This Is How I Roll

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my dad, it’s that following your dreams is important. Not that he’s ever said as much to me. Dad is not the talkative type. In fact, neither of my parents is and that’s okay, because actions speak louder than words. And before this summer is over, my actions will prove to my dad that I am worth having in his restaurant kitchen and ready to be taught how to cook great Japanese food.
Which was why I was in our home kitchen earlier than I normally ever woke up, especially on the first weekend of summer.
“Where is it?” I asked out loud even though I was alone. I was
determined to make the perfect breakfast.
This setup was not nearly as nice as the one we’d had in San Francisco. I missed our bright and airy kitchen with white subway tiles and stainless-steel appliances. This one was definitely dated, with apricot countertops and dark-wood cabinets.
I flung open the island’s cabinet door and yanked out every single pot and pan, tossing them onto the counter to join all the lids I’d already grabbed. Then I slid on sock feet to the shelves next to our basic white oven, pulling out baking sheets and muffin pans. But as I reached toward the cabinet next to the sink, my hand knocked into the tower of pot lids and they all came crashing down onto the floor. I would have cringed, but the lids were an improvement over the vinyl floor with its mint- green squares.

“Goodness, Sana, sweetie. What are you doing?”
I spun around to face my mom, who was dressed for her morning run in black shorts and a neon-orange tank top, her shiny black hair in a high ponytail. It still took getting used to, not only having Mom at home more often, but seeing her in running clothes instead of her business skirts and blazers. When we lived in San Francisco, the only kind of running she did was out the door to her job every morning.
“Hey, Mom,” I said with a sheepish wave.

“Good thing your father is already at the restaurant. You could wake the dead with the racket you’re making.”
I, of course, knew Dad had left an hour ago. Although there was no rule against me cooking, Dad wasn’t a fan of me messing around in his kitchen.

“Your cousin will be here in five minutes,” Mom said. “What
are you looking for?”
I contemplated my answer to Mom’s seemingly simple question. The thing was, communication in my family was complicated. Sometimes a twist of the truth was easier. The less said, the less anyone would worry. My parents were all about protecting me, even though I’d rather know what was going on.
Case in point: Most of what I knew about Piper Bay and my parents’ decision to move here I’d learned from my cousin, Charli. Her dad, my uncle Luke, owned a successful real estate company and had helped Dad find the perfect place for his sushi restaurant. My parents hadn’t ever really asked me what I thought about leaving. And before I knew it, we were living two hours south of San Francisco in a small, pretty town no one had barely ever heard of before. Fortunately, I made friends easily, so starting a new school in the seventh grade hadn’t freaked me out. Plus I had Charli here. She wasn’t just a cousin, she was also my best friend. So even though my parents had kind of left me in the dark about the move, Charli had told me everything she’d heard. She knew I liked to have all the facts.
This morning I opted for the whole truth. “Where’s the tamago pan?” I asked.

“If you want a Japanese omelet, why don’t you just ask Dad to
make it when he gets home?”
I sighed. That was the problem. “Mom, I want to make tamago on my own. Dad would just chase me out of the kitchen anyway.” He had a lot of rules both in his restaurant and at home. Besides, I wanted to make the homestyle rolled tamago, while Dad undoubtedly would make his high-end fancy sushi-style custardy tamago.
“Oh, Sana, your father wouldn’t keep you out of the kitchen,” Mom said. Of course she took Dad’s side.
“Yo, what’s up?” Charli called, kicking off her shoes before
darting into the house. “Whoa. What a mess! Is Uncle Hiro
home?”
She knew as well as I did that he’d hit the roof if he saw his pristine kitchen like this.
“Take a guess,” I said. “Hi, Uncle Luke!”
“Happy Sunday, Sana.” Uncle Luke’s smile was the exact same as Mom’s, quirking a little higher on the left side. He stayed at the back door so he wouldn’t have to take his shoes off.
“Let’s go!” Mom quickly put on her running shoes.
“And they’re off,” I said as the door slammed.
“Ugh.” Charli slumped on a kitchen chair. Her chestnut- brown pixie cut stuck up like porcupine quills. “It’s finally summer. I wanted to sleep in. Our families get up way too early.”

I threw open another cabinet. “Help me look for the tamago
pan.”

“What’s it look like?” Charli stayed put at the table, not even making a show of helping me.

“It’s a stainless-steel rectangle with a wooden handle.”
“And tamago is egg, right?”
Charli didn’t speak Japanese. I didn’t either, really, but I understood a little because my parents spoke it once in a while, mostly when they were upset or wanted to say things they didn’t want me to know. Plus I’d made it a point to learn food-related words in Japanese.
“Yes. Come help me!” I stood on my toes to try to see behind the plates. Not that I thought the pan might be back there. Dad was very organized and pans didn’t go with plates.
“Um, hi, Uncle Hiro,” Charli chirped.
“Ha ha,” I said, without turning around. “Don’t try to scare me. Dad’s at the restaurant already.”
“Susannah!”
I yelped and spun around, knocking two baking sheets to the
ground to join the pot lids I hadn’t yet picked up.