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Back This Time Will Be Different Save as PDF
Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part I
  6. 3
  7. The History of My Beef with Brynn Foer-Preston
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part I
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part I
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part II
  20. 13
  21. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part II
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. The Complicated History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Imaginary Relationship with Her Nonexistent Dad
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part III
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. A Brief, Backward History of the McAllister Family, as Paraphrased from the San Jose Mercury News
  37. 26
  38. 27
  39. 28
  40. A Quick and Eerily Relevant History of Asians in America
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. A Brief History of Chisaki Joan Katsuyama’s Romantic Learning Opportunities, Part IV
  50. 37
  51. 38
  52. 39
  53. 40
  54. 41
  55. 42
  56. 43
  57. 44
  58. A Series of Screw-ups: The Chisaki Joan Katsuyama Story, Part II (Or Maybe It’s a Prequel)
  59. 45
  60. 46
  61. 47
  62. 48
  63. 49
  64. 50
  65. 51
  66. 52
  67. 53
  68. The History of the Katsuyama Family, Part III
  69. 54
  70. A Note from the Author
  71. Index of Flowers and their Meanings
  72. Acknowledgments
  73. About the Author
  74. Praise for This Time Will Be Different
  75. Books by Misa Sugiura
  76. Back Ad
  77. About the Publisher

And now here we are. Owen and I aren’t exactly well matched in speed or strength, and—probably the biggest obstacle to a well-coordinated sprint for our lives—we don’t have matching memories of the path we took to get to the Monterey pine grove in the first place. I’m sure we have to veer slightly to the left, but Owen keeps screaming (no point in trying to be stealthy anymore, as galumphing across the fairway of the fifth hole in the pouring rain with a giant ladder in your arms is not an endeavor that lends itself readily to stealth) that we need to push farther to the right. I’m starting to imagine—or maybe it’s real—the voices of the security guards shouting at us: “STOP! You with the ladder!”

“There it is!” pants Owen from the back as the van finally comes into view—about a hundred yards to the right of where I’m headed. Dammit.

We execute a clumsy course correction, stagger up a steep hill to the chain link fence surrounding the property, and collapse the ladder back down to its original eight feet. Owen shimmies through the muddy gap under the fence and then turns around and drags the ladder through as well. Then it’s my turn. The flashlights are coming closer, but we should have time to escape before the guards get a good look. As Owen lugs the ladder to the van and throws open the back doors, I slide under the fence.

And then I stop. My backpack, bulging with pine cones, has caught on one of the steel links, and now I’m stuck, facedown in the mud. I tug, I pull, I squirm, but I can’t move backward or forward. Why, oh why didn’t I think to take it off first? I try to wriggle out of the backpack, but I can’t twist my body to free my shoulders of the straps.

“Owen! Help!” I’m so wet, I have to blink the water out of my eyes, but I can just see the flashlights. They’ll be on us in a minute. The engine starts. I thrash like a fish in a net, one last desperate effort to free myself. Through the swirling haze of my panic, I have one clear thought: We’re going to get caught because of Hannah and her damn flower magic.

But then a hand is unbuckling my left strap and Owen’s voice is urging me to scooch out. Suddenly free to move, I push myself through the rest of the gap and leap into the passenger seat. Moments later, Owen appears in the driver’s seat, tosses the backpack in my lap, and we’re off. I look in the side-view mirror to check on our pursuers, but I don’t see anything. We’re safe.

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