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Emiko Jean’s New York Times bestseller and Reese Book Club Pick Tokyo Ever After is the “refreshing, spot-on” (Booklist, starred review) story of an ordinary Japanese American girl who discovers that her father is the Crown Prince of Japan!
Izumi Tanaka has never really felt like she fit in―it isn’t easy being Japanese American in her small, mostly white, northern California town. Raised by a single mother, it’s always been Izumi―or Izzy, because “It’s easier this way”―and her mom against the world. But then Izumi discovers a clue to her previously unknown father’s identity…and he’s none other than the Crown Prince of Japan. Which means outspoken, irreverent Izzy is literally a princess.
In a whirlwind, Izumi travels to Japan to meet the father she never knew and discover the country she always dreamed of. But being a princess isn’t all ball gowns and tiaras. There are conniving cousins, a hungry press, a scowling but handsome bodyguard who just might be her soulmate, and thousands of years of tradition and customs to learn practically overnight.
Izumi soon finds herself caught between worlds, and between versions of herself―back home, she was never “American” enough, and in Japan, she must prove she’s “Japanese” enough. Will Izumi crumble under the weight of the crown, or will she live out her fairy tale, happily ever after?
Look for the bestselling sequel, Tokyo Dreaming, out now.
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ISBN-10
1250766621
ISBN-13
978-1250766625
Print length
352 pages
Language
English
Publisher
Flatiron Books
Publication date
May 17, 2021
Dimensions
5.35 x 0.9 x 8.25 inches
Item weight
10.1 ounces
I want to understand myself. I want to put my hands in the earth and pull up roots.
Highlighted by 368 Kindle readers
But sometimes when you’re down, you can’t help but try to pull others into the gutter with you. It’s lonely at the bottom.
Highlighted by 359 Kindle readers
Like shortening my name, a paler skin color and a rounder eye shape would have made my life so much easier, the world so much more accessible.
Highlighted by 336 Kindle readers
ASIN :
B08GJSXQGM
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4988 KB
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A New York Times bestseller
Reese Witherspoon YA Book Club Pick
A Must-Read Book of the Year (School Library Journal, Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, Entertainment Weekly, Good Morning America, Goodreads.com, Boston Public Library, EpicReads.com, San Francisco Chronicle, Bustle, Publishers Weekly, BuzzFeed.com, Parade and more)!
#1 Indie Next Pick
Junior Library Guild selection
“If The Princess Diaries met Crazy Rich Asians, you would get close to the wonderfully chaotic splendor of Tokyo Ever After.” ―Entertainment Weekly (Best Book of Summer)
“Izumi’s determined spirit and character arc will endear readers to her. A fun experience that readers will want to read again and again.” ―School Library Journal, starred review (Best Book of the Year)
“A refreshing and spot-on depiction of Japanese Americans exploring their heritage, with appeal far beyond female Asian readers.” ―Booklist, starred review
“A fresh, funny, emotive, inspiring, and empowering #ownvoices triumph.” ―Shelf Awareness
“This YA novel with broad appeal follows a Japanese American girl on the ride of her life as she discovers her father is the Crown Prince of Japan. Amidst the backdrop of cherry blossoms, castles, and royal life, she has real-world struggles trying to fit in to two cultures.” ―Newsweek
“Move over, Mia Thermopolis! Princess Izumi will completely capture your heart while making you laugh nonstop. With an unforgettable voice and a heart-fluttering romance, Tokyo Ever After is an instant favorite.” ―Gloria Chao, author of American Panda
“Despite the swoon-worthy love interest and glittering palaces, Tokyo Ever After is not your typical princess story. Izumi is a spunky, irreverent, lovable narrator who struggles to reconcile her American upbringing with her Japanese heritage. A fresh and distinctly modern fairy tale.” ―Katharine McGee, author of the American Royals series
“Emiko’s flair for sumptuous detail―Food! Castles! Swoony confessions! Court drama! Cherry blossoms by the million!―locked me helplessly into a world of splendor I never wanted to leave.” ―David Yoon, author of Frankly in Love
“A gorgeously detailed rom-com that made me want to move to Japan and never come back.” ―Nicola Yoon, author of The Sun Is Also a Star
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THE TOKYO TATTLER
The Lost Butterfly gets her wings clipped
April 4, 2021
A timeless elegance imbued Prime Minister Adachi’s wedding to shipping heiress Haya Tajima at the luxurious New Otani Hotel. Though this is the PM’s second marriage (his first wife passed away several years ago), no expense was spared. Men wore coattails. Women dressed in silks. Glasses bubbled over with Dom Pérignon. Black-and-white swans, imported from Australia, swam in the garden pools. Attendees were a veritable feast of Japan’s upper-crust society, including the imperial family. Even His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Toshihito was present, despite ongoing disagreements with the PM.
But the focus wasn’t on the feud, or even the bride and groom, for that matter. All eyes were turned to the newly minted princess, Her Imperial Highness Princess Izumi, aka the Lost Butterfly. The wedding marked her first formal entrance into Japan society. Would she fly—or fall?
HIH Princess Izumi certainly dressed the part in a jade silk gown and Mikimoto pearls, pulled from the imperial vaults and gifted by the empress. Press wasn’t allowed inside the actual celebration, but by all accounts, the affair was flawless.
So why was the Lost Butterfly spied boarding a train to Kyoto this morning? The Imperial Household Agency insists it was a planned, scheduled trip to the countryside. But we all know the Kyoto imperial villa is where royals go to repent. Last year, His Imperial Highness Prince Yoshihito stayed there while he recovered from an unauthorized trip to Sweden.
It appears this butterfly’s wings have been clipped. What could HIH Princess Izumi have possibly done to warrant an expulsion from the Tokyo imperial estate? No one has a clue. But somebody is definitely in trouble …
1
It is the sacred duty of best friends to convince you to do the things you should not do.
“You’re never going to finish this. You tried. You really tried,” Noora, aforementioned best friend, says. “You gave it a shot.”
A shot consisted of one five-minute attempt at an essay on the theme of personal growth in Huckleberry Finn. Noora is supposed to be helping me. I called her over for moral support. “Better we just give up and move on.” She flops onto my bed, arms across her eyes—the literal definition of a swoon. So dramatic.
Her argument is compelling. I’ve had four weeks to work on the journal. Today is Monday. It is due Tuesday. I don’t know enough about math to approximate the statistics of finishing on time, but I bet they’re low. Hello, consequences of my own actions. We meet again, old friend.
Noora’s head pops up from my pillow. “Good Lord, your dog stinks.”
I cuddle Tamagotchi close to my chest. “It’s not his fault.” My terrier mix has a rare glandular condition for which there is no cure or medication. He also has a you’re-so-ugly-you’re-cute face and a gross fetish for his own feet. He sucks his toes.
Pretty sure I was put on this earth to love this canine.
“I can’t ditch the assignment. I need it to pass the class,” I say, surprising myself. I am seldom the voice of reason. Confession: there is no voice of reason in our friendship. Conversations usually go:
Noora: suggests bad idea
Me: hesitates
Noora: disappointed face
Me: comes up with worse idea
Noora: delighted face
Basically, she instigates and I double down. She’s the Timberlake to my Biel, the Edward to my Bella, the Pauly D to my Jersey Shore. My bestie from another teste. My ride or die. It’s been this way since second grade when we bonded over our skin color—a shade darker than the white kids in Mount Shasta—and a shared inability to follow simple instructions. “Draw a flower?” Scoff. How about an entire ocean landscape with starfish criminals and an I-don’t-play-by-the-rules dolphin detective instead?
Together, we’re one half of an Asian Girl Gang—AGG, for short. Think less organized crime, more Golden Girls. Hansani and Glory are the other two parts. Membership dues are strict and paid in some claim to Asian ancestry. Meaning: we’re pan-Asian. In a town strung together with tie-dyes and confederate flags, one cannot afford to discriminate.
Noora levels me with her eyes. “It’s time to give up. Adapt. Overcome. Be at peace with your failure. Let’s go to the Emporium. I wonder if that cute guy still works behind the counter. Remember when Glory got all flustered and ordered Reese’s penises ice cream? C’mon, Zoom Zoom,” she cajoles.
“I wish you’d never heard my mother call me that.” I shift, and Tamagotchi scrambles from my arms. It is no secret: I love him more than he loves me. He circles and lays down, tucking his chin into his butt. So. Cute.
Noora shrugs. “I did, though, and it’s amazing. Now I cannot not use it.”
“I prefer Izzy.”
“You prefer Izumi,” she volleys back.
Correct. But by the third grade, I’d heard those three syllables butchered enough to want to simplify my name. It’s easier this way.
“If white people can learn Klingon, they can learn to pronounce your name.”
When someone is right, they’re right. “True,” I admit.
My bestie taps her fingers against her stomach, a clear sign of boredom. She sits up, and her smile is catlike—secretive, smug. Another reason I’m a dog person. Never trust a cat, they’ll eat your face if you die. (I have no proof of this. Only a strong gut feeling.) “Forget the Emporium, then. I’m feeling pale and unattractive.”
Now I’m grinning. We’ve been down this road before. I am happy to follow. “Maybe we should just freshen up and try again?” I ever so helpfully suggest. Tamagotchi’s ears perk up.
Noora nods sagely. “Great minds think alike.” She flashes me another smile and dashes out the door toward Mom’s master bathroom, otherwise known as the Rodeo Drive of cosmetics. It’s hard to think about what’s on the chipped vinyl counter and not salivate—shiny lacquered cases of Chanel eye shadow palettes, a La Prairie caviar sleep mask, Yves Saint Laurent Couture eyeliner. Oh, and Korean skincare products, anyone? Yes, please. Each decadent little indulgence holds a promise of better tomorrows. Like, things are super bad right now, but I really think this bronzer in Golden Goddess is going to turn it all around.
Irony is, the pricey makeup is the diametric opposite of mom’s no-fuss practicality. She drives a Prius, next-level recycles (sometimes I think she had a child just to help her turn the compost pile), and reuses her pantyhose. Got leftover soap slivers? Shove them in the toe of an old stocking and get every last bit of suds out of them. When I point out this hypocrisy to Mom, she is flat-out dismissive. “Whatever,” she says. “It’s all part of my feminine mystique.” I don’t disagree. We ladies contain multitudes. What it comes down to is, the glosses and highlighters are Mom’s guilty pleasure. And it’s purely Noora’s and my pleasure to paint our faces while Mom is teaching at the local community college.
I find Noora applying a Dior gloss and peeking through the blinds. “Jones is in your backyard again.”
I cross the carpet and join Noora to peer out the window. Yep, that’s him. Our next-door neighbor wears a floppy pink sun hat, white T-shirt, yellow Crocs, and a sarong so colorful it’s offensive—I mean, who created such an unholy thing?
He carries two jars of dark liquid and places them on our back porch. Probably kombucha. The bearded wonder is sweet on my mom, brews his own tea, keeps bees, and his favorite T-shirt says Love Sees No Color. This, of course, is a lie. Love definitely sees color. Example: when I mustered up the courage to tell my seventh grade crush I liked him, he replied, “Sorry, I just don’t find Asian chicks attractive.” Since then, my love life has followed the same cursed path. My last relationship ended in a dumpster fire. His name was Forest and he cheated on me during homecoming. We consciously uncoupled. I rub my side where there is a sudden sharp pain—probably gas, definitely not the memory.
“It’s a little creepy that he brings your mom stuff all the time. Kind of like a feral cat that leaves dead mice on your porch.” Noora re-caps the gloss and smooths her lips together. The deep red color matches her personality. Subtle is not in her vocabulary.
I cross my arms. “Two weeks ago, he brought her a book of pressed flowers.” Mom may be a bio professor, but botany is her real jam. What Jones lacks in fashion, he makes up for in game. I’ll give that to him.
Noora moves from the window and pitches the gloss onto Mom’s flea market quilt. Mom’s a fan of old things. “Is this the book he made her? Rare Orchids of North America?” She’s at Mom’s nightstand now, rifling through her stuff. Such a snoop.
“No,” I say. “That’s different.” I’ve never paid much attention to the book. Because, rare orchids and all.
Noora flips open the cover. “Ruh-roh, Scooby Doo. What’s this?” She taps a finger against the title page and begins reading. “My dearest Hanako—”
It takes a moment for me to catch up. Dearest? Hanako? I lunge, snatching the book from her hands.
“Grabby,” she mumbles, resting a chin on my shoulder.
The handwriting is neat but slanted, the pencil nearly faded.
My dearest Hanako,
Please let these words say what I cannot speak:
I wish I were close
To you as the wet skirt of
A salt girl to her body.
I think of you always.
—Yamabe no Akahito
Yours,
Makoto “Mak”
2003
Noora whistles low. “Guess Jones isn’t your mom’s only not-so-secret admirer.”
I sit down on the bed. “Mom never mentioned a Makoto.” I don’t know how to feel about that fact. It’s strange to think about your parent’s life before you. Call me narcissistic, but it’s a teen’s prerogative to believe everything started the moment you were born. Like: Izzy’s here now. Earth, you may begin spinning. I don’t know, maybe it’s an only child thing. Or maybe my mom loved me so much she made it seem that way.
I’m still processing this when Noora carefully says, “So, hey. You were born in 2003.”
“Yeah.” I swallow, staring at the page. Our thoughts have turned in the same improbable, yet intuitively correct direction. Mom said she got pregnant with me in her final year of college. My parents were in the same senior class. Harvard, 2003. My father was another student, visiting from Japan. A one-night stand. But not a mistake, she always insisted. Never a mistake.
I stare at the name. Makoto. Mak. What are the chances Mom had separate affairs with two different Japanese men in the year I was born? I glance at Noora. “This could be my father.” Saying it out loud feels weird, heavy. Taboo.
The topic of my father has always been a biographical footnote. Izzy was conceived in 2003 by Hanako Tanaka and an unknown Japanese male. It isn’t the knowledge of my origins that makes me feel bad. I am a daughter of the twenty-first century; no way I’d be ashamed of my mom’s sexual liberation. I respect her decisions, even though the word mom and the word sex makes me want to set something on fire.
It’s the not knowing that makes my soul ache. Walking down the street, examining people, and wondering: Are you my father? Could you know my father? Could you know something about me I don’t?
Noora looks me over. “I know that look. You’re getting your hopes up.”
I hug the book to my chest. Sometimes it’s hard not to be jealous of my bestie. She’s got so much I don’t—two parents and an enormous extended family. I’ve been to Thanksgiving at her house. It’s a real Norman Rockwell painting except with a tipsy uncle, Farsi flying around, pomegranate gravy, and persimmon tarts in lieu of apple pie. She knows exactly where she comes from, who she is, what she’s all about.
“Seriously,” I say finally.
Noora sits down and nudges me. “Seriously? This could be your dad. This could not be your dad. No need to jump to conclusions.” Too late.
As a kid, I thought lots about my father. Sometimes, I fantasized he was a dentist or an astronaut—and once, though I’ll never admit it out loud, I wished he was white. Actually, I wished both my parents were white. White was beautiful. White was the color of my dolls and the models and families I saw on TV. Like shortening my name, a paler skin color and a rounder eye shape would have made my life so much easier, the world so much more accessible.
I glance at the page. “Harvard must have records of who attended.” It comes out wobbly. I’ve never dared search for my father. I don’t even really talk about him. For one, Mom hasn’t really encouraged it. In fact, her unwillingness to speak about him discouraged it. So I kept quiet, not wanting to rock the mother-daughter boat. I still don’t. But I shouldn’t have to do this alone, either. Isn’t that what best friends are for? To share the weight?
Click. Flash. Noora takes a picture of the page with her phone. “We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she promises. God, I wish I could bottle her confidence, her self-assuredness. If I only had half as much as she does. “You okay?” she asks.
My lips twitch. There’s a skittery feeling in my chest. This could be big. Really big. “Yeah. It’s just a lot to process.”
Noora flings her arms around me, squeezing me tight. We hug it out. “Don’t worry,” she says earnestly. “We’ll find him.”
“You really think so?” I let all the hope shine in my eyes.
The catlike smile returns. “Is Cinnabon my downfall?”
“Based on past consumption, I’d say yes.”
Her nod is swift and confident. “We’ll find him.”
See? Ride or die.
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Emiko Jean
Emiko Jean is a New York Times best-selling author of adult and young adult fiction.Her books have been published in over thirty languages. Her work has been featured on Good Morning America as a GMA book club pick, by Reese Witherspoon as a young adult book club pick, and in publications such as: Marie Claire, Entertainment Weekly, Time, Cosmopolitan, Shondaland and Bustle. She lives in Washington with her husband and two kids.
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Customer reviews
4.4 out of 5
2,275 global ratings
Ace Fan
5
Must read💖
Reviewed in the United States on April 14, 2024
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YOU NEED TO READ THIS BOOK IF YOU ARE A ROMANCE ASIAN GIRL!!
Alexis Guimond - Swan
5
Perfect!
Reviewed in the United States on July 27, 2024
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Love this book so much a pretty quick read even if your a slow reader super hard to put down after you pick it up.
Kim Deister
5
Such a great read!
Reviewed in the United States on June 10, 2021
Verified Purchase
I came across Tokyo Ever After when I saw it on Reese’s Book Club, and I am so glad I did! This is the first I’ve read by Emiko Jean, but it won’t be the last.
The idea that Izumi Tanaka finds out that she’s a long-lost princess of Japan seemed far-fetched, and I wondered how that was going to play out over the course of the story without sounding utterly ridiculous. I worried for nothing.
Izumi is the perfect kind of girl character. She’s confident in who she is as a person, she’s smart and clever, she’s funny, and she’s fiercely loyal. But how that translates to the Japanese culture and the imperial family is what makes the story so engrossing.
She’s grown up in northern California in a small,, predominantly white town, often feeling as if she’s too Japanese. Her best friends feel the same way, all of them of different Asian descents. Together, however, they are everything that’s good about female friendship. And they support her in every way when her world is tipped upside down with the discovery that her father is the Crown Prince of Japan. Izumi hopes that she’ll find that other part of herself in Japan, her Japanese side. And she does, to a point. But she also discovers that she just might be “too American.” The journey she goes on with her new family, and herself, was everything I want in a book.
And the romance… it was beautiful, even if slight instalove and slightly fluffy. It was perfect for the moment when you just need something good and pure and right,
This is a story about friendships and love, about loyalty, about finding yourself, and finding the courage to be who you really are… unapolegetically. It was beautifully written, each character distinct and interesting. And some of the themes were very deep and thought-provoking. I loved everything about this book!
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