You’d think the JACL would’ve put up a fight or something, but they’ve been doing all sorts of wacky stuff to help Roosevelt and his cronies. After the attack, they helped arrest Issei leaders like Mr. Hidekawa and Yum-yum’s dad, Mr. Oishi. They told us all to cooperate when the WRA started packing us off to desert camps. I bet they’d bend over and kiss their own asses if Washington asked them to.
“You see this?” I elbow Twitchy as we head toward the crowd. “What’s the government want now, our used underwear?”
“No one wants your dirty drawers, Shigeo.” Twitchy elbows me back. “Maybe Mike Masaoka’s resigning in disgrace or something.”
Mike Masaoka’s the JACL executive secretary. What d’you wanna bet a big shot like him isn’t going into camp with the rest of us?
I scoff. “Nah, I checked the weather report. Hell’s showing no signs of freezing over.”
We shoulder our way through the wall of hats and backs toward some official-looking notices pasted to the Civil Control Station walls. I end up sandwiched between Mr. Inouye, who always wears a flat cap because he’s embarrassed about losing his hair, and Mrs. Mayeda, who always smells like coffee breath and Chantilly perfume.
Through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of the notices—CIVILIAN EXCLUSION ORDER NO. 20—and I know. I know even before I read the rest of it.
Mike Masaoka’s not resigning.
The JACL’s not protesting.
The evacuation has come to Japantown.
Halfway down the page, there’s a paragraph describing the borders of the evacuation area—it’s the whole north half of the neighborhood, only missing my apartment by a block.
“Tommy’s family lives up there,” Twitchy mutters.
“And Stan’s,” I add. Two of our best friends in the world are going to be torn from their homes, and no one’s doing a damn thing about it.
Between my teeth, I can feel a low buzz, like a power line inside me is busted and I’m going to start breathing sparks if I open my mouth.
I shake my head, and the humming subsides—you can’t fight the federal government, not unless you want to end up in prison—and I glance back at Twitchy with a lopsided grin. “You know, all of a sudden I don’t feel like going to school.”
He chuckles. “You never feel like going to school.”
“Yeah, but why bother now?” There’s that buzzing again. I taste electricity on my tongue. “They’re going to kick us all out in a couple weeks anyway.”
* * *
When no one’s looking, we climb the fire escape three stories to the roof of the Toyo Hotel, where we always go when we ditch because no one will find us up there. It’s even got a couple bottles of soda and a bunch of comic books we stashed in a box near the ledge overlooking the intersection at Post and Buchanan.
Below, people are milling about like ants. All those people who’re gonna be gone.
There’s my girl, Yum-yum, and her friend Hiromi, who’s wearing a blond wig, on their way to school. There’s Mr. Tanaka, who works at the YMCA—he’s trailing a cloud of smoke because he wants to get in one last cigarette before he clocks in. There’s Jim Kitano and his brother, Shuji, those bullies who used to pick on Minnow in elementary school. There’s Tommy Harano—you can recognize Tommy anywhere, he’s so short. The kids used to call him ebi—you know, like “shrimp”—but that was before me and Mas adopted him into our group. No one’s called him that in years because they all know they’d have to answer to us.
“Hey, Tommy!” Twitchy jumps up, waving his arms like he’s bringing a plane in to land. “Tommy!”
Tommy looks around, but so do Yum-yum and Hiromi and Mr. Tanaka and the Kitano brothers. Yum-yum frowns up at us, and I blow her a kiss before I pull Twitchy back down. “You wanna get us caught?”
“Nah, but Tommy—”
“You got anything to throw?” I turn out my pockets. I’m carrying: the homework I won’t be turning in, my student ID, thirty-eight cents, a candy-bar wrapper, and the key to our apartment, which won’t be our apartment soon, I guess.
Together, we peer over the edge of the roof. Below, Tommy’s already crossing the street.
Twitchy wads up some of my homework and hurls it at Tommy’s back. It falls short by a yard.
Quickly, I take the first page of an English essay and fold it in half lengthwise. The paper’s crisp. The creases are clean.
“Hurry up, Shig.” Twitchy jiggles my shoulder. “He’s getting away!”
“Quit shaking me!” I make a couple diagonal folds and bend the flaps into the shapes of wings.
Then, standing, I let it fly.
The paper airplane soars out over the street, turning and wheeling almost like it’s alive. It strikes Tommy in the neck before he’s even made it to the other side of the road.
“Direct hit!” Twitchy laughs.
Tommy turns again, rubbing the back of his neck, and this time he sees us beckoning him up to the rooftop. His big eyes widen, and he beams up at us, waving, as he runs back toward the Toyo Hotel fire escape.
“What’re you doing up here?” he asks as he scrambles onto the roof. “Aren’t you going to school?”
Twitchy and I glance at each other. Tommy always takes things harder than the rest of us. How do we break the news that he’s getting kicked out of the only place he’s ever lived?
We sit him down between us and tell him about the exclusion order. “Your family’s in the first group,” I say as gently as I can, because right now, Tommy looks like someone’s kicked him in the teeth.
“At least this way, you don’t have to go to school either,” Twitchy adds.
Tommy just stares down at the rooftop between his sneakers.
Gently, I crumple the second page of my essay and press it into his hands. “Here,” I say, pointing at Bob Tomioka, who’s standing on the street corner in those oxford shoes he keeps shined up like mirrors. “Bet you can’t hit Bob over there.”
Tommy’s hand closes around the ball of paper, and he gives me a weak smile. “How much?”
The rest of the morning, we throw things at passersby, laughing when they spin around, trying to find us.
Goodbye, student ID. It’s not like I’m gonna need you anyway.
Goodbye, last three pages of my English essay.
Goodbye, candy-bar wrapper.
Goodbye, biology notes I was supposed to study.
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
* * *
That night, Mas tells me and Minnow to start making lists. The evacuees can take only two suitcases each, he says, so we’ve got to be smart about what to bring when it’s our turn to go.
“Smart?” I laugh. “Have you met me? ‘Smart’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”
He fixes me with one of those stares, you know, the ones where he tries to act like our dad instead of our older brother. “You’d better study up, then,” he says.
So here goes, I guess.
THINGS TO BRING WHEN IT’S OUR TURN TO LEAVE
money
clothes
more money
Over the weekend, signs pop up all around the neighborhood. EVACUATION SALE. FURNITURE SALE. CLOSING OUT SALE. BIG SALE. PRICES SMASHED. Some are printed, but most are handwritten in squashed block letters.