Chapter 17: The Phone Call
The plum catsuit hung on the closet door like a second shadow, a slick, silent rebuke to the faded anime posters and the small family shrine on the bookshelf. Keiko sat cross-legged on her bed, phone a dead weight in her lap. The city’s perpetual murmur seeped through the window—a siren, a shout, the metallic groan of a bus—but in here, the only sound was the frantic drum of her own heart.
She had practiced the words in the shower, while making tea, on the subway. Mom, Dad, there’s something I need to tell you. You might see me on TV. It’s a good thing, I promise. The scripts all collapsed now, exposed as the flimsy constructs they were.
Her thumb scrolled to the contact labeled “Home.” The picture was last summer: her parents smiling stiffly in front of their prized hydrangeas, her father’s arm around her mother’s shoulders. A lifetime away.
She tapped the video call icon before she could think anymore.
The ringing tone was an assault. Once, twice. On the third ring, the screen resolved into the familiar, comforting clutter of her parents’ living room. Her mother’s face appeared, eyes squinting slightly at the screen, a smile already forming.
“Keiko-chan! You’re calling early. Everything okay?” Her mother’s voice, warm and slightly tinny through the speaker, unraveled something tight in Keiko’s chest. Behind her, her father peered over his newspaper, offering a silent wave.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Yeah, everything’s… yeah.” Keiko’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “I just… needed to talk to you. Before you maybe… heard from someone else.”
Her mother’s smile faded into a look of gentle concern. “Heard what? You’re not in trouble, are you? Is it school?”
“No, no trouble. It’s about… my job. At the boutique. And… some opportunities that came from it.” Keiko took a shaky breath. “There was a photographer. From the New York Times. He took a picture of me at work. And it… got published.”
Her father lowered his paper fully now. “The New York Times?” he said, his voice a low rumble. “That’s very prestigious, Keiko. For the business section?”
This was the first ledge. Keiko closed her eyes for a second. “Not exactly. It was a… style piece. A fashion photograph.”
“Oh!” Her mother’s face lit up again. “You modeled? In the newspaper? Why didn’t you tell us! We would have bought copies!”
“It’s not… traditional modeling, Mom.” Keiko’s fingers twisted the edge of her comforter. “The boutique, Second Skin, it’s specialized. The clothing is… unconventional. The piece I was wearing was made of latex.”
The word landed in the quiet living room three states away. Her mother blinked. “Latex? Like… gloves?”
“Like a full outfit. A catsuit.” Keiko could feel the heat in her cheeks. “It’s an artistic material. The designer, Eva, she’s a real artist. It’s not… it’s not what you’re thinking.”
Her father’s expression had gone carefully neutral. “What are we thinking, Keiko?”
“That it’s seedy or something. It’s not. It’s about self-expression and transformation. The photo captured that. It was beautiful.” She was parroting Eva’s talking points, and they sounded hollow in her own ears. “A lot of people saw it. It led to… more attention.”
Her mother leaned closer to the camera, her voice dropping. “What kind of attention, honey?”
“A TV show. 60 Minutes. They did a story on the boutique, and on… me. On the photo, and what it meant.” The words were tumbling out now, a rockslide she couldn’t stop. “It aired last night.”
Silence. Pure, absorbing silence. Keiko watched as her mother processed this, her eyes darting as if searching the living room for a reference point that didn’t exist. Her father simply stared, his jaw working slightly.
“60 Minutes,” her father repeated. “That is a serious program. For serious topics. Politics. Corruption.”
“They do human interest stories too, Dad. This was about the meaning of fashion, about authenticity…” Her own defense sounded weak, even to her.
“And they interviewed you? Our daughter? About wearing a rubber suit?” His tone wasn’t angry. It was bewildered, which was worse.
“It’s not a rubber suit,” Keiko snapped, a spark of the defiance she’d found in the boutique flaring up. “It’s a crafted garment. And the interview wasn’t just about the clothing. It was about me. About finding confidence. About saying no to people who wanted to… to shrink me.”
“Who wanted to shrink you?” her mother asked, her concern morphing into alarm. “Keiko, are you mixed up with bad people? Is this designer woman making you do things?”
“No! God, no. Eva is the one who gave me a voice.” She was losing them. The canyon between her world and theirs was widening in real time, a fissure opening on the screen. “There was a woman… a powerful editor from Vogue. She tried to control the narrative, to use me. And I stood up to her. On camera. That’s part of the story.”
“You had a confrontation with a Vogue editor? On national television?” Her father removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Keiko, do you have any idea what this could do to your future? Your reputation? This isn’t just a… a college hobby. This is your name in the world.”
“I know that!” The tears were close now, hot and insistent. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been living it. Every day. But this is my life. Here. This is who I’m becoming. I’m not the quiet girl from the library anymore. I can’t be.”
The raw confession hung in the digital space between them. Her mother’s eyes were glistening now. “We never wanted you to be quiet, sweetheart. We wanted you to be safe. To be happy. This… this sounds dangerous. And loud. You don’t like loud.”
“I’m learning to,” Keiko whispered.
Her father sighed, a long, weary sound that traveled perfectly through the microphone. “What do you want from us, Keiko? Approval? We don’t understand this world. It seems… chaotic. You’re exposing yourself. Your grandmother has already sent three texts asking if you’ve joined a cult.”
A watery laugh escaped Keiko, followed by a sob. “Tell Obaasan it’s not a cult. It’s just… me. A different version of me.”
“We love you,” her mother said, her voice thick. “That will never change. But you have to understand how this looks to us. It is sudden. It is… shocking. Your father is right about your name. Once it’s out there like this, you can’t take it back.”
“I don’t want to take it back.” Keiko wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, sitting up straighter. “I’m proud of the story. It’s the truth. I’m finally telling the truth about who I am.”
“And who are you?” her father asked, his question quiet, profound.
Keiko looked past the phone, to the sleek, dark shape on her closet door. She thought of standing in the studio lights, of the weight of Liam’s hand in hers, of the fierce protection in Eva’s eyes. She thought of the word “no” feeling like a superpower.
“I’m someone who isn’t afraid anymore,” she said, and though her voice trembled, the words held. “Or, I’m someone who’s afraid but does it anyway. I’m learning. I’m here. And I need you to trust me.”
The silence this time was softer, filled with the static of distance and the echo of her words. Her mother nodded slowly, a tear finally escaping down her cheek. “We will try to understand. You must send us the link to the program. We will watch it.”
“It might be… difficult to watch,” Keiko warned.
“You are our daughter,” her father said, replacing his glasses. His gaze was direct, unwavering. “Everything is difficult to watch. But we watch anyway.”
The call ended ten minutes later, after stilted promises to visit and awkward questions about her classes. The screen went black, reflecting Keiko’s own exhausted, streaked face.
She felt hollowed out, scraped raw. But beneath the fatigue, a new solidity had formed. It wasn’t the euphoric rush of the boutique party. It was quieter, deeper, forged in the painful, necessary fire of that conversation. They hadn’t approved. They didn’t understand. But they hadn’t let go.
She looked from the phone to the catsuit. The two poles of her universe. She got up, walked to the closet, and touched the cool, smooth material. It didn’t feel like a costume anymore. It felt like a choice. A complicated, messy, terrifying choice that was entirely her own.
Outside, the city’s noise continued, indifferent. Inside, the silence was no longer heavy. It was simply space. Space she had carved out for herself, and which, for now, felt enough.
Space she had carved out for herself, and which, for now, felt enough.
The next morning, the shop’s familiar scent of rubber and lemon polish was a relief. It was a tangible reality, unlike the echoing digital silence after her parents’ call. Keiko was meticulously dusting a display of articulated gloves when Eva’s phone, left on the cutting table, emitted a sharp, consecutive buzz.
“Can you get that?” Eva called from the back, her voice muffled by a mouthful of pins.
Keiko picked it up. The screen showed a name: Clara Vance. Below it, a text preview. …online chatter is bursting… we’re releasing the full…
“Eva,” Keiko said, her voice tight. “It’s from the producer.”
Eva emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. She took the phone, her green eyes scanning rapidly. A slow, complex smile spread across her face. “Well,” she said, exhaling the word like smoke. “The people want more. They’re releasing the full, unedited interviews online. Ours. And some… additional material.”
“Additional material?” Keiko’s stomach flipped. “What does that mean?”
“It means grab my laptop.” Eva’s tone was all business, but a feverish light had ignited in her gaze. “Let’s see what they deemed ‘extra.’”
They huddled behind the counter, the laptop a glowing square in the dim shop. Eva navigated to the 60 Minutes Extra site, her fingers clicking with sharp finality. There were two long-form videos, thumbnailed with their own interview stills. And a third, shorter one, labeled simply: Supplementary Context - On-Site.
“That one,” Keiko whispered, pointing.
Eva clicked it.
The footage was raw, the audio slightly tinny. It was from the bodycam of the sound technician, a low-angle, jostling view of the boutique floor just before the interview began. They saw themselves from behind, Keiko nervously straightening a seam on her dress, Eva adjusting a lamp.
Clara Vance’s voice, off-camera, was warm, pre-interview chatter. “Just be yourselves. Forget the camera. Eva, tell me about the first piece you ever sold that scared you.”
Eva, on screen, laughed. “A collar for a cardiologist. He said it helped him quiet the noise. That’s when I knew I wasn’t just making clothes. I was making silence.”
Then, the technician pivoted. The lens swept toward the boutique’s entrance window.
And there she was.
Mona.
But not the screaming harridan from the meltdown. This was earlier, minutes before. She stood on the sidewalk outside Second Skin, partially obscured by the lettering on the glass, a tall, slender silhouette in a camel coat. She was just… watching. Staring into the shop with an expression of pure, unadulterated calculation. Her head was tilted, her eyes narrowed, assessing the scene inside like a general surveying a battlefield.
The footage held on her for a ten-second eternity.
Then, Mona’s phone rose to her ear. The technician’s audio picked up the muffled vibration of the boutique door opening as Keiko had let Clara’s team in, but Mona’s own voice was a distant, indecipherable murmur through the glass. She spoke briefly, her gaze never leaving the window.
She ended the call, slipped the phone into her pocket, and took a deep, visible breath, squaring her shoulders. The calculation in her eyes hardened into resolve. Into a performance.
Then, and only then, did she reach for the door handle. The footage cut just as her fingers made contact.
The screen went black, reflecting their stunned faces.
“She was out there the whole time,” Keiko breathed. The revelation landed like a physical blow. “She wasn’t just happening by. She was waiting. She was preparing.”
Eva leaned back, a low whistle escaping her. “She was composing her symphony. The grand, wounded entrance. The righteous fury.” She tapped the frozen, black screen. “That wasn’t a meltdown. That was a fucking audition. And we gave her the stage.”
Keiko’s mind raced, rewinding every second. The crash of the door, the theatrical scream. It had all felt so violently real. Now, it looked rehearsed. “She wanted that confrontation. She needed it to be on camera. To make herself the victim.”
“To control the story,” Eva finished, her voice grim. “And it almost worked. If Clara had used the screaming-woman edit, it would have. But this…” She gestured at the laptop. “This shows the premeditation. They’re releasing this for a reason.”
The shop door’s bell jingled, making them both jump. Liam shouldered his way in, his guitar case banging against the frame. “Hey. You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse,” Eva said, spinning the laptop around. “We’ve seen the director. Watch.”
They played the supplementary clip again. Liam watched, his easy smile dissolving into something cold and focused. As it ended, he let out a blunt, “Wow.”
“She played everyone,” Keiko said, the anger now a clean, sharp blade inside her. “Including me. I thought I was reacting to her. She was just… conducting.”
Liam put a hand on her shoulder. His touch was solid, grounding. “But you still won. Her big performance got cut, and your quiet truth got aired. This just proves how right you were. How calculated she is.”
Eva’s phone buzzed again on the counter. Another text from Clara. Hope the context is helpful. The narrative is firmly yours now.
Keiko looked from the laptop to the window, where Mona had stood plotting. The space outside was just empty sidewalk now, ordinary and sun-drenched. The monster was no longer a screaming phantom, but a woman in a coat who made phone calls. That was more frightening, in a way. It was real.
“Helpful,” Keiko repeated, tasting the word. It was a strategic gift, a piece of ammunition wrapped in journalistic ethics. She closed the laptop lid with a definitive snap.
The click echoed in the quiet shop.
“So what do we do with this?” Liam asked.
Keiko met Eva’s eyes. A silent, understanding passed between them. They had the raw file of the meltdown, still buried. And now they had this, the proof of premeditation, publicly available for anyone to dissect. The chessboard had just been reset.
Keiko stood up, her body humming with a new, crystalline clarity. The conversation with her parents, the lingering doubt, it all burned away in the face of this cold evidence.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “We do nothing. We let it sit there. We let the internet connect the dots. Because the most powerful thing isn’t leaking a tape.” She glanced at the window. “It’s knowing you could, and choosing not to. It’s knowing exactly what she is, and deciding she doesn’t get to define what I am anymore.”
She walked to the front window and looked out at the empty spot where Mona had stood. The city flowed past, oblivious. Keiko didn’t see a ghost there now. She saw a stage that had been dismantled. The momentum was no longer Mona’s, or even Clara’s.
It was hers. And it was quiet, and it was patient, and it was just beginning to move.
The quiet certainty held for three days. It lived in the deliberate way Keiko folded the plum catsuit into its garment bag, in the focused silence of her studies, in the warmth of Liam’s hand that Friday afternoon as they cut across campus. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the smell of damp leaves and distant food trucks.
“So the gig’s at ten,” Liam said, swinging their linked hands. “You’re sure you just want to watch? The offer’s still open. You standing there would be… iconic.”
“Let me just get through one night as a normal girlfriend first,” Keiko said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “A normal girlfriend who might vomit from second-hand stage fright for you.”
He laughed, a sound that tangled with the distant thrum of a bassline from some frat house. Their path converged with a stream of students leaving a lecture hall. A girl in a thick knit scarf did a double-take, her eyes widening. She nudged her friend.
“Oh my god,” the friend whispered, not quietly enough. “Is that…?”
Keiko kept her eyes forward, a old habit, but the energy had shifted. A guy in a football jacket slowed his stride, looking from his phone to Keiko’s face and back. He grinned.
“Hey! You’re Keiko. The girl from 60 Minutes?” He said it like a fact, loud and friendly. “So cool, man. That was wild.”
Heat flooded Keiko’s cheeks. “Thanks,” she managed, the word barely audible.
Another student, a girl with vibrant blue hair, flashed a thumbs-up as she passed. “You rock! Go, girl!”
Liam squeezed her hand, a silent anchor. But then a voice, sharp and playful, cut from a cluster near the dorm entrance. “Who’s the arm candy, Keiko?” A few people laughed, not unkindly. The attention was a physical pressure, a cage of eyes she hadn’t asked for.
Liam just chuckled, waving them off. “Just the bassist, folks. Carry on.”
They practically fled into the familiar, slightly grimy hallway of her residence building. The cacophony of doors, showers, and bad pop music was a relief. It was anonymous. Until they reached her door.
A small pile of white and manila was fanned out across the scuffed linoleum, stuffed hastily underneath. Envelopes. Several of them.
“What’s all that?” Liam asked, bending to scoop them up.
Keiko unlocked the door, her heart doing a strange, fluttering thing. Inside, she dumped her backpack and took the stack from him. She leafed through them, her breath catching.
A glossy, embossed invitation to a rooftop party in SoHo hosted by a brand she didn’t recognize. A formal letter from a “digital brand synergy” startup, proposing a “collaborative partnership.” A handwritten note on scented stationery that began, “I saw your segment and felt a connection I haven’t felt in years…” Another was just a doodle of a cat in a latex suit with “UR AN INSPIRATION!” scrawled beneath.
She stared at the pile, at the absurd, physical proof of the digital noise. The party invite, the business proposal, the love letters. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat, tight and sudden.
It burst out of her, sharp and loud in the tiny room. She doubled over, tears streaming from her eyes, the envelopes crinkling in her clenched fist.
“Who… who are these people?” she gasped between laughs. “A collaborative partnership? A connection?”
Liam watched her, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re a phenomenon, Keiko. I told you.”
“It’s ridiculous!” she wheezed, wiping her eyes. She held up the love letter. “They don’t know me. They know a twelve-minute edit. They know a suit.” Her laughter subsided, leaving her feeling lightheaded and hollow. “What do I even do with these?”
“The party might have free drinks,” Liam offered, shrugging. “The business thing goes in the trash. The love letter… frame it? As a warning?”
She dropped the stack onto her desk, where it settled next to her dormant laptop and the USB drive that held Mona’s symphony of rage. Two forms of ammunition. One had just been delivered to her doorstep, unsolicited.
The laughter was gone, replaced by a cool, assessing calm. She picked up the business proposal again, scanning the jargon-filled paragraphs. “They want to use me. Just like Mona did. Just… nicer packaging.”
“Probably,” Liam agreed, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her head. “So you choose. You always choose now. That’s the power. You say no to them, too.”
Outside, the ordinary sounds of a Friday evening on campus built to a crescendo. Someone shouted. Music blared from a window. Life, vast and indifferent, rolled on. Keiko leaned back into Liam’s solid warmth, her eyes fixed on the pile of offers from a world that wanted a piece of the story she’d just begun to tell.
She had chosen not to burn Mona’s kingdom down. But these letters, these invitations, they were keys to different doors entirely. She didn’t have to walk through them. But for the first time, she truly understood she could open them, peek inside, and close them again on her own terms.
The momentum was no longer a quiet, internal thing. It was here, in her hands, printed on expensive cardstock and scented paper. She took a deep, steadying breath. The gig was in a few hours. For now, that was the only stage that mattered.