Page 64
WCH is, well, WCH. I’m still stuck passing out water cups. In the hallways, I bumped into Eliza, and she replied with a scowl. I’m sincerely convinced that smiling isn’t an option programmed in her.
I may not look forward to the SMARTake sessions, but I do look forward to eating lunch with Jase. We even share Polvorón, these oval-shaped shortbread cookies and my favorite Filipino snack. He lets me listen to the newest additions to his songs, and though the notes mangle together, the tempo ping-ponging between fast and slow, I still raise the volume and plug the Air Pod deeper into my ear. I show my photos to some people in our class. While some listen with earnest interest, others stare at me like I’m a weirdo. Whenever I encounter the latter, Jase gently squeezes my shoulder, and a feeling I can’t describe jumps through me. After I tutor him in math, I watch him perform with his band at Blossoms, my first time since the not-as-embarrassing-as-I-think ice cream incident. Nora watches with me, and we bounce along to all their songs.
Maybe it’s because I’m determined to win, or because I’m determined not to embarrass myself, but I’m working harder on my presentations. Harder than I have on my SAT work or any of my classes. Every chance I get I practice—during WCH lunch breaks with Nora, with Jase after I finish tutoring him, and with Aprilette’s yearbooks as a mock-audience.
Now, it’s Friday night, and even though I’m supposed to study for the exam, I practice presenting.
“Being brave means you have to face the darkness, and fear will just barricade you from seeing what’s out there,” I say, projecting to the yearbook of juniors in one of Aprilette’s yearbooks.
There’s a knock on my door, followed by: “Emilyn, anak, who are you talking to?”
It’s my dad.
“Just reading out loud,” I say. Please don’t ask me what.
“Reading what?”
“Just ... work.”
“Can I come in?”
Though my dad probably just wants to talk to me, I slam my photograph into Aprilette’s yearbook and, inside my drawer, swap it with my SAT textbook.
“Yes, po,” I say, speaking as if I hadn’t just scrambled to hide my photograph.
He opens the door and grins proudly.
“Always such a hard worker,” my dad says, patting my back, a habit of his and my mom. I think it started during our early years in America, when my parents were overwhelmed to be living somewhere that primarily spoke their second language. They felt more protective of us than ever. Aprilette told me that our parents would always pat her on the back to reassure them that she’s still there, and to reassure her that they’re still there for her. They told me they would do the same to me when I was a baby, especially when I cried.
“Just doing my best.” But when I say this, I only think of the Blossoms stage, the projector and microphone in the center.
“Wish I had the same ambition that you and your Atè had when I was a teenager.” He studies the random SAT page I turned to, and when I see myself reflected in his glasses, textbook in front, I wonder if he ever sees any other side of me. “Earlier, when your mom and I were eating out with our friends, they told us that their children don’t have any utang na loob.”
My Tito Rommulo’s voice echoes in my head.
A child with no utang na loob!
A child with no utang na loob!
“Really?” This is all I can say.
“Ohoh,” he says. “Apparently, their children don’t study hard enough, and they’re always out partying. They say they’re ungrateful for how much they sacrificed to come here, just so they could live a better life.”
I gulp, doing everything in my power not to glance at the photograph sandwiched between Aprilette’s yearbook.
“Those kids, they only think about themselves.” He rolls his eyes and claps my shoulder. “I’m glad you and your Atè didn’t turn out that way.”
I stitch a smile across my face. “Right.”
“Well, I just wanted to check in to see how you’re doing. I also wanted to tell you that I am so proud of you and your Atè.”
I press my lips hard enough to prevent myself from saying Stop talking about Atè every time you talk to me. Does he say “I’m proud of you and your little sister” to Aprilette? I doubt it.
He rubs my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.
“Good night, po.”
“Good night, anak.”
