In that moment, we shared a mutual understanding, of what in particular I remain uncertain, but it was an understanding nevertheless.
There was something about Monterey Bay that made time stop. It was almost as if it were a gateway of sorts to an entirely new world. Things were different, and in Nottingham, from the minute you stepped outside, everyone was rushing somewhere, everyone appeared busy. But in Monterey, especially in Waverly Peak, time slowed. No one was in a hurry to go anywhere or do anything, the people here seem to appreciate the summer more.
I would be the first to admit that I was never a summer person. At a time when everyone around me was counting down the days for the summer, holidays, waiting for the sun to be at its peak in the sky, for the season of scorching rays of light and humid thunderstorms, I longed for the season of the sticks. I longed for the cold, frost might as well have been in my veins. I thrived in the snow, I lived for the ice. My sister has always joked about how I seemed to defrost the minute fall swept around. I was always sluggish in June and July.
But I was making it my mission to have things be different this time around. And so I woke up at five in the morning and made my way into the kitchen as I usually did like clockwork. I peeled open the blinds and put the kettle on the stove so the hot water could boil. I put on an apron and poured the flour into a bowl along with water, eggs, sugar, and milk. The girls were very particular about how they liked their pancakes. And I was very particular about pleasing them and doing things by the book. Bae liked hers with no sugar and only honey, specifically. Beck liked her with blueberries and whipped cream. Jiwon preferred hers with chocolate syrup and two scoops of ice cream.
If words couldn’t be my forte, then I guess my love language was acts of kindness towards them. I didn’t want them to have to do things that they didn’t have to. Not if I was there. Not if I could help it. Dad preferred to make his own breakfast, unfortunately, he wouldn’t let me dote on him. And I was nothing if not doting. I picked up the crayons and paints Baehad left scattered in the living room the night before and took a glance at the picture she’d crafted, it was the same as the others I pretended I didn’t see.
I set up all the food on the table alongside the plates and glasses and watched from atop the staircase as one by one they all woke up sleepy-eyed and wearing pajamas. I watched as the sun bled in through the window and lit up their faces as they woke up slowly. I sat atop the stairs, writing in this very diary as I usually did, observing them as I observed myself.
They always cleaned up the kitchen after I made breakfast—I never had to ask them, just as they never had to ask me. We just did things for each other, never because it was expected but because those acts of service were in our blood and bones. It was in the way our mother would memorize our breathing patterns and always knew if something was wrong, it was in the way our father would knit us all ugly Christmas sweaters every year so we could take our yearly family photo underneath the tree. It was simply just who we were. Sometimes cheesy, I’ll admit.
“Thanks for breakfast, Wyn Wyn,” Bae thanked me, planting a kiss atop my head on her way back to her bedroom, still wearing her polka-dotted footy pajamas, her Saturday ensemble.
“You needn’t thank me, Bae, ever,” I assured her, and she smiled.
“Your pancakes are almost like Mom’s!”
“Don’t tell her you told me that,” I warned her.
“I said almost, don’t let it get to your head,” she teased then ruffled my hair. I chased her down the hallway, diary in hand, as she giggled and I laughed too. However, there came a point where I couldn’t quite recall what was so hilarious in the first place.
Later that day, I went over to Mirrorball House at Cahya’s invitation—it was rather thrilling for me to be invited over and get out of the house for a change.
The Yeo’s house reminded me a bit of my own, lively and never dull. The fathers played pool on the porch, Sydney’s dad was there too, they all shared ice-cold beers from the cooler we’d carried outside.
Cahya, Jax from Gilmore Street, and I played water polo in the cold water—it was a relief to be with what was familiar to me. I missed the water, even though I promised to be separated from it…inallforms this summer. Sydney and Yesoh watched her little brother, Soleh, as he played with trucks on the picnic blanket they’d splayed on the grass.
“So you mean to tell me you think the bestHunger Gamesfilm isCatching Fire?” Cahya scoffed.
“I don’t think so, Iknowso,” I assured him and he gasped dramatically.
“Oh, you’ve done it now…” Jax warned.
“Done what?”
“He gets way too personal about those films.” Jax chuckled, placing a hand on my shoulder; it was cold. “You might as well have been talking about his country, his land, his family, his good name!”
“I just think it has the most action and heart,” I explicated.
“Huh, funny.” Cahya shook his head silently.
“How so?”
He shrugged. “My sister always says the same thing, she’s beendyingon that hill forever.”
“Cool,” I brushed off, taking a glance at her across the pool, a big sun hat on and sunscreen smeared across her flushed cheeks as she kept a stern eye on her little brother so he didn’t crawl away. “I also think Barbie is better than Bratz.”
“Okay now we’re gettingwaytoo personal—” Jax interrupted and I laughed.
“You’re both wrong morons!” Sydney protested, splashing us all with a water gun in her American flag bathing suit.
“What was that for?” Jax complained.
“Monster High takes the crown, end of discussion,” Sydney declared.
“All this over Draculaura? Unbelievable!” Cahya refuted. “Frankie Stein is forever underrated.”
