But, in a most modern spin, that’s where the similarities stop.
Rika is biracial, lives in Los Angeles' Little Tokyo neighborhood, and really loves her family.
Below, read an exclusive excerpt from chapter two.
Once upon a time, a beautiful princess lived in the magical kingdom of Los Angeles.
Always alone, she belonged to no oneand no one belonged to her.
I emerge from our building to blazing heat.
It’s only nine thirty, but the sun is unrelenting.
During the summer, the air seems to shimmer, casting a magical, muggy haze over everything.
I don’t want to risk one of them letting it slip to Auntie Suzy.
The minutes before the parade starts are the only time this neighborhood iseverquiet.
It feels like the whole street is taking a nap.
It’s like that underbelly of Little Tokyo I love so much is singing to me.
My phone buzzes, and I do the clumsy dance of exhuming it from the yukata’s cavernous pocket.
This will be a fun game I get to play for the rest of the day.
She wants to know why I’m not at the dojo, getting ready for the demonstration.
We were destined to become either mortal enemies or inseparable.
We’ve gone the latter route, especially after my whole biting incident.
Until the day Eliza toddled up to me and extended a hand.
She was so sweet, sokind.
And she still maintains to this day that she hadn’t done that because she felt sorry for me.
“I wanted a worthy opponentnot like Craig Shimizu, who cheats his way through.”
It’s probably a half lie, but I love her for it.
Which helped me get started in my quest to work my way to the top.
I text back that I have to join the judo crew mid-parade, and I’ll explain everything later.
Then I shove the phone back in my pocket.
I attempt to breathe deeply, to relax into the hazy heat.
I reach behind me, trying to scratch a spot that’s becoming unbearably itchy.
My hand is instantly blocked by the obi, which I’ve decided is pretty much my nemesis.
The convertible is also supposed to be relaxing, preparing for its big moment in the spotlight.
.guyhovering around the car, running his fingertips along the hood.
A baseball cap obscures his face.
We’re the only two people on this supposed-to-be-napping street.
What the hell is he doing?
I bellow before I can stop myself.
My voice is a strange, sharp note puncturing the soupy air.
Am I about to nab a would-be vandal?
Will I be the savior of the Nikkei Week parade?
Somehow that just isn’t right, the picture won’t cohere
“Yaaaaaaargh!”
I’m not sure who makes that bullhorn-like sound of distress.
Maybe both of us at the same time.
We crash into the lava-hot concrete of the street in a tangled heap.
sorry," I manage, trying to pull myself up.
My hands are on his shoulders, attempting to avoid the blazing concrete.
His hands have clamped onto my hips.
He looks like he’s about my age.
Sharp cheekbones contrast with dark eyes that hint at mischiefalthough they’re currently overtaken by consternation.
He gives me an incredulous look.
“What, why?
I barely even touched the car!”
“But you were planning on it?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking whyyoujust crashed into me out of nowhere?”
He scans my face like he’s looking for signs of malfeasance.
“Are you some kind of Little Tokyo Citizens Patrol?”
“I could be,” I say, trying to straighten up again.
Any movement I make only seems to entangle me in my yukata/his legs further.
“I could totally be on patrol.”
I find myself scrutinizing his features further.
There’s also something oddly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it.
Maybe he’s one of Belle’s vast, interconnected crowd of cool kids.
“Yeah,” he says.
“It’s a ‘66 Mustang, right?
You don’t see a lot of those in such good condition.”
“It’s my Auntie’s,” I say.
It’s too unguarded, too full throttle in its joy.
He’s on the verge of a snort, even.
That laugh reverberates through my body.
“Um, anyway,” I mutter.
Belatedly, I remember he’s still on the ground and offer him my hand.
He quirks an eyebrow and gives me an amused look.
“I’ve laid out guys twice your size in judo,” I blurt out.
God.Why am I blurting so many random and oddly defensive factoids to this too-cute-for-his-own-good stranger?
“I’m smiling because you look so”
He gestures to my ensemble.
“I look sowhat?”
I say, my face flushing further.
“Never mind,” he says, his smile getting so big, it’sabsolutely infuriating.
His long limbs, ribboned with lean muscle, look dancer-y.
I like your outfit," he says, gesturing to my yukata.
“Pretty unusual for an officer of the law.”
“Not my regular day wear, really,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“You know that was a compliment, right?”
He gives me an easy half grin.
I can’t help but thinkeverythingis easy for him.
“I don’t have time for compliments,” I say to him, waving a hand.
“I need to get to the start of the parade route.”
“You’re a princess?”
“Just a driver,” I say, my tone more defiant than I mean it to be.
I see Belle and Rory getting closer, two bright splashes of color floating into view.
“Ah, okay,” he says, looking a bit skeptical.
He points to me.
“Not a princess.”
He points to himself.
“Not a vandal.
Nice to meet you.”
And with that, he scoops his baseball cap off the ground and strolls away.
wait, is hewhistling?
Like he’s in some kind of old-timey musical?
I tilt my head at his retreating form, trying to make sense of this .
Suddenly, Belle and Rory are screaming in my ear.
Belle yanks on my arm, jumping up and down.
Rory looks Rory-level excited, her little eyebrows waggling.
I say irritably, shaking her off.
“That wasHank Chen!”
Off!last season," Rory chimes in, naming her favorite competitive reality show.
“Is he here for the parade?”
Rory wonders, her brow crinkling.
“I dunno, maybe he’s the grand marshal?”
“Oh my god,no,” Belle says.
“Didn’t you see?
The identity of the grand marshal got totally leaked.
She pauses for effect, dark eyes flashing with glee.“GraceKimura.”
Oh god.As if I need more princess shit in my life.
She’s gotten her heart broken onscreen dozens of times, only to have it mended by the end.
She’s her own kind of princess, Belle’s ultimate vision board come to life.
I can sometimes be tempted to join by the shrimp chips, especially if they get the spicy ones.
But I always find myself getting twitchy once Grace Kimura starts running through the airport or whatever.
It’s another thing that binds all the Rakuyamas except me.
“That’s probably why Hank’s here,” Belle says, practically vibrating with excitement.
“He’s in Grace Kimura’s new movie.
Maybe he’s supporting her.
God, he’s cute.”
“Wait, what’s this ‘we’?”
Belle says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
She studies me, clocking my outfit.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“I’m your driver,” I say, giving a little bow.
“Finally embracing my inner princess.”
“Rory, no garbage mouth,” Belle says.
“But seriously, what the fucking hell, Rika.
That is so not what you’re doing!”
“All right, all right,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender.
Then jump out of the car and book it over to the front of the dojo for the demonstration.
I pause, gnawing my lower lip.
Belle smiles at me.
It’s taffeta from the fifties, nipped in at the waist and decorated with obscenely large cabbage roses.
“Of course we’ve got your back,” she continues.
“You deserve this.”
For the second time this morning, my eyes brim with tears, and I hastily wipe them away.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you for .
wait a minute.”
Now I clock whatRory’swearing.
She’s pulled her hair into two tiny Princess Leia buns and sprayed her whole head with glitter.
Then added little white cowgirl boots and a short purple “dress” that is acting like .
I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing her more closely.
“Aurora,” I say.
“Is thatmy nure-onna T-shirt?”
“It looks better on me.”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it.
The thing is, it really does.
Sarah Kuhn, 2021.
Courtesy of Viking Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Penguin Random House
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