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“Karaoke time!” Tita Maricel announces, holding up two microphones.

Of course, no Filipino party is complete without karaoke.

Piolo starts off belting out a Gary Valenciano song. He insists on Aprilette joining, and after she protests a few times, they belt out the lyrics as a duet. I cheer “Go Atè!” loud enough that a few heads turn my way. Aprilette sings a Lea Salonga song, and I whoop and clap for her beautiful singing. Amado and Reyna cheer with me, and everyone else joins, the living room flooded with whoops and whistles. To everyone’s surprise, I sing next. At first, I shyly sing the first few lines of “Miss” by Sarah Geronimo, then swallow down my fear and belt it out. My dad shimmies along, breaking a laugh out of everyone. My mom sways as she mouths the lyrics. From the couch, Aprilette and Piolo sing along, and Amado and Reyna join.

“Galing mo! Galing mo!” Tita Maricel cheers.

Ava and Gabriel glance at me—oh, it’s just our cousin—before scrolling through their phones again. I raise my voice, which booms into the microphone and against the walls, the Tagalog lyrics floating through the air.

My heart dances as I think of Jase, as I sing about how I’m daydreaming about him, missing him, if he only knew. That he shouldn’t worry because we will be together. I probably sound off-key, but it doesn’t stop the adrenaline coursing through me.

Everyone, including Ava and Gabriel, shoots to their feet and applauds. My family and Piolo chant my name, Amado and Reyna echoing them.

More people sing, most of their song choices being Tagalog. Once karaoke time is over, Aprilette and Piolo head back to the island for seconds. Amado shows Reyna something on his phone, and they laugh. I plop down on the empty spot beside Amado.

“Didn’t know Sarah Geronimo 2.0 was in the house,” Amado says.

I wave this off. “I could never.”

“Amado almost wanted us to sing after you, but I told him ‘heck no, we can’t top that!’” Reyna says. “You were way too good.”

“I’m pretty sure you both would’ve beaten me.”

Amado and Reyna exchange looks, raising their eyebrows and chuckling.

“You’re too humble!” Amado says.

On his phone, there’s a photo of one of his illustrations that depicts a Filipino boy strolling through a city—it looks like L.A.—with a booklet.

“Wow, Kuya Amado, it looks amazing,” I say. “I feel like I’m there!”

“Salamat!” Amado beams. “Still working on it.”

“Doesn’t it look like a notebook?” Reyna points at the booklet in Amado’s illustration. I’m guessing it’s not supposed to be a notebook.

“It does,” I reply.

“See?” Reyna inclines her face towards Amado’s. He chuckles and kisses her. I press my lips together, suddenly missing Jase, his kisses so sweet and warm.

“What is it, Kuya?” I ask.

“It’s a script,” Amado replies. “He’s an actor.”

“I can see that.”

“Needs more work, huh?” he asks enthusiastically.

In all his Instagram posts, Amado writes about his classmates’ and professors’ critiques like they’re rave reviews, even if their comments are harsh enough to put a music show judge to shame. “They’re telling me how I can improve!” Amado enthuses in the captions.

“You can make it look more like a script,” I suggest.

“Will do, salamat!” On his Notes app, Amado adds a bullet point with my suggestion.

I catch a glimpse of Ava and Gabriel behind my parents and Titas. They’re still absorbed in their phones, their faces muted with bored frowns. If I hadn’t seen them smile before, I would have thought boredom was sculpted onto their faces.

But Amado and Reyna, though, their faces are glowing, highlighted with smiles.

“Kuya Amado,” I begin, “did you like Anderson Arts School?”