How to Make Friends with the Sea

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  For Violet

  ONE

  I studied the grains of rice on my plate, separating them into neat little piles with a fork.

  Thirty-one grains. Exactly one month since we moved to the Philippines.

  Five grains. Five years had passed since the last time my father kissed me good night.

  Twelve grains. I would be turning twelve in just three days.

  “Pablo—” Mamá’s voice buzzed in my ear like a pesky mosquito. Her breath was shallow, the way she breathed when she was trying not to lose her patience. “Por favor, Pablo. Eat. Lentils and rice.”

  I didn’t look at her. Instead, I eyed the small bowl of lentils with ten spoons lined up beside it. At least she’d finally gotten it right. Sauce didn’t have any business touching rice. And once my teaspoon was soiled, I would need another clean one to keep on eating.

  The pile with thirty-one grains disappeared into my mouth, and then I took a bite of lentils with the first spoon. Mamá exhaled. “So, I was thinking. Maybe we could invite some of the neighborhood kids for cake and ice cream for your birthday? Just a couple?” she asked.

  There was a moment of silence. I glared at the twelve grains. I hated birthdays. I hated crowds. I hated messes. I hated noises. And most of all, I hated parties. Those grimy neighborhood kids—I could already picture them leaving fingerprints on every square inch of the house, rearranging everything I’d so carefully arranged, while ice cream dribbled from their chins.

  “If it’s all the same, I’d rather it just be the two of us,” I muttered.

  I looked up from my plate, parting my lips as I wracked my brain for a good reason.

  I’m not in the mood.

  Nope.

  I’m tired.

  Nope.

  What’s the point?

  Nope.

  Truth was, I’d run out of good reasons.

  All I managed was a weak smile. The color of her eyes went from a sharp green to a soft hazel. “All right, then … Shall I make Abuelita’s orange almond cake? I know it’s your favorite.”

  The sound of a shrieking parrot echoed from the living room. Ordinarily, Mamá ignored her cell phone during mealtimes, but the parrot ringtone was her boss, Miguel, the founder of El Lado Salvaje sanctuary—which in Spanish meant “the Wild Side.”

  “I’ll be back. Keep on eating,” she said, fast-walking to the hallway. “Hola, Miguel. Good evening,” I heard her say. She paced and listened and paced and listened, uttering an “Uh-huh” now and then. After a few seconds she halted. I knew she was about to lose it by the way her arms suddenly thrust out. “Qué? So what do you expect me to do?” After that, she switched to all Spanish, which I usually understood. But her words were just too fast. Instead, I watched her body do the talking. Her shoulders and hips popped. Her chin jutted out. Her head bobbed from side to side.

  As soon as Mamá hung up, she inhaled deep. It was the kind of inhaling that was supposed to blow away her anger from the inside out. I knew it well, because she was the sort of woman people called “fiery.” Hot-blooded. Short-tempered. Spirited.

  She came back into the kitchen holding a rose quartz crystal in her hand—one of her calming stones. “That was Miguel…”

  I glanced up at her. “Another abused animal, huh?”

  “No. Not quite.” Mamá gripped the crystal even tighter. “Miguel’s friend, the man who donated the land where the sanctuary is on … He’s asking for a favor. A big favor. Seems nobody else is willing to help. Help a girl … an orphaned girl.”

  For a second I thought I’d misheard. But then I saw the signs—a quivering lip, flushed cheeks, eyes glossy with emotion. It was the same expression she had every single time she got suckered into helping some poor, helpless animal.

  Except this time it was a girl. Mamá was going to rescue a girl. Not a wild animal. A girl.

  TWO

  “A girl?”

  My head felt like a can of soda about to explode. Mamá’s mouth moved. But her voice was muted. Then it was as if she was screaming in my ear. “YES, PABLO. A GIRL … I don’t really have that many details. I don’t even know what really happened to her. All I know is that she needs help,” she said.

  I slumped in my seat. My eyes hopscotched around Mamá’s face. Her freckles were oddly comforting. But then I stumbled on a new one—a tiny freckle near the bridge of her nose.

  It was weird—the freckle and this girl.

  I was horrified and fascinated at the same time.

  “So, what are you supposed to do? It’s not like you’re some orphan-girl expert or anything,” I finally replied.

  She began clearing dishes. “I have no choice, Pablo … When I needed a fresh start, a new job, Miguel was there to help me. Now it’s my turn to pay it forward.”

  That was that. Her mind was made up. She had no choice. Of course she didn’t. It was something she had to do. One more life to save and several months later, we’d be off somewhere else.

  Another country. Another adventure. Another place I’d have to get used to.

  Costa Rica, Brazil, India, Kenya, Indonesia, the Philippines.

  Where to next?

  “I think I’ll go to sleep now. Good night,” I grumbled.

  Mamá looked up from the sink full of dishes. “Good night, mi amor.”

  Eighteen steps and twenty-four terra-cotta tiles later, I was in my room with my bed and its crisp white sheets, with my alphabetized bookshelf, with my plain blue curtains that hung just right. Everything was in order—at least for now.

  * * *

  “Pablo … Pablito. Wake up.”

  I blinked. Mamá hovered over my bed in all black—black tank top, black shorts, black onyx bead bracelet. That bracelet had been on her wrist ever since my father left. She claimed those beads were supposed to help her release negative emotions. But I wasn’t so sure they were working.

  “Grace can’t come today. Her daughter has a fever,” she said with the slightest of frowns.

  My body tensed. I didn’t like sudden changes. Ms. Grace, my homeschool teacher, was supposed to come Monday to Fridays at 9:00 A.M. sharp.

  “Oh. Okay,” I said.

  Mamá bounced off my bed and opened my dresser drawer. Her Doc Martens boots, also black, made squishy sounds against her ankles. There was dirt on them—just a smudge of dried mud near the soles. I held my breath, looking away as I counted to ten.

  One. Two. Three. Four …

  She turned around and held up an orange T-shirt and some cargo shorts. “So. You can either stay at Ate Lucinda’s or come with me.”

  “Ate” meant “big sister” in Tagalog, and for some strange reason everyone in the Philippines called one another “Ate” or “Kuya” or “Manang” or “Manong” or “Tita” or “Tito,” even though they weren’t always related to one another. When we arrived exactly thirty-two days ago,
Mamá had explained that most Filipinos spoke English and Tagalog, and sometimes even Taglish—a combination of both. Supposedly, this whole “Ate” so-and-so business was a way of respecting your elders. But to me, it was just confusing and unsettling. Our neighbor Ate Lucinda was most definitely not my big sister. And I didn’t want to have anything to do with her four kids, ever since they came over and left cracker crumbs everywhere.

  I sat up and winced at the orange T-shirt. “I guess I’ll tag along, then.”

  Mamá sighed. I had no idea why it was so hard for her to remember my color-coordinated clothes. She went back to my dresser and searched for the white T-shirt that was supposed to go with those shorts. Deep down, though, I could see she was grinning. I knew she was pleased that I’d decided to join her mission.

  Pablito, mi amor. Real-life experiences are the best school of all. You’ll see.

  She’d been telling me that ever since she pulled me out of school in the second grade. But as I got dressed, I couldn’t help wondering, What can I possibly learn from some random orphaned girl?

  THREE

  A sleek white truck with black tinted windows pulled up to our house. Miguel’s SUV was almost embarrassing in the way it stood out, as if it were a sparkly unicorn galloping down the street. Nearly all the houses in Mt. Makiling Heights Subdivision were old-fashioned bungalows with Spanish tiled roofs, rusted metal gates, and tiny pocket gardens. Mamá said the neighborhood had “character” and that the houses were “quaint.” But I knew that was her fancy way of saying “affordable.”

  Ate Lucinda’s four kids, Jem, Happy, and the twins, Bing and Lito, stopped their game—flinging flip-flops at one another—long enough to stare. I stood by the front door, hoping they wouldn’t run over.

  “Good morning, Ma’am Carmen and Sir Pablo,” said Zeus, Miguel’s smiling chauffeur—or rather, as Miguel liked to call him, his “right-hand man.” Zeus was the first person who’d greeted us at the airport. That day he’d called me “sir,” which, to me, made no sense whatsoever. Why was he addressing me—a puny eleven-year-old kid—as a knight?

  There was nothing knight-like about me.

  Not my skinny legs or my even skinnier arms.

  Not my dirty-blond hair, which got dirtier every year, making it pretty much just a dull brown.

  Not my freckles, which made my face look all smudgy no matter how many times I washed it.

  Sir Pablo sounded ridiculous.

  “Hola, Zeus. You are looking very handsome this morning,” joked Mamá as she climbed into the truck.

  Zeus’s smile got even wider. He held his hand out to help me. But there was dirt under his fingernails. And to make matters worse, his pinkie nail was long and sharp. “No, thanks. I got it,” I said politely.

  He chuckled. “I think you have gotten taller, Sir Pablo!”

  To be honest, having Zeus around used to bug me at first. I didn’t get why we needed some dude driving us around, when we used to get by just fine on our own. But then Mamá explained that chauffeurs were pretty common in the Philippines, and that Zeus was really more like Miguel’s personal assistant and all-around confidante. He was one of the good guys. Trustworthy. Reliable. Kind.

  After a couple of weeks, I sort of got used to him.

  I slid onto the leather upholstery. Zeus closed the door. Inside it was better. Nobody could see us, and Zeus was good about keeping the interior squeaky clean. It even smelled like oranges.

  The engine rumbled. I could still see Zeus’s smile from the rearview mirror as we drove off with all four kids chasing us down the road. After a while, they disappeared. Zeus managed to dodge every single vehicle in his way—illegally parked motorbikes in various colors, rusty tricycles, which were basically motorbikes with passenger sidecars, and jeepneys, weird-looking mini-buses covered in so many decorations that they could have easily passed for tacky carnival rides. Even though it was early morning, the neighborhood was already too chaotic.

  Mamá leaned closer to the driver’s seat. “How long will it take to get to Santa Aurora?”

  “Four, maybe five hours if we are lucky,” said Zeus.

  I did the math in my head. That was 240 or 300 minutes. Santa Aurora was clearly in the middle of nowhere. There would be too many trees, too many mountains, too much dirt and mud and whatever else. But there was no point in worrying. Not yet. I looked out the window, searching for something, anything that wasn’t speeding by too fast. Only the clouds seemed to be still. So I traced their shapes and counted each and every one to pass the time.

  … twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen …

  FOUR

  … two thousand two, two thousand three …

  Suddenly, the clouds vanished.

  All I saw were mountains covered with bright green jungles. It seemed impossible that there were even people living out there.

  “We are near,” said Zeus, turning onto a smaller dirt road.

  Mamá craned her neck, exploring the trees with her eyes. It was her superpower—spotting that elusive monkey, or bird, or insect camouflaged among the leaves. “Hmm … I don’t see any houses,” she murmured under her breath.

  The road twisted and turned exactly eleven more times before the truck halted.

  Zeus scratched his head and peered at the GPS screen. “I guess this must be it, Ma’am Carmen.”

  We looked around. But there was really nothing to look at except for a wooden sign hanging crooked by the side of the road, with hand-painted red letters that read FRESH CHICKEN + EGG 4 SALE.

  Mamá squinted. “Wait. There’s a path over there,” she said, pointing at something that resembled a path, but not really. I wasn’t even sure Miguel’s tank of a truck would fit.

  Zeus turned the truck slowly, inching between two massive tree trunks. I started to panic. My heart banged against my chest, and there were beads of sweat on my forehead. “Um. Are you sure about this?” I asked.

  “Do not worry, Sir Pablo. I am a professional.” For some reason, though, Zeus’s proclamation didn’t reassure me. I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for the sound of scraping metal. But there was no such sound.

  “Bravo, Zeus!” Mamá cheered.

  I opened my eyes just as a structure appeared. It was a house—well, more of a shack, really—a patchwork of corrugated metal, wood, and wire mesh where the windows were supposed to be. Beside it, under the shade of a leafy tree, was a half-falling-down chicken coop. It was about as big as a one-car garage, walls splintered and holey, roof rusted, leaning in such a way that a strong gust of wind could probably blow it right off. I remembered the sign advertising fresh chickens and eggs. But that couldn’t possibly be the place.

  There was nothing fresh about it.

  My skin itched at the sight of all the rust and dirt and debris. “I think I’ll stay in the car.”

  “Might be for the best,” Mamá replied with a nod. Zeus opened the door for her, and she hopped out.

  For a few moments they wandered, with Zeus hollering, “Tao po! Tao po!”

  Whatever he was saying must have worked, because a man wearing a white T-shirt and yellow basketball shorts finally emerged from the chicken coop. Even from a distance I could tell he was happy and relieved to see them. There was a bunch of greeting and pacing and pointing and sighing. With every second that passed, Mamá’s gestures got more dramatic. Eventually, though, she clenched her jaw and nodded. They all did, before disappearing into the supposed chicken coop.

  I was torn.

  Everything outside the car disgusted me. My skin, my scalp, even the flesh beneath my fingernails itched. But I wanted so badly to see what was going on. I inhaled as deeply as I could and opened the door.

  FIVE

  It was unusually dark inside the chicken coop.

  But then golden laser beams sliced through the bamboo wall slats; the sunlight made it brighter. Mamá, Zeus, and Basketball Shorts Man were completely still—so still, dust particles and feathers
swirled in the air around them.

  I tried not to breathe. I tried not to touch anything as I tiptoed forward. Mamá was up ahead. I reached for her hand. She flinched. As soon as she realized who it was, though, she held on tight.

  There were no sounds at first. It was weird. Then Mamá heaved, and Zeus shuffled his feet, and Basketball Shorts Man cleared his throat.

  Bock. Bock. Bock. BOCK! BOCK! BOCK!

  I blinked. That’s when I saw them—a wall of chickens. No, more like a fortress of chickens huddled in the corner. They puffed their feathers and flapped their wings and stomped around and around.

  BOCK! BOCK! BOCK!

  The clucking got even louder, as if they were warning us to stay away.

  Basketball Shorts Man pointed at the irate birds. “The girl … She want stay with the chickens … Her lolo, um … her grandfather die, already two days, ma’am. She not eat. She sleep and cry … only sleep and cry,” he stammered in broken English.

  The girl?

  I stood on my tiptoes so I could see past the feathered fortress. There she was, against a wall—a tangle of black hair tucked in between a pair of skinny, mosquito-bitten legs. She could have been anywhere from four to six years old.

  My skin itched. Even the insides of my nose itched. I wanted to scratch myself all over, but I didn’t want to let go of Mamá’s hand.

  “What’s her name?” she finally asked.

  Basketball Shorts Man shrugged. “Hindi ko alam … Sorry, ma’am. I do not know. The people sa baryo—in the village … they not talk so much. They afraid, ma’am. The girl, her lolo was NPA, the New People’s Army—communist guerrillas.”

  “They must have told you something,” Mamá said, raising her voice.

  BOCK! BOCK! BOCK!

  The chickens crowded around the girl, closer and closer—so close I could no longer see her. But I could hear her whimpering.