Misa Sugiura - Love & Other Natural Disasters

For my grandmothers,

Mie Sakata, a quick-witted, sharp-tongued troublemaker who told me stories and made me laugh

and

Sumiko Sugiura, a soft-spoken, brilliant intellect who taught me to love art and encouraged me to dream

IF THERES ONE THING I BELIEVE IN, ITS LOVE. No matter what the universe throws at you, love will win in the endas long as you dont give up. There may be nothing left of your heart but splinters and cracked cement blocks, but you have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and rebuild. You cant quit. You cant fall into despair. You have to keep going.

For example: Lets pretend that the girl from your art history electivewell call her Helenashe of the short, sleek, platinum blond hair, hazel eyes, and lips that make your knees go weak, whos starting Harvard in the fall, and who has kissed you a thousand times at sunset on an imaginary windswept moorshows up at a party youre attending. Lets say that, fortified by three vodka Jell-O shots and end-of-the-school-year elation, you walk up to her and tell her that shes the most beautiful girl youve ever met, and later that night, by some miracle, she finds you under a balcony and kisses you in the shadows until theres nothing left of you but sparkling fairy dust, and in your weakened state, you ask if she wants to hang out next weekend, and her face clouds and she goes, Ohhh. Um.

And you go, Oh. Um...

And she says, Listen, dont get me wrong, okay? Youre super sweet. But youre not exactly my type.

And you say, Oh, right. Of course. I understand, even though you dont. Though, come to think of it, you kind of do. Because shes gorgeous, sophisticated, wildly talentedall the things youre not.

When that happens, for example, you cant give up. You have to give yourself credit because heyyou took a risk! You have to say to yourself, She kissed me, yay! and swear to remember tonight not as the night you were rejected by the girl of your dreams, but as the night you were kissed by the girl of your dreams.

And when, even later, youre encouraging yourself under that same balcony and you hear a voice above you saying, Wait, who?

And Helenas voice says, From art history. The mousy Asian one with no sense of style.

Ohhh, okay. Why, though? says the first voice.

Seriously, right? I dont know, I felt sorry for her, I guess. Whatever. It was fine, actually, but thenget thisshe asked me out.

And her friend shrieks and says, Oh my god, no! Shes so... blah. It would be like dating wallpaper!

Beige wallpaper, Helena says, and laughter spills into the night and drips over you like acid.

Even when that happens, you cant give up. You cant go home and crawl into bed and stew in your tears and vow never to leave the house ever again. No. You have to give yourself a mental shake and say, Shes wrong. I am a fun, fascinating human being who does all kinds of fun, fascinating things. You have to ignore that little voice in your head that says, Am I, though? and Whats wrong with me? and Why am I such a loser?

Ignore it, I said.

So okay. Maybe its been a bit of a struggle. I may have considered locking myself in my room all summer and burying myself in a queue of movies and a barrel of Red Vines.

But! Then! My uncle Stephen called and asked if my older brother, Max, and I wanted to come live and work with him in San Francisco for a few weeks. Stephen is the director of this private art museum, and he lives in a fabulous house with his husband, Lance, who is an architect and an amazing cook. So instead of rotting under my covers through a summer of isolation in Glenview, Illinois, Im sitting on a plane on my way to a summer of fun in San Francisco, California. Which goes to show that you should never give up hope.

I gaze down at green hills and rivers, at the endless patchwork of fields punctuated by farmhouses and tiny towns far, far below, and feel a flutter of anticipation. I picture myself strolling on the Embarcadero, or maybe sipping a latte and reading a book in a hip caf, or... Oh, I knownibbling on a crusty sourdough roll from some trendy new bakery as I sit on the front stoop of one of those fancy Victorian houses. Ill be with Stephen and Lance, andno, wait. Ill be with my girlfriend. Yes, thats it. My brand-new, stunning, glamorous... I dont care if its unlikely. Its my fantasy, and I may as well have a girlfriend in it.

I imagine the photos Ill post and the regret that Helena will feel when she sees them. (She doesnt follow me, but you never know. It could happen.) I doze off to pleasant visions of me with a faceless (but gorgeous and glamorous) girlfriend, holding hands and laughing on a trolley at the crest of a hill, the Golden Gate Bridge gleaming in the backgroundand Helena back in boring Glenview, lamenting through her tears, Look at her. Why did I let her go? How could I have misjudged her so?

I wake up with a tiny snort when the plane touches down in San Francisco; Max, thank goodness, is absorbed in conversation with the girl on his other side, and doesnt hear me. I watch as the girl (pale, blond, doe-eyed, named Chlo, probably) giggles and coyly tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then taps her phone as he gives her his phone number. I want to tell her not to waste her time, but I dont. Shell find out soon enough when Max ghosts her.

Max is a junior at University of Michigan. Hes tall for an Asian guy, and muscular, with big shoulders and casually messy hair held in place by some ber-masculine product that comes in a matte black tube. He spent a lot of time before he left for college trying to convince me that his effortless cool actually came from following some very basic rules that I, too, could learn (running shoes are for nerds; you can do better than jeans and a school-issue hoodie; dont read while you walk), but it seems I was born with an impermeable coating of cool-repellent, and he finally gave up on me as hopeless.

Why do you keep leading women on like that? I ask once were off the plane and out of Chlos earshot.

I dont lead them on.

You gave that girl your phone number. Youre leading her to believe youre interested in a relationship when youre not. Hence, leading her on.

What am I supposed to say? No, you cant have my number, Im not interested in a relationship? And what makes you think shes interested in a relationship?

What makes you think shes not? My point is, its not fair to make her expect something and then not follow through.

Depends on how you define following through. He leers at me.

You could be passing up your soul mate is what I mean, you disgusting slimeball.

Right, whatever, Anne of the Gables.

Anne of Green Gables, I correct him.

Whatever, he says again. That show that you always used to make us watch about the nerdy ginger who thought everything was so romantic.

Theres nothing wrong with wanting things to be romantic, I protest.

Hm. He stares at me appraisingly. Then he shrugs and says, Figures, and strides ahead.