Page 6

“I’ll come with you,” she offers.

“Really?” I say, relieved.

Nora nods excitedly, and together, we walk towards him. I can feel his friends staring at us, but I choose not to look them in the eye. Instead, I wait for the little boy’s mom to finish thanking the cute guitarist. As soon as they leave, I breathe in, then out, and, as casually as I can muster, I stand in front of him, Nora beside me.

“Hey, there!” Nora greets.

“Hi,” I greet shakily.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he says with a sweet and gentle smile, his dimples so deep that it’s hard not to look at them. My heart’s racing, and no coherent thoughts are running through my mind.

Suddenly, my ice cream drops on top of my foot, a puddle of cookies and cream pooling over my flats, a blob cold and wet against my skin. I was so distracted by the music that I forgot to finish it—it had completely melted through the cone.

This.

Did.

Not.

Just.

Happen.

And in front of the cute guitarist, too.

It’s probably a bad idea to run away, but that doesn’t stop me from actually doing it, everything a blur in my peripheral vision. My flats squeak across the ground as I rush, the ice cream trickling down my foot with pebbles of cookie crumbs spotted across my skin. Nora catches up to me, her waves bouncing against her back.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Nora says.

I say, “Let’s just go.”

We cross through the two curving planters, where several people sit on the seats, eating ice cream and talking about which beaches they plan to visit. Several children run around the fountain, their parents chasing after them. Peach pink smears the sky, and the sun, still glowing, dips lower.

Along the way, Nora cackles at me. “Man, you should’ve seen your face! You were totally drooling!”

Chapter Three

“I’ll give you a hand, po,” I tell my mom as she slices another onion wedge. The rest of the ingredients sit by the stove, each of them bunched in small glass containers.

“It’s fine, anak,” she says. “I can take care of it.” She lets out a giant yawn and covers her mouth with her hand.

The kitchen is bathed in white light, the tiles cold beneath my feet. There’s a glint slashed across the drawers, the fridge, the green island, and the cabinets attached to the top of the walls. Tangled black strands coil out of my mom’s hair. Upon a closer examination, I notice there are bags sagging beneath her eyes. She hasn’t rested yet.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” I suggest. “Or at least let me help you.”

She grins and kisses my forehead. “Salamat, anak.”

I chop the rest of the onions and tomatoes while my mom boils the water. As I dump some of the ingredients, my mom stirs them around, the water bubbling beneath them. Despite my mom insisting that she can continue stirring, I ask for the wooden spoon and take over. She then pours black pepper and patis into the pot, the water tinting to brown. As I stir, every piece swirls and swooshes. The broth gurgles throughout the kitchen. Strips of okra and green beans float on top, pieces of salmon fillet, crescents of onions, and slices of tomatoes lie beneath them. Steam slivers into the air. It’s warm beneath my nose. My mom picks up the bowl of Kangkong leaves and piles them on top of everything.

Once the sinigang is finished, I pour it into a large glass bowl. There’s a ding! from the rice cooker sitting on the island. I grab a bowl from the cabinets on the side of the island and scoop white rice inside of it. My mom arranges plates, tiny bowls, silverware, and glasses on our pinstriped placemats. Our feet scrape the sand-colored tiles as we finish setting up the table.

The door lock turns open and in comes my dad. My mom greets him with a kiss. He greets me with a kiss on top of my head. He’s wearing his navy scrubs, and his black hair is ruffled into a nest.

“I’ll slice you some mangoes, po,” I say, crossing towards the fridge.

“It’s all right, anak,” my dad says. “I can slice them myself.”

“You just got back from work, get some rest.”