clothes.
    “I didn’t think so,” I say, because Harajuku girls are more Little Bo Peep–style. They wear big, ruffly skirts with apron bibs and buckle shoes. Look, it’s not like I know anything about fashion, but when you’ve been to Tokyo more times than you can count on both hands, you learn these things. Especially when your mom has— had —a thing for Japanese fashion. “But the hair is kind of Harajuku.” I point to her pigtails.
    She puts her hands on her hips and gives me an indignant look. “You have to have the whole ensemble to be Harajuku, Danny. Don’t make me take you over to Harajuku to prove it.”
    I hold up my hands, the sign of surrender. “I’ll choose to believe you.” Besides, it can’t hurt to be on Kana Miyoshi’s good side. She knows stuff I don’t know. She knows stuff I need to know.
    She clasps her hands and talks in a sensei accent. “You are a wise man, Danny Kellerman.”
    She gestures to the sidewalk, indicating we are to walk together. We pass a shoe store selling high-top Converse decorated with Batman, Superman, and the Green Lantern, and she dives right into conversation. “Do you like sponge cake? Because there is this totally awesome place only five blocks away.” She waves frantically in front of us, as if to show me where this sponge cake place might be. “Wait. Correction. I should use the proper term. They’re shoto . The café calls them shoto cakes! But really. We know what they are! They’re sponge cakes. And, oh my God, if you ask, they’ll pour chocolate sauce all over it. With blueberry jam too.” Her voice shoots up when she mentions the jam, a sound that can only be described as pure childlike glee.
    “You know, you don’t sound like your e-mails.”
    “I know!” She says it like it’s a shout. A businesswoman glances sideways at her and shakes her head as if to say, Girls shouldn’t talk that loud . Kana gives the woman a sharp look and then hisses at her. I can’t tell if it’s playful orserious, but the woman looks away. Kana turns back to me. “But, you know, there’s my business side,” she says, tilting her head. Then, she leans back the other way. “And then there’s my Kana side.”
    “Kana side. I like.” I almost bump into a young mom pushing a baby stroller. “ Sumimasen ,” I say to the mom. Then to Kana, “So you kind of run the apartment business for your mom or something?”
    “I think it’s safe to say I run the communications side of things,” she says, sketching air quotes with her multicolored fingers. “Don’t know if you picked up on this, but Mommy’s not so hot in the English department.”
    “I think she speaks great English. Much better than my Japanese, that’s for sure.”
    “Speaking of, Mr. Danny. How long are you here? And are you going to learn some Japanese? Because I think it’s a sorry sin that all you know how to say