The train whooshed into the station soon after Dad and I stepped onto the platform for the line headed toward the Roppongi district. Dad hustled me inside. He was no longer in the Army, but he always acted like grabbing a seat was some kind of special-ops mission.
I guess there weren't too many people headed toward one of Tokyo’s most popular nightlife destinations this early in the day, though. We easily found two seats right by the door.
"I'm a little worried about teaching a kid," I admitted to my father after we sat down. "I've never tutored anybody before. And I don't want to embarrass your boss."
"Don't worry too much about it. This is just a meet-and-greet to see if the boy likes you. If he doesn't want you to be his teacher, that's okay. The point is, we have to try because it's a special request from Mr. Nakamura’s associate. But you know, if the boy says anything to you. Anything I should know. Then make sure to tell me."
Well, that took some of the pressure off. But I had to wonder, "Anything like what?"
That agitated look came over Dad's face again. "Just take the meeting. Probably won’t anything come of it. Sometimes guys in my business like to demand things just because they can."
I opened my mouth to put another question to him, but before I could, Dad asked, "You sure you don't want to tell me what's really going on with your brother?"
Dad's tone was genial enough, but I knew this was him changing the subject to something I didn’t want to talk about, so I’d stop asking him questions about something he didn’t want to talk about.
Message received.
It was early September. Still warm outside.
But suddenly I felt cold. Maybe it was because of the train's AC, or maybe it was because of the conversation. Either way, I tried to button up my dark blue uniform jacket—only to remember that wasn’t an option for me anymore.
I'd discovered the past Monday that my jacket no longer fit over my chest. I'd gained even more weight over the summer break and a couple of bra sizes.
"What's going on there?" Dad asked when I gave up on buttoning my jacket.
My cheeks warmed. Explaining that your school uniform jacket no longer fit because your breasts were too big wasn't a conversation any teenage girl wanted to have with her father.
"It's fine," I answered.
Dad regarded me with the same concerned but skeptical look he gave Byron earlier. "Tell you what, how about if I take that jacket of yours to the tailor while you're meeting with the Chinese boy? I know a place near our house that can get it turned around for you in a couple of hours. Just give it to me now, so I don’t forget."
My heart filled with relief. This is what I loved about my dad. My mom would have lectured me forever about needing to lose weight, but Dad just offered to get my jacket taken out. No questions asked. Real soldier.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, taking off the jacket and handing it to him.
We spent the rest of the train ride talking about innocuous things like what mom might be making for dinner and my first week back at school for the second term of my last year in Japanese high school.
About twenty minutes later, we walked up to the front doors of a sleek Roppongi high rise. Dad told the doorman that the tenant on the top floor was expecting us in Japanese. We were waved right inside to an opulent lobby filled with modern furniture and giant chandeliers. Another doorman escorted us to a bank of elevators, inserted a card, and pushed a code on the elevator's number panel before wishing us a good day in English.
The higher the elevator rose, the more nervous I felt. It didn't even ding when we reached our destination. The doors just slid open, revealing a hallway lined in gorgeous black and gold brocaded wallpaper.
At the end of it, there was a single door with a man almost as broad as my father standing outside. He looked to be about Dad's age. Maybe a little older. He wore a shiny suit with an open-collar shirt, and I noticed a colorful tattoo proudly displayed on his chest as we approached.
My dad automatically spread his arms out when we stopped in front of the guard. And when his pat-down was done, Dad indicated I should do the same?
Okay, what kind of tutoring job required a weapons check? I did as Dad said, but faint alarm bells were going off in the back of my head.
My pat-down went a lot faster than Dad’s. Just three perfunctory claps down my sides.
Afterward, the guard smiled and introduced himself in Japanese as Donny.
“My daughter’s got DON in her name, too,” my dad told him, voice affable like they were already old friends. “But it’s spelled D-A-W-N,”
