Difficult Love

Chapter 1: Hajimemashite!

“Ahhh ... I can’t believe they’re touring in the States!”

Sierra Valentine turned to stare at her best friend, Tiffany. Ow, she thought, scowling, she has got to stop doing that high-pitched squealing thing! She rubbed her ear, glaring pointedly at her friend, who was too absorbed in a magazine to care. There was a bright picture of an anime character, coupled with the title ‘Newtype’ on the magazine. Oh, not this stuff again, Sierra thought, rolling her eyes. She turned her attention back to her lunch and braced herself for the barrage.

“I just can’t believe it,” Tiffany repeated, sighing heavily. “They’re touring here, Sia, here! Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t,” Sierra said dryly. “Who are ‘they’?”

Tiffany gave her that incredulous look that told her this was something she really should know. Oops, Sierra thought, flashing a sheepish smile. Guess I haven’t been listening lately, have I? These days she tended to tune her friend out. The only reason she put up with Tiffany’s constant spray of information about Japanese pop culture was that some of it was useful. Although it might seem kind of odd to most, Sierra’s goal in life was to be a language teacher. Otherwise, she would never have allowed Tiffany to drag her off to a Japanese class.

“Muzukashii no Ai,” Tiffany said, huffing as though the answer should be obvious. “I’ve already told you this.”

“What kind of name is that, anyway?” Sierra grumbled, picking at her French fries.

“Stop being a grouch, Sia,” Tiffany said, “or I won’t take you with me to the concert.”

Sierra’s eyebrows rose. “And who else would go with you... ‘Sakura’?”

Tiffany glowered. She was obsessed to the extreme, to the point of looking into having her name legally changed to Sakura Takahashi. Sierra never hauled back when it came to teasing her about it. Ignoring her friend’s glare, she bent down and began shuffling through her bag. The notebook she pulled out was open to a page full of neatly written romaji. She set it down in front of Tiffany, tapping the paper expressively with the tip of one finger.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Tiff,” Sierra said. “Take your own damn notes from now on, and I’ll go with you.”

“But you have way neater handwriting!” Tiffany complained, pouting. “I study better from your notes!”

“Bullshit,” Sierra growled. “And you know it.”

Tiffany sighed, a defeated sound. Sierra might have a knack for languages, but for once, she was not the one who was better at this subject. Tiffany studied Japanese language with the same obsession she had for everything else that came from the country. At least now that she’d agreed to go, she’ll give me some peace and quiet, Sierra thought, echoing her friend’s defeated sigh. She passed the notebook over for Tiffany to make her own copy of the notes, and her friend passed over the magazine.

There were four of them: two guitarists, a bassist, and a drummer. Sierra frowned, studying the one in the middle. He isn’t completely Japanese, she thought, tilting her head curiously. It wasn’t just that his eyes were blue, or that he was head and shoulders taller than the others. No, in fact, it was written in the small caption beneath the picture, along with the name Isamu Takemori.

“I don’t get it,” Sierra said, glancing at Tiffany. “For all the obsession with perfect Japanese, how come these things don’t get the surname first idea?”

Tiffany glared at her. “For once, Your Royal Flippantness, can’t you stop questioning things?”

“So I suppose I should avoid all the observations on the fact that he’s half American, too?” Sierra asked, barely holding back laughter.

“Not that it matters,” Tiffany said, her anger deflating. “He only dates Japanese girls. Old-fashioned family, and all that.”

Wait ... old-fashioned? Sierra thought, glancing down at the picture. Then why...? She imagined she’d get every little detail Tiffany knew if she asked, but she wasn’t in the mood to listen. A quick scan of the article, an interview, mentioned briefly that he had no plans for visiting his father while in America. A divorce? Sierra wondered. Ah, well ... what do I care? I’ve never even heard their music.

---

If Isamu had to choose which crowd was more enthusiastic, the Japanese or the American, he’d be hard-pressed. The crowds in America were smaller, yes, but they were just as loud. I missed it here, he thought, as Yukio helped him off stage. He’d performed with his usual energy and was exhausted, covered from head to toe in sweat. Isamu hadn’t been in America since he was eight, when his father had divorced his mother and they’d ended up returning to her family in Japan.

“You stink,” Yukio told him, releasing him as soon as they were backstage.

Isamu grinned. His bandmates hadn’t had the benefit of English tutors, as he had, but he tried his best to teach them himself. Yukio could actually speak almost as much as he could, but heavily accented. Their drummer, Rai, had the amusing tendency to confuse words. And the bassist, Akio, could speak better French than English because his grandmother was French, even though it didn’t really show in his features. They were an odd bunch, to say the least.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Isamu told Yukio. “Don’t wait up if you don’t want to.”

“We’re hungry,” Yukio said, glancing back at Rai and Akio. They nodded in unison, something they did often. Isamu had to fight not to laugh. “See you at the hotel?”

Isamu shook his head. “Promised haha I’d go home for the night.”

His mother preferred Japan over America, but her family had never quite forgiven her for marrying an American man. In the end, she’d moved back to the States when Isamu and his band had started to become famous. His mother had wanted him to go to Todai and become a businessman, but he couldn’t stand the thought. He loved music and he loved being the center of attention, so his band was the perfect career for him. And truth was that his mother never complained about the paycheck.

Isamu liked this stadium because there were showers here. Not that he couldn’t have waited until he got home, because he could have. But he was eager to be clean, so he stopped long enough to take a quick shower. The head of security, a large, somewhat beefy man named Mike, met him afterwards. He could hear giggling coming from beyond the gates that blocked off the backstage area. Oh, not again, Isamu thought, rolling his eyes. This happens every time.

“Sorry, man,” Mike said, grinning at him understandingly. “I keep telling them no, but the little blonde is persistent.”

Isamu grinned. “Is she cute?”

“Not cute enough,” Mike said, shaking his head. “She keeps talking in this high-pitched voice and yelling at the other one in Japanese whenever she tries to drag the blonde away.”

Isamu’s eyebrows rose. Curious, he followed Mike out to the gate. There was a petite, curvy little blonde in an outfit ripped straight from an anime. It was the other one who caught his attention. She leaned against the gate, having apparently given up on dragging her friend away. Red hair with faintly coppery highlights hung down over her shoulders. He couldn’t see her face, aside from the curve of her cheek, but he imagined she was exasperated. Curious, Isamu walked up to the gate, bracing himself in time for the blonde girl’s shriek.

“Ow!” the red-head exclaimed, jumping away from the gate. “Damnit, Tiff, stop doing that!”