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Izumi, age five, watched the actors stroll onstage with her mouth agape.
To her, they looked like kings – dressed in gleaming costumes, surrounded by velvet curtains, looming high above her. Minutes ago, the brave knight and the evil emperor had their swords at each other’s throats. Now they were grinning, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Everybody was okay, and nobody was sad, and all was well.
Around her, people were clapping, and Izumi clapped too. She clapped until her tiny hands tingled.
“Bravo!” she shouted. “Bravo, bravo!”
“Not so loud, Izumi,” her mother admonished from the next seat over.
Izumi ignored her. Not even her mother’s scolding could spoil the magic of the moment. And her excitement doubled when the actors gestured to the left, and a familiar figure emerged from the wings.
“DADDY!” Izumi jumped onto her chair and waved. “Hi, Daddy!”
“Izumi,” said her mother, grabbing her shoulder, “please sit down-”
But onstage, her father laughed and waved back, before turning to the rest of the audience. He spread his arms wide, and every eye in the room fell upon him.
“My friends,” he proclaimed, “on behalf of the Mankai Company: thank you for attending the Spring Troupe’s inaugural performance!”
The crowd roared.
As confetti tumbled from the rafters, sparkling under the spotlights, Izumi did her best to etch every last detail into her heart. Everything from her father’s warm voice to the ache in her cheeks from smiling so much.
It was a memory she would treasure for the rest of her life.
***
Izumi, age nine, hopped down the school steps two at a time.
“Dad!” she called. “Mom!”
Her parents didn’t respond. They were standing on the sidewalk, talking quietly.
“Yukio,” said her mother. Her voice was soft but sharp. “You’re always doing this. You’re always making me into the bad guy-”
“Darling, please,” said her father, just as softly. His eyes darted towards Izumi. “We have company.”
Her mother turned towards her as well, smoothing her skirt. “There you are, Izumi. What took you so long?”
“What were you talking about?”
“Nothing important,” said her father. “I think we have something much more interesting to discuss, don’t you?” He smiled. “Like your stage acting debut?”
“Yeah! It was so, so, so much fun! Did you see me?!”
“How could I miss you, my flower? You were, without a doubt, the best-dressed one in the whole school play.”
Giggling, Izumi twirled, and her sunset-colored dress flared out in a wide circle. “Wasn’t I a perfect peach?”
“You certainly surprised me when you said you were playing the peach in Momotaro.” Izumi’s mother shook her head. “And I was even more surprised when you started monologuing.”
“That wasn’t in the script!” said Izumi proudly. “That was all improv!”
“I could hardly tell,” said her father.
“And I projected my voice and e-nun-ci-a-ted! Just like you told me!” Izumi puffed out her chest. “I think I was the best actress in my whole class!”
Her father and mother exchanged a glance.
“Well?” Izumi blinked up at them. “Don’t you think so?”
“Izumi,” said her father, “you know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think we should have your mother’s world-famous curry for dinner tonight.”
“Curry?!” Izumi jumped up and down. “Yes, yes, yes! Oh, please, Mom, can we have curry?”
“All right, all right,” said her mother. “Don’t make a scene.”
Beaming, Izumi took her mother’s palm in her right hand, and her father’s palm in her left. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
And occupied with thoughts of buttery chicken and rich orange sauce, Izumi failed to notice her parents hadn’t actually answered her question.
***
Izumi, age fifteen, swallowed her last bite of curry and rice.
“Okay, team,” said Junichi. “Let’s review. Rei, you’ll see if St. Flora High can lend us their sound mixing board?”
“Sure.”
“Yukiko, you’ll start sketching out set designs?”
“Will do.”
“And Ami, you’ll get a quote on the costuming fabric?”
“Yep!”
Junichi sat back in his chair. “Guys, I had my doubts when I heard we had to put on The Rose of Versailles with a five-person stage crew… but I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
“Same!” said Yukiko. “Izumi, Ami, for first-years, you really know your stuff.”
“Well, Izumi’s basically a genius,” said Ami. “Her dad runs this huge theater company.”
Izumi tried not to flinch at the mention of her father. “Yeah, I guess I’ve picked up some stuff here and there.”
“Oh, don’t be modest!” Ami shoved Izumi’s shoulder. “You should’ve seen her in middle school. She ran sound and lights like nobody’s business! With her on stage crew, you’re going to put on the best show Hanasaki Academy’s ever seen-”
“Actually,” said Izumi, gathering her courage, “I haven’t decided if I want to do stage crew or not.”
A hush fell over the clubroom.
“What do you mean?” said Rei.
Izumi felt like withering under the gazes of her upperclassmen. “I was kind of wanting to… audition for a role. Like Marie Antoinette, or maybe Oscar…”
The silence continued. Junichi and the others looked uncomfortable, and Izumi realized how rude it probably sounded to say she was thinking of quitting. But the look on Ami’s face was even worse. Her eyes were wide, her lips were slightly parted, and her eyebrows were quirking steadily upward.
Pure bafflement.
Izumi clenched her fist. Then drove it playfully into Ami’s arm.
“Hah! You totally bought it, didn’t you?” She grinned. “You know I’d never abandon you, Ami.”
“Hey!” After a moment, Ami laughed too. “Don’t scare me like that! My heart almost stopped!”
“So you’re on board?” said Junichi, relief plain on his face.
“Absolutely.” Izumi put her hand out. “Stage crew for life, am I right?”
“Stage crew for life!” Ami cheered.
As the five of them joined in the impromptu cheer, the tight, hot feeling in Izumi’s chest was quick to fade. So what if she was stuck backstage again? This was only her first year of high school. There was always next semester.
Or the semester after that.
Or the one after that.
***
Izumi, age eighteen, burst through the front door.
“MOM!” she yelled. She fanned out the three envelopes. “Guess what showed up in the mail!”
“What?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“Letters from Arts U, Yosei, AND Toho Gakuen!”
“Really?”
“I’m opening them now! Come see!”
“Izumi, I’m trying to cook dinner.”
With a roll of her eyes, Izumi tore open the first envelope. “All right. If you want to miss out on this milestone in your daughter’s life, that’s your loss.”
“I’m sure I’ll live.”
Izumi scanned her eyes down the letterhead. She’d expected the letter from Arts U to be flashy – perhaps a CONGRATULATIONS printed in rainbow font – but it was disappointingly plain.
“Thank you for your interest in attending Veludo Arts University,” she read aloud. “We regret to inform you that our Acting for Stage & Screen diploma program is now full. We encourage you to apply for an alternate degree path-”
She cut herself off. There wasn’t any point in reading more.
“Was that one a no?” said her mother.
Izumi took a deep breath. “That’s okay.” She reached for the second envelope. “Arts U wasn’t my first choice, anyway. Yosei’s closer to our house. And the tuition’s way cheaper…”
She carefully opened the Yosei letter. When she watched Ami open hers, it was full of blue-and-gold confetti. She braced herself for a mess. But there was no confetti.
“Thank you for applying for Yosei University’s four-year Bachelor of Fine Arts program. We regret to inform you we will not be moving forward with your application. For additional inquiries, please contact Student Services-”
She broke off again. She folded the paper back up, resisting the urge to crumple it.
In the kitchen, her mother was quiet. All Izumi could hear was the curry bubbling away.
“There’s one more,” she said, mostly to herself, as she picked up the third envelope. This was the most prestigious school she’d applied to. The longest shot. The wildest dream.
She opened the envelope. There was a single typed page inside. She slowly scanned her eyes down the paper.
“Miss Izumi Tachibana – we were delighted to receive your application for Toho Gakuen College of Drama and Music. Your enthusiasm for the theatrical arts shone in your audition. However…” Izumi swallowed. “However, it is the opinion of the adjudicators that your abilities are not at a level suitable for a professional university program. We recommend you thoroughly review the fundamentals of stage acting before reapplying for our institution.”
She lowered her arms. The page was wrinkled where she’d clutched it. The floor blurred beneath her feet.
Behind her was the rustle of an apron. Quiet footsteps approached.
“Izumi,” said her mother gently.
“This one’s not just a form letter,” said Izumi. Her voice wobbled. “That’s a good thing. That means I’m on their radar – that means they noticed me-”
Her mother brought Izumi into her arms. She smelled of turmeric and garlic and cayenne. A palm hardened by years of housework firmly stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry, my flower,” her mother whispered.
They stood there for a long time, holding each other, as her mother’s world-famous curry burned on the stove.
***
Izumi, age twenty-one, had her hand on the doorknob when she heard voices inside the rehearsal room.
“She needs to get her act together! I’m serious!”
“Katsura, listen to me-”
Throwing caution to the wind, Izumi peered through the window and glimpsed two familiar faces. Hifumi, the leader of Yosei U’s improv club – and Katsura, her newest scene partner.
“I understand you’re frustrated,” Hifumi continued, hands raised in a pacifying manner. “But you can’t expect to have perfect chemistry with everyone you work with. Just because things are difficult now-”
“She’s not difficult, she’s impossible!” Katsura burst out. “Half the time she delivers her lines like she’s being held at gunpoint, and half the time she’s chewing the scenery so hard the Phantom of the goddamn Opera would tell her to chill out! It’s like trying to ‘yes, and’ with a toddler!”
“Katsura, if you can’t be respectful of your fellow actors-”
“Tell me I’m wrong!” Katsura shot back. “It’s been, what, four months? We’re almost at the end of the semester, and tell me, has she learned a single thing?”
Hifumi hesitated. “Well…” he began. “She’s not… incredible. But even if it doesn’t come naturally to her-”
Izumi had heard enough. She pushed open the door and strolled in with her head held high.
Hifumi jumped. “Izumi!”
“Sorry for not knocking,” said Izumi. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d like you to hear this.” Katsura folded her arms and stared Izumi down. “You need to shape up. I’m tired of carrying you through every scene just because you can’t be bothered to-”
“All right.”
Katsura blinked. “What?”
Izumi opened her bag and took out an envelope. “Hifumi, I’m here to drop off my resignation from the improv club.” She pushed it into his hands. “Everything’s signed and dated.”
Hifumi’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “You’re quitting? But I thought you were enjoying – are you sure you don’t want to reconsider-”
“I’ve made up my mind.” She turned to Katsura. “Thank you.”
Katsura’s jaw dropped. “Thank you? For what? I just said you-”
“Suck at acting? I’m a total ham? I don’t belong here?”
Katsura gaped at her, sputtering.
“Don’t worry. You didn’t say anything I haven’t heard before.” Izumi plastered on her widest smile. “But you’re the first person who’s ever had the guts to say it to my face.”
Without waiting for Katsura’s response, she turned on her heel and walked out of the rehearsal room. She left the door open. Just in case either of them wanted to run after her and tell her they were sorry and beg her to rejoin the club.
They didn’t.
***
Izumi, age twenty-four, stood in the wings of her father’s theatre.
A few feet away, awash in light, five full-fledged actors were taking their bows. They’d definitely improved their curtain call discipline by leaps and bounds. They weren’t perfect yet – Masumi’s smile was still more of a grimace, and Citron flung himself forward so enthusiastically he almost pulled Tsuzuru off the stage – but it was, by far, the most professional the Spring Troupe had ever looked.
Some would say it was all Izumi’s doing, but she couldn’t help but disagree. They were the ones who bloomed. All she did was water the soil.
She adjusted her headset. “Standby LX Q-73,” she said.
Matsukawa’s voice from the tech booth crackled in her ear. “Standing by.”
“Tetsuro, that’s a go for the confetti.”
There was no response.
“Um, Tetsuro?”
“He said confetti is now running,” said Matsukawa.
“If you say so.” Izumi exhaled, rolling her shoulders. “And with that, we’ve officially survived closing night of Romeo and Julius-”
She broke off when movement on the stage caught her eye. Sakuya was waving, but not to the audience. He was motioning towards her.
“Izumi!” he stage-whispered. “Come out!”
“What?” Izumi mouthed back.
Sakuya tore away from center stage and jogged towards the wings. “Come join us!” He grabbed her hand. “You’re our director, after all! None of this would be possible without you!”
Izumi’s heart hammered. “No, Sakuya, that’s okay-” she tried to protest.
But Sakuya’s grip on her hand was firm, and now Itaru was looking over as well, smiling, and Tsuzuru and Citron waved too, and now Masumi was grabbing her other arm, and before Izumi knew it, the Spring Troupe was more or less frog-marching her onstage.
They pushed her into the spotlight, and she almost stumbled, her heels nearly betraying her – but she righted herself at the last second, and squinting in the blinding stage lights, she looked out into the audience.
And…
Staring back at her were dozens of people. Maybe even a couple hundred.
Smiling. Clapping. Cheering.
In awe of the magic she’d woven.
Izumi’s pulse pounded, and her vision swam, and her stomach did backflips, and she realized that quite suddenly, and yet not suddenly at all, after twenty-four years, here she was.
Standing onstage, bathed in light, to the sound of thunderous applause.
She smiled. She spread her arms wide, and every eye in the room fell upon her.
“My friends,” she proclaimed, “on behalf of the Mankai Company: thank you for supporting the Newborn Spring Troupe!”
The crowd roared.
As confetti tumbled from the rafters, sparkling in the spotlights, Izumi did her best to etch every last detail into her heart. Everything from the Spring Troupe’s proud faces to the ache in her cheeks from smiling so much.
It was a memory she would treasure for the rest of her life.