Eiko stared blankly at a rack of magnets, most of them aggressively screaming I heart NY like they were trying to convince her this trip had been totally worth it. Just a wholesome little getaway. Not one where she, a literal nobody, would be performing on the same stage as Banana Fish. 

THE Banana Fish.

And, thanks to Ibe, she’d have to face them later today. All of them. Eiko's stomach curled in on itself. Maybe if she bought enough souvenirs, she could build a fort and hide inside it. Forever.

"What about this?" Ibe’s voice cut through Eiko's spiral. She emerged from the next aisle, arm extended, holding something oval and blue. 

Before Eiko could respond, Ibe shoved the thing into her hands. 

"Eek," Eiko squeaked, nearly dropping it—it was cold, nasty, and so slippery it practically wiggled on its own. "What…" Eiko blinked down at a little dolphin, which sloshed inside the blue goo-filled plastic sleeve.  "What is this?" She shook the object carefully, nearly dropping it again. 

"It’s cute," Ibe said as if that explained anything. "Maybe Tomoya would like it?"

"It is, but—" Eiko paused thinking of the nicest way to phrase this. "But Tomoya... He's into stock-market. And Naruto. Not… dolphins."

Ibe squinted, eyebrows furrowed. "You’re telling me I don’t know men?" Her voice wavered, clearly not sold on her own argument, which made sense. Everyone knew Ibe’s dating life was a forbidden topic, mostly because it was about as real as her houseplants: neglected and barely hanging on.

Ibe seemed to realize it too. Her frown melted into a sheepish smile. "Alright, fine. You might have a point." She then leaned in, rubbing her chin like some detective. "And the longer I look at it… it kind of looks like…"

Eiko blinked, confused. "Like what?"

Ibe sneered, blushing slightly. Her voice dropped to a whisper as if anyone else in this nearly empty American souvenir shop could understand Japanese: "The way you wiggle it." Ibe gestured, mimicking Eiko shaking the toy. "You know?"

Eiko glanced at the oblong object squeezed in her hand, then back at Ibe still shaking her fist.

Oh.

"Oh my god," Eiko dropped the toy like it burned, eyes wide. It hit the floor with a wet splat. "Ibe!"

Ibe burst out laughing, almost doubling over. "Snake. I was going to say snake."

"Sure." Eiko chuckled despite a wave of embarrassment creeping up her spine. She then picked up the oddly shaped thing and stuffed it into the lowest shelf before anyone could spot her.

Still giggling, Ibe wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "I'm glad," she said, then cleared her throat. "Glad to see you laughing. Feeling better. Really."

Eiko smiled. It was true, her pain was a low three despite all the odds, and her fatigue seemed much more manageable too. But her brain had already fast-forwarded to the rehearsal. "Hey," she said, voice low. "Did I make things weird yesterday?"

Ibe glanced over, the way a mom might glance at a kid before deciding whether to tell them the tooth fairy’s not real. "Define weird."

"You know what I mean."

Ibe waved a dismissive hand. "You were just being you."

And that was the problem. Eiko knew she didn't handle her liquor well, yet she still drank. She didn't belong in the spotlight, yet came here. Willingly. She was dumb, plain and simple. 

"I hate being me," Eiko whispered, a sharp knot tightening in her throat. She did her best not to cry in a gift shop of all places.

"Wait, no, that’s—" Ibe shook her head. "Eiko, listen." She put a hand on Eiko's shoulder. "I know you. People like you. We wouldn't have been invited otherwise. And can you imagine Tomoya's face when you tell him you hung out with Banana Fish?"

Eiko was about to point out that Tomoya couldn’t name a single American rock band yet could list a hundred Pokemon without blinking, when a ringtone cut her off mid-thought.

Ibe grabbed her phone. "Sorry, so sorry. Gotta take this," she said, then ducked outside, phone pressed to her ear.

Eiko swallowed the knot. When Ibe came back, Eiko could tell her she wasn't feeling well. She wouldn't even have to get into the details; Ibe was that understanding. Then, Eiko could go straight to bed. Relax. Avoid all the embarrassing confrontations, and maybe even try out her new bathtub that seemed like it could fit a family of four.

Out on the sidewalk, Ibe was still on the phone, pacing in tight circles, lips pressed into a thin, nervous line.

Yes, Eiko could lie, but the image of Ibe’s face when they were invited to the rehearsal—how she lit up like a kid at the sigh of the largest cone of cotton candy—made Eiko’s throat tighten. For Ibe, this wasn’t just a casual meet-up. It was a big deal. A once-in-a-career kind of big. Not only because she adored the band, but because she knew how much weight the right introductions could carry. The right room, the right people. It was everything.

And Eiko owed Ibe far more than a few polite favors.

So, maybe, all she had to do was to push through. For a while she'd be known as the stupid Japanese girl with no manners. So what? Nobody would remember her in the long-term. Ashlyn especially; she looked like the kind of person who didn't really like people anyway. And that was good.

Right?

Eiko turned back toward the store and wandered down the nearest aisle, her steps aimless until she found herself in front of a magazine rack. She’d forgotten to pack any books. Not that she read much lately, but still, having something to stare at might make the trip pass faster. Now she just had to choose.

101 Ways to Lose Weight Fast! a bold headline read.

Eiko rolled her eyes. As if granny calling her fat each time Eiko visited wasn't enough. She glanced at another magazine with a photo of Britney shaving her head framed at the top corner of the cover. It read:

CRAZY MADNESS. Bald Britney a Buzz Kill.

Mom would love this, Eiko thought. This seemed even more insane than her over-the-top Korean dramas. Eiko peeked at another magazine.

15 Celebs Who Got Fat! a bright blue headline read.

This was getting old… Eiko's gaze wandered to yet another read.

Rehab or a Secre—

Eiko felt her heart sink. She plucked the magazine off the rack, and, for a hot minute, she just stared at the beautiful green eyes on its cover. 

Ashlyn.

No wonder Eiko hadn't recognized her—the Ashlyn from the lounge was practically a different breed. This Ashlyn stared back confidently at her from the cover, posed on the hood of a vintage car, eyes heavy with eyeliner, and a devious grin on her red lips. She wore a shredded tank top layered over fishnet sleeves, which made Eiko wonder whether the material was scratchy against her porcelain-white skin; a plain mini-skirt and boots that looked like they could crush concrete.

Eiko swallowed, forcing her gaze back to Ashlyn’s face. It felt impolite, staring like that. Especially when her skin was… well, right there. Bold, shameless, unlike Eiko’s own careful modesty. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling. Awe, maybe. Or envy? Hopefully not. She was most likely just confused by the sheer contrast of the two of Ashlyn's personas, that would explain the odd fluttering in her chest.

Eiko opened the magazine and flipped through the pages, trying to act casual. She wasn’t exactly proud of herself, but would it be so bad if she peeked at more photos? Just for research purposes.

There she was again: Ashlyn in a back alley, the same Gibson guitar case flung on her shoulder, followed by a picture of the entire band posing at a record studio—Ashlyn smiling at the front, followed by a petite white girl with the cutest braid, and a much taller black girl, legs so long, Eiko had no doubt she was a model. Shorter was there too, smiling as brightly as she did yesterday. 

The four of them looked so effortlessly cool and so close, like the kind of band that once started in someone’s garage, all mismatched instruments and late-night dreams, but then, somehow, turned into an international success overnight. Eiko found herself wondering if that was the case.

She flipped the page. Another shot, grainy, clearly a job of the bloodsucking paparazzi: Ashlyn sitting at the front seat of a car, in the middle of what looked like a shouting match with some old white guy. The caption read: Rehab or a Secret Pregnancy? Banana Fish Frontwoman's Secrets Exposed!

Eiko’s fingers tensed around the edge of the page. 

She knew this game. Could taste its venom oozing from this article she wouldn't read in a million years. Eiko would see the same headlines with her name slapped across the top. Ex-idol Gone Off the Rails! Rumors said she was lazy. A diva. On drugs. What have you not. When really, she’d just been too sick to stand on stage.

Still, back then, sometimes, she would catch herself reading every word. Even if she had known how much it burned.

"You a Banana Fish fan?" a loud voice asked.

Eiko jumped, nearly dropping the magazine. Next to her stood a woman so tall, Eiko had to lift hear head to face her. She wore a wrinkled blue jacked accompanied by messy brown shoulder-length hair, and had the kind of confident slouch only real New Yorkers had.

"Uh." Eiko closed the magazine. Was she a fan? She didn't even recognize Ashlyn and Shorter in real life. But she did like some of their songs, so... "I—kinda?" 

The woman hummed, nodding at the cover. "Ashlyn your favorite, huh?"

"I don’t really have… favorites." Eiko sounded unconvincing even to herself.

"Mhm," the woman replied, dragging the sound out just long enough to make it clear she wasn’t buying it. "She’s somethin’, ain’t she?" With a dramatic swing of her hips, she leaned in, hands perched on her waist as she squinted at the magazine in Eiko’s hands. "Ages ago I saw her at the Found&Lost pub. When she was still riding solo, ya know. Girl lit that place up like the Fourth of July." 

Eiko made a small noise of agreement, smiling. Who knew that Americans were this chatty? And loud.

"Don’t believe half this tabloid crap, though," the woman continued, tucking an unruly strand behind her ear. "They’d say Rihanna's on meth if she was caught makeup-less."

Eiko squeezed the magazine, unsure of what to say. "That's true, I suppose…"

The brown-haired woman suddenly froze. "Hey—" Her smile turned into a curious grin. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound weird or anything, but…" She looked Eiko up and down. "Do I know you by any chance?"

Eiko froze. Was it possible that someone in the melting pot of America recognized some ancient ex j-pop idol? Eiko nervously adjusted the cap Ibe insisted on Eiko wearing. She should have worn that darn face mask too. "I—I don’t think so."

"My bad." The woman gave a little shrug. "Thought you're an old classmate or somethin'."

Eiko exhaled a sigh of relief, smiling awkwardly.

"I’m Max, by the way." The woman extended a hand. 

Eiko hesitated just a second too long, then shook it. "Ei—," she nearly choked on air. Ibe would have killed her if she used her real name. "Eiji," she corrected herself with the first thing that came to her mind. "Nice to meet you."

"Always fun bumping into another Banana Fish fan," Max said, already strolling off toward the exit. "Catch ya later." She waved goodbye.

Eiko waved back, watching her go. Just then, the door swung open and Ibe returned, her shoulder missing Max's just by a centimeter. Eiko couldn’t help but giggle; next to Max’s casual swagger, Ibe looked so small and serious, like an exhausted office worker who’d accidentally wandered into a comedy movie set.

Ibe marched towards Eiko. "PR nightmares followed me across the ocean," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Eiko's smile vanished. "What happened?" 

"Hina again." Ibe groaned, running a hand through her silk-smooth hair. "She threw up in a taxi, blamed the driver, and now I have to write an apology letter to a man people un-ironically call The Big Boy. He's sixty."

Eiko winced. "Oof."

Ibe patted herself on the chest, then took a deep breath. "It's fine, it's fine," she exhaled as if trying to convince herself, then shoved her phone into her bag. "Who were you talking to, by the way?"

Eiko shrugged. "Some woman." She glanced down at the magazine, still clutched tightly in her hands. "Caught me reading. Said she was a Banana Fish fan."

Ibe grinned. "In a true New Yorker fashion."

Eiko nodded, eyes drifting to the window framing a busy street. True New Yorker Fashion indeed. 

And in a kinda weird fashion too. Eiko was pretty sure Max left the store without buying anything. Didn't even have a bag.