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“How’s studying going?” my dad asks as he walks towards me, folding a hand over my shoulder.

“I think it’s going well,” I reply.

“Emi’s doing awesome! But,” she narrows her eyes at me as she continues, “she needs to think carefully before she picks an answer.”

My eyes drop down as I nod. Nothing is going to happen between me and Jase, but I still think Aprilette’s judgment, all based on the few details I’ve given her, isn’t fair. Then again, she is my Atè. I have to listen to her—she has experience, knowledge, and she knows what’s right. But I do feel bad for Jase, even though he’s never going to find out anything my Atè said.

“That’s true.” My dad pats my shoulder. Even though he thinks Aprilette is talking about test strategies for the vocabulary section, his thoughts on Jase wouldn’t be any different. My parents expect me to date someone like Piolo, smart and successful with a practical, well-paying job.

“I’ll study more later,” I say.

“That’s a great idea,” Aprilette agrees.

Once my dad leaves the room, we resume practicing, Aprilette having no more questions about the cute guy from my SAT class. Maybe I’m exhausted from stating definitions of vocabulary words, but I almost wish she’d ask me more about Jase.

For the next hour, she quizzes me on more words. By the end, I only miss four.

“Great job, Emi!” Aprilette smiles with sisterly pride. “Go over the words you missed and keep studying. It’s easy to forget, especially when you’re taking the exam.”

I feel obligated to nod whenever Aprilette gives me advice. I’m so used to listening to her, because I’ve seen her succeed, and I’ve accomplished so much—a current cumulative GPA of 4.0, first place ribbons at science fairs, trophies from decathlons—because I follow her lead. It feels safe.

“Let’s study again same time tomorrow?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Salamat Atè.”

“Of course! Mahal kita!” Aprilette shapes her hand into half a heart and puts it against the screen.

“Mahal kita!” I mirror her, putting my half-heart hand against hers.

After she hangs up, my eyes drift to the SAT, AP Bio, and AP Government textbooks stacked on my desk, neon Post-it notes sticking out like flags between pages. On top is my copy of The Awakening. I flip through my planner and see that I’m supposed to study AP Bio right now. I pull out the textbook from the pile, and right as I turn to a chapter, a highlighter in my hand, my shoulders slump. I ball my hand into a fist and yawn into it.

My parents always tell me not to end up like my cousin Amado.

“He’s a smart boy, so why’d he choose an arts school,” my dad once said, shaking his head.

“Did Maricel ever tell him how she was able to come to the U.S.?” my mom said. “Because she definitely didn’t go to an arts school, or major in something in the arts. Otherwise, she would still be in the Philippines.”

I feel sorry for Amado. Every now and then I scroll through my Instagram, hoping he’d post a photo of himself working in an animation studio. Still nothing. Whenever I pray, I always ask God to please, please help Amado make it into the animation industry. When Amado does post, however, it’s usually a photo capturing a date with his girlfriend Reyna or one of his sketches. My excitement seeing his sketches lasts until I remember my Tito Rommulo’s official title for him.

“A child with no utang na loob!” my Tito Rommulo always bellows whenever we’re on the subject of Amado.

I always fear that I’ll be labeled as this, that everyone will only see Aprilette as the daughter with success and respect while I’m the daughter with no honor or gratitude. My eyes drift to my camera, which sits on the top shelf of my desk, cubed in its black bag. Just as I reach for it, my Tito Rommulo’s words echo, mixed into his bellow.

A child with no utang na loob!

I pull back my hand and lean back into my chair. Is this competition worth it?

I remember the day Tita Maricel gifted me my camera. I’d tell her all about my photography class. She and Amado spent one Christmas with my family, and I nearly cried tears of joy when I opened her gift to me.

“So you can be a photographer outside the classroom too,” Tita Maricel said. She’s always been an advocate of the arts. My mom shot her a disapproving look. I would’ve felt guilty if I wasn’t so busy trying out my new camera.

The guilt, however, kicked in when I overheard my mom and Tita Maricel arguing while washing dishes.

“Maricel, are you crazy?” my mom said in Tagalog. “Do you know how expensive those cameras are? You’re going to plant delusions in her head. She’ll actually want to be a photographer now.”

A lump clogged my throat. She said “photographer” in English with the same tone she used when she detected the mold on the shower tiles.

“Atè, didn’t you see how happy she looked?” Tita Maricel said in Tagalog. “She held that camera like it was a jewel. Why would it be a bad thing if she wanted to be a photographer?”