How to Make Friends with the Sea Read online

  But there was none of that. Instead, she smiled and gazed at Miguel with shiny eyes. “Let me help you with dessert,” she said to him.

  The whole thing just bothered me. Maybe it was all the red wine she’d had, or maybe she was tired or stressed out, or whatever. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. By the time I was done trying to figure it out, the dining table was empty. Zeus was helping to clear dishes, Sam and Chiqui were having a tickle fight on the sofa, and Heinz was strumming a guitar by the fireplace. I sat beside him, sneaking glances at Mamá and Miguel as they prepared the coffee. Mamá’s cheeks were already flushed from the wine, but every time Miguel said something funny, her cheeks would get redder. Even her laughing was all wrong—too girly sounding—like she’d been body-snatched by a giggly teenager.

  Where had my forty-four-year-old mother gone?

  My itching worsened. I reached into the legs of my pants and scratched my calves, and then moved up my arms and neck, and scalp, and behind my ears. It was almost impossible to look away, but somehow I managed. I stared at the fire and counted the crackling sounds and the glowing embers as they flew up the chimney.

  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …

  Lucky collapsed on my lap. He nudged my hand for a petting. But still I had to keep on counting.

  Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five …

  I ran my fingers through his thick fur.

  Twenty-six, twenty-seven …

  Chiqui giggled uncontrollably.

  Twenty-eight, twenty-nine …

  Heinz began singing a lovey-dovey sort of song.

  Thirty …

  I glanced back at Mamá and Miguel.

  Their eyes met.

  His hand touched hers.

  That’s when it clicked. That’s when I figured it out.

  Something was going on between the two of them.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I was in no mood for Speak Cartoon, Learn English for Kids, Episode Three. It was late. I was tired and bothered and annoyed and angry. But when Chiqui appeared at my door, I couldn’t say no. I was a pushover. A sucker. A wimp. She sashayed into my room in one of Mamá’s old white T-shirts that reached past her knees.

  “Aren’t you tired, Chiqui?” I asked, making a sleepy face.

  She shook her head and pointed at my computer. “No. Mee wats,” she replied.

  “WA-T-CH.” I exaggerated the way my mouth moved.

  “WA-T-S.”

  “WA-T-CH.”

  Chiqui twisted her face and contorted her lips. “WU-A-T-S…”

  “Good. Much better,” I said.

  She blushed and grinned. I could tell she was proud of herself.

  “Okay. C’mon.” I set her up at the computer, and then plopped back down on my bed after pressing “Play.”

  Munch. Crunch. Munch.

  She snacked on a bowl of Cheerios. It was loud and irritating but at least all the munching and crunching helped to drown out the cartoon voices, which were even louder and more irritating.

  “This is my mother—” said an obnoxious chipmunk.

  Munch. Crunch. Munch. Munch.

  “This is my father—” said a cheerful flea.

  Suddenly, the munching and crunching stopped.

  I glanced at the computer; the video was paused.

  Chiqui pushed the bowl of Cheerios away and stared at her lap.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she poked her finger on the keyboard.

  “This is my mother—” repeated the obnoxious chipmunk.

  “This is my father—” repeated the cheerful flea.

  Ohh …

  I lunged for the keyboard and stopped the video. “I’m sorry, Chiqui. I’m sorry about what happened to your mother.”

  She threw herself on my chest and hugged me. I could feel her warm tears dribbling on my skin. I’ll admit, it bothered me. But the last thing I wanted was to push her away. So I let her cry. I let her cry until it seemed as if her tears had run dry.

  After a while, Chiqui unglued herself from my shoulders. She wiped the wetness from her eyes. She brushed her hair off her face. She breathed real deep.

  “You okay?” I said softly.

  She nodded. And then, as if nothing had happened, she faced the computer once again and poked the keyboard.

  “Sister and brother—” said the silly ducks to one another.

  Sister. Brother.

  Ugh.

  Why was the universe messing with me?

  I retreated back to the bed, hoping she wouldn’t break down a second time. My own emotions were bad enough. They sucked, actually. I smashed a pillow over my head, not wanting to hear or see anything. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. There was the image of Chiqui’s sweet smile, her voice whispering, “Kuya Pabo” in my ear. There was the image of Mamá and Miguel flashing in my mind. It was like watching a cheesy TV ad for toothpaste or deodorant or some other product that was supposed to make you look or smell better. There were too many smiles and meaningful glances and gentle touches.

  Suddenly, I could hear my father’s voice snickering in my ear, “Fraternizing with the boss, huh? Well, that’s convenient.”

  Oh god.

  I was so mad at him for saying what he’d said.

  Turned out I was wrong.

  And he was right.

  He was right.

  Maybe Miguel was just buttering me up to soften the blow? Did Mamá and Miguel have a plan? Were they going to get rid of Chiqui first, then me?

  I couldn’t breathe. I coughed and threw the pillow off my face.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Relax, Pablo.

  Calm down.

  I searched for the familiar water stain over my bed and traced its shape. It was like a big tuna or a marlin or one of those silvery-blue fish that jumped out of the water. Even though the sea scared the crap out of me, I was kind of jealous of those fish. They could go whenever they wanted. Stay wherever they pleased. It was all the same to them. Their lives were less complicated. Unlike mine, which was a tangled mess—so tangled I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to get myself out of it.

  I bolted from my pillow. There were spots of white light in my eyes. I needed something, anything to distract me.

  My plaid bedspread—I followed its pattern.

  But nothing changed.

  My bookshelf—I counted the books and double-checked if they were still alphabetized.

  But still nothing changed.

  My curtains—I skipped from one curtain ring to another, making sure the spaces in between were even.

  But still nothing changed.

  Chiqui looked over her shoulder. She frowned and then hopped off the chair. “Kuya,” she said, reaching out to touch my hand.

  I trembled and closed my eyes. There were tears. I could feel them pushing.

  No. No. No. Don’t cry, Pablo. Please don’t cry.

  I was supposed to be the strong one. The kuya—the big brother.

  The bed bounced. Chiqui was beside me. Her fingers grazed my cheek. A tear snuck out. She wiped it away. I could feel her head resting near my heart. Her arms held me tight. Except this time, it was she who was comforting me.

  “Kuya. No cwai. Chiqui wuv yo,” she whispered.

  My chest heaved. I tried so hard to hold it in. But the tears pushed and pushed and pushed, hitting my cheeks like rain on a windshield. It was impossible to stop. The crying. The heaving. The lump in my throat kept on growing.

  It hurt so bad.

  I just wanted to be her brother. For real.

  I didn’t want to leave her behind.

  Not ever.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I was a zombie, or at least I felt like one. My arms and legs moved slowly. The rest of me seemed to be working just fine. But inside I felt heavy and hollow at the same time. I didn’t even know that was possible. My brain was numb. My eyes saw nothing, even though all around me, there were a ton of th
ings to see.

  We were back at the sanctuary—Ms. Grace, Chiqui, Happy, and me. For some reason, the animals seemed livelier than usual. Maybe they sensed my unease. Maybe they were trying to scream at me.

  Pablo! Wake up, Pablo! Do something!

  Or maybe I was just losing it.

  “Oh, look! Mayari and Tala seem so much better now!” said Happy, tugging my shirt.

  I tried to focus—squinting and blinking and making my eyes as wide as they would go. The two eagles were perched on a tree branch. They did seem calmer. Their feathers were smoother. Their talons more relaxed. Their eyes were less beady.

  But they still stared. In fact, it was as if they were staring right through me. Like they could see exactly what was wrong. It made me panic.

  I couldn’t stand it.

  I stepped back in slow motion. My body twitched. My forehead, neck, and hands got all sweaty. I breathed but it felt like I was breathing in the entire world all at once, including the dirt and dust and germs and bacteria and viruses and god knows what else.

  “I—I have to go,” I mumbled.

  Happy looked at me kind of funny.

  Ms. Grace frowned. “What’s the matter, Pablo?”

  I took another step back.

  Chiqui’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. I knew she wanted to say something. But Ms. Grace and Happy were there. She glanced at them and her lips clamped shut.

  That’s when I ran.

  “Pablo! Wait!” shouted Happy. I could hear her flip-flops slapping the soles of her feet as she ran after me. “Pablo! Pablo!” she kept shouting.

  I stumbled down the pathway, nearly running into the giant trees, which seemed to be blocking me on purpose. Even the bushes were out to get me, scratching me with their thorns and scraping me with their woody branches. I kept on running except my feet wouldn’t cooperate. I lost my footing and fell to my knees.

  “OMG! Pablo!”

  I could hear Happy hyperventilating. She knelt beside me. Even though I didn’t want to look at her, I did. Her pastel-pink ensemble was smudged with dirt and sweat, and there were twigs and leaves stuck in her hair. Ordinarily, I would have cracked a joke. But I wasn’t really in a joking kind of mood.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said.

  She pulled a little pack of wet wipes from her pocket. “Here, take them.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped the dirt and bits of grass off my knees. There were scrapes and a small cut on my skin. For a second I thought about flesh-eating bacteria and tetanus and legionella and leptospirosis and melioidosis. I closed my eyes.

  You’re being ridiculous, Pablo.

  When I opened them, Happy was staring at me with crooked eyebrows and crooked pigtails.

  “Are you okay now?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Did something happen? Whatever it is, you can tell me, Pablo.”

  I stared at my scrapes and cuts. Those wounds—they were on the outside. But it was the wounds inside that hurt the most. “It’s just, I’m overwhelmed. That’s all … To be honest, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Happy blinked at the ground like she was thinking about what she was going to say.

  One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four—

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re feeling that way…”

  “It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” I blurted out.

  She stood and offered me a hand. “Come. I know what will make you feel better.”

  “What?”

  “Dirty ice cream.”

  I took her hand and stood. “Dirty ice cream?”

  She giggled and covered her mouth. I could still see her dimple through her fingers. “It’s not really dirty,” she explained. “We just call it dirty because they sell it on the street.”

  “Oh. Well. What a relief.”

  “Come on. Trust me,” she said, pulling me along.

  * * *

  Once we exited the sanctuary, we walked several blocks, and then there it was on the corner—a metal cart with wheels, painted bright yellow with handwritten letters on the side that read:

  DANNY’S SPECIAL SORBETES

  I was dubious, but it looked pretty harmless.

  “Happy! Kumusta?” said an old guy, whom I presumed to be Danny.

  “Mabuti naman po, Mang Danny. Ito si Pablo,” she said, gesturing at me.

  “Hello,” I said with a nod and a wave.

  Mang Danny’s face was crinkled but his eyes were full of life. He grinned a toothy grin before bending over for a cone and a napkin. Then he opened the circular hatch of his cart and scooped balls of yellow and purple ice cream.

  “Danny’s Special,” he said, handing it to me.

  “Thank you.”

  I waited for Happy to get hers. There was absolutely no way I was going to be the guinea pig. It may have looked like ice cream, smelled like ice cream, and melted like ice cream, but I highly doubted it had anything to do with real ice cream.

  “Salamat po, Mang Danny,” said Happy. She took her cone and licked it all the way around. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  I followed her down the street, holding the cone away from my clothes. It was scorching hot, so the ice cream was already dribbling down my fingers. The purple and yellow colors were too vivid—like fresh-from-the-can paint. I wondered what kind of artificial gunk they’d used to get it that way.

  “Um. So what are these flavors supposed to be anyway?” I asked.

  Happy looked at me and half-rolled her eyes. “You should see your face, Pablo! It’s only ice cream. But if you must know, the yellow one is cheese and the purple one is ube, a sweet yam.”

  “Cheese? Yam?”

  “It’s good! Just try it!”

  I stared at the ice-cream cone. My choices were to eat it, throw it, or let it melt all over my hand.

  Don’t be such a wuss, Pablo.

  So I went for it. I brought the ice cream to my mouth, silently hoping it wouldn’t taste like dirt or give me food poisoning.

  Slurp.

  Oddly enough, it didn’t taste like dirt. The purple one was kind of earthy, not in a bad way, and the cheese one, well, it tasted like sweet cheese.

  “Not bad!” I said.

  Happy punched me on the arm. “See! I told you.”

  We walked and ate our ice cream in relative silence, relative because it was never really completely silent. There were always motorbikes beep-beep-beeping, dogs barking, roosters crowing, vendors shouting, and birds chirping loudly as if they too wanted to be heard. At the corner, Happy halted.

  “Hold on. I have to buy load for my mom at the sari-sari store,” she said, fumbling for her wallet.

  “Sari-sari store? Load?” I repeated, trying to figure out what she was talking about.

  She pointed at a hand-painted sign:

  IRMA’S SARI-SARI STORE

  It was basically a convenience store inside someone’s home. “Sari-sari stores, you know, they sell practically everything … And ‘load’ is just another name for cell phone credits,” she explained.

  “Oh.”

  “Here, hold this,” she said, handing me her ice cream.

  I just stood there with the two cones drip, drip, dripping everywhere. Happy approached the counter, which had a metal grate separating her and the lady who worked inside. They chatted in Tagalog for what seemed like ages.

  Meanwhile, I just gawked at all the stuff. It was an explosion of products—jam-packed from floor-to-ceiling. Everything they were selling was tiny—individual sachets of shampoo, soap, detergent, bleach, pieces of candy, gum, and chocolates in plastic jars, festive colored bags of chips hanging from the walls, and never-ending cans of tuna, sardines, and mystery meat. There was also a display of bottled sodas. Some brands I recognized, but others, like Royal Tru-Orange, Sarsi, and RC Cola, were completely foreign to me.

  I had to stop myself from counting, from inspecting the rows to see if they were evenly spaced.

  Ugh.

&nb
sp; “Salamat po!” Happy waved at the lady, and then she took her ice cream back. “Let’s go find somewhere shady to sit.”

  She took the lead, and I followed. When we reached a park with a decrepit-looking basketball court, Happy led us to an even more decrepit-looking bench. I studied it for a second, wondering about splinters and rusty nails.

  “Sit,” she commanded.

  I knew she knew more or less what I was thinking. So I sat and hoped for the best.

  “So … I know you’d rather not talk about it, but I’m your friend, remember? Maybe I can help,” Happy blurted out.

  “Uh…” I was kind of tongue-tied.

  Happy reached out and touched my arm with her glittery nail-polished fingers.

  I inhaled and exhaled, searching my mind for the best way to explain it all.

  “Like I said, I’m overwhelmed. There’s a lot going on right now,” I said.

  “Such as?”

  “Well … for one, Chiqui’s going to be adopted by someone else. Another family. Not right away, but soon. I suppose I’ve gotten used to having her around. She’s kind of like the little sister I never had.”

  When I looked at Happy, her brow was furrowed. “But can’t you talk to your mom or something?”

  “My mom?” I huffed. “She’s kind of preoccupied these days.”

  “Preoccupied? Like busy with work?”

  “No, busy with Miguel, her boss,” I said, pretend-smooching the air.

  “Oh. Like that kind of busy.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Swoosh.

  A couple of guys were playing basketball. For whatever reason, they kept on glancing at us. It made me squirmy and uncomfortable.

  “Anyway, so I guess that’s pretty much it … Of course, there’s also my father forgetting I ever existed, and, you know, me being a total freak and all,” I muttered, hoping the basketball guys couldn’t hear.

  Happy leaned toward me. “You’re not a freak, Pablo.”

  I wished I believed her.

  Thump. Thump. Swoosh. Thump. Thump.

  I could feel the basketball guys’ eyes creeping on me. They were staring. I was sure of it.

  “Pablo,” said Happy.