How to Make Friends with the Sea Read online

  “But why? I mean, why wouldn’t it have a handle? Wouldn’t it make it easier and more hygienic?” I asked.

  Happy shrugged. Her blue-black hair slid past her shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s just the way it is.”

  “Huh.” I felt stupid all of a sudden, caring about the broom and its lack of a handle.

  “So … I heard about the girl,” said Happy, stepping closer.

  My cheeks sizzled. I looked at my pajama legs, at the spaceships and Martians and planets.

  Oh god. I’m still in my pajamas. Will she laugh if I run back into the house?

  Probably.

  I coughed. “Um. The girl? You mean Chiqui?”

  “Yes, Chiqui. Your mom asked my mom if she could borrow some of Bing’s clothes … They must be around the same size?” said Happy, stepping even closer.

  “I guess. Sort of. I’m not really sure.”

  Happy plopped down next to me. It felt weird having her there. I wasn’t used to such closeness. Especially from someone I barely knew. The broom rested between her feet. I began counting its twigs to distract myself.

  One. Two. Three …

  “Is it true?” she asked, leaning toward me with big eyes.

  I frowned. “Is what true?”

  “That she doesn’t speak, and that she had chickens for friends … and … and … uh, that there’s something wrong, something wrong with her face.” Happy scrunched her nose. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so chismosa, I mean gossipy. It’s just nothing interesting ever happens around here. Well, not until you and your mom moved in,” she added with a grin.

  I laughed nervously and then focused on the broom again. “No, it’s okay. I get it.” She scooched over until her hair grazed my shoulder. “It’s not that bad. Her face … Anyways, you’ll see for yourself soon enough. Chiqui’s coming to live here … for a while.”

  “Here? In your house? With you?”

  I finally looked at her. Really, really looked at her—from her slightly raised eyebrows to her button nose, down to her glossy pink lips. This intense feeling rushed through my brain to my stomach, hurling my thoughts, my feelings out. I wanted to talk. Have a real conversation for once.

  “Yeah. She—”

  There was a loud screeching sound. Ms. Grace pulled up on her motorbike.

  “Well, I better get back to my sweeping. The leaves, you know, they just keep on falling.” Happy picked up her broom and waved. “See you later, Pablo.”

  I waved back and watched her cross the road.

  It was true. The leaves fell no matter what.

  I stood and turned around so I wouldn’t have to count all those leaves she was sweeping.

  NINE

  I twiddled my thumbs while Ms. Grace checked my math worksheet. There was a red pen poised in her hand. She wouldn’t need it, though. There would be no mistakes. Math was my thing. It was logical. Unlike life. Life made no sense—at least 99.9 percent of the time.

  “Well, you did it again, Pablo. Good job,” she said, writing a one hundred and a big smiley face at the top of the paper with her other pen. It was purple and smelled like grape-flavored chewing gum, or grape soda, or medicine that was supposed to taste like grapes.

  “Thanks.”

  Ms. Grace shuffled through my textbooks. I couldn’t help tracing the line her bob haircut made on her jaw—so straight, so precise, I wondered if the barber used a ruler. “So, shall we move on to science? We can review the phases of the moon,” she said, opening the book to a two-page illustration.

  I fiddled with the pencil in my hand and glanced at the various moon stages. Ms. Grace smiled encouragingly. Of all the homeschool teachers I’ve had—nine in total—she was definitely the most patient and the most cheerful. When she smiled, her entire face smiled along.

  “Uh. Actually, I was wondering about something,” I mumbled.

  “Sure. Anything,” said Ms. Grace.

  “Chickens. You know, like the kinds that lay eggs.”

  It sounded stupid after I’d said it, but in my mind it had seemed like a good way to start the conversation.

  “Chickens? Ah. Yes, of course. I grew up in the province, the countryside. We had lots of chickens,” she said, tilting her head. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well, I was kind of curious if chickens talked … I mean, I know they cluck and all, and roosters do that cock-a-doodle-doo thing. But do they actually have conversations? Do they understand one another? Do they understand people?”

  Ms. Grace giggled softly. Not the kind of giggle that was meant to poke fun. But the kind that was bubbly and bouncy, as if she thought what I’d said was the cutest thing ever. “Why not? It would be rather ignorant of us to assume humans were the only ones who could communicate, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  She knew I wasn’t convinced. But Ms. Grace wasn’t one to give up on a tough subject. She stared off into the air. A few seconds went by, and then she clapped her hands. I could practically see the lightbulb illuminating over her head. “Like I said, we had a lot of chickens, right?” I nodded. “Well, not only did they speak to one another, but there were times when I swore they were speaking to us. We had this one fat hen named Barbie, short for Barbecue. I know, I know … Anyways, Barbie was our most reliable layer. She would lay one egg daily. Without fail. And every day after she’d lay that egg, she would strut over to our kitchen and cluck, and keep on clucking until finally my mother would have no choice but to follow her into the henhouse and thank her for that egg … So you see, chickens most definitely have personalities and they most definitely talk.”

  “Huh.” I tried to picture Chiqui having a conversation with a happy clucking hen. But I just couldn’t picture it. I looked at Ms. Grace. There was this momentary shadow on her face as if a passing gray cloud had darkened her cheer.

  Busted.

  It was obvious she knew exactly why I was asking about the chickens.

  She breathed deep and exhaled. “Chiqui has had a rough life, Pablo. She didn’t have a lot of the same opportunities other kids have. She didn’t go to school. She didn’t have her family there all the time. She didn’t have any friends either. I mean, not that we know of. There’s just so much that we don’t know about her … It’s going to be challenging. You’re going to have to be patient and understanding … But I know you can do it, Pablo. I have faith in you.”

  I fiddled with the pages of my textbook, and then I met her gaze. “I’ll try my best.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Great. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

  “Um. Just one more thing.” I gazed down at the table. “Chiqui’s face … Mamá told me about the cleft lip and how she’s going to need a bunch of surgeries to get it fixed … But how come it’s like that? Did something happen to her?”

  Ms. Grace sat up straight, like she always did before a lecture. “Ah, well, I’m glad you asked, Pablo. The explanation is related to science and economics. You see, in countries like the Philippines, many women cannot afford doctors, nutritious food, or prenatal vitamins. Because of that, birth defects of the heart, spine, limbs, and face aren’t all that uncommon. What Chiqui has is a type of birth defect. She’s been that way her entire life. But there’s nothing to worry about. Right now, she might look a bit different, but after her surgeries, her smile is going to be as bright and wide as any other little girl’s.”

  “So is that why she can’t talk? Because of her cleft lip?”

  “Hmm…” Ms. Grace scrunched her mouth to the side. “Well, I’m not really sure. There could be several reasons why she’s not speaking. Maybe she’s still traumatized. Maybe she has a speech impediment. Maybe she can’t understand English … In fact, I’m quite sure she doesn’t. It’s pretty common for Filipinos from rural areas not to know much English.”

  I nodded.

  It was a lot to absorb.

  But I smiled—smiled like it was all good.

  I hoped Ms. Grace wouldn�
��t see through my pretense, because in reality, it wasn’t Chiqui that worried me. I was worried for myself.

  I wasn’t really ready for the challenge.

  I didn’t want to try my best.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted Chiqui in our house, in our lives. I wasn’t sure I wanted her anywhere near me.

  TEN

  I could still remember when there were three of us—Mamá, my father, and me. Then my father left when I was seven. Mamá said he needed his freedom. That he needed to chase the ocean. But I knew the truth. It came out one night after she had one too many sangrias. I could hear her in the other room, whining, shrieking, and screaming at her friend Maria. “Well, he can run away with that woman if he wants! I’m better off without him. She can take him. She can take all of him!”

  After that, it was only the two of us.

  Now all of a sudden, there would be three of us once again.

  It was my twelfth birthday and, ready or not, Chiqui was coming home.

  Mamá stood in the middle of her bedroom looking somewhat lost. Cleaning and organizing were definitely not her strengths. Give her some hiking boots, a machete, and a compass and she could take you on a tour of the Amazon jungle. But give her a broom, a mop, and a bucket and she wouldn’t know where to start. She swatted a cobweb away from her face and spotted me. “Pablo. There you are.”

  I fidgeted in the doorway. For a moment we stared at each other without speaking. Then it hit her. Mamá covered her mouth with her hand and turned bright pink. “Happy birthday, mi amor! Look at you, almost a teenager! How did this happen?” she said, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it.

  I exhaled. She hadn’t forgotten after all. “Thanks, Mamá.”

  “Un abrazo! Come here and give me a hug,” she said.

  I rushed over and allowed her to embrace me like a human pretzel even though her T-shirt smelled of dust and her skin was moist with sweat. It felt good to forget. To let go of the things that bothered me. But there was only so much I could take. As soon as Mamá’s unwashed hair grazed my cheek, I pulled away. I breathed. Relieved. And she sighed, throwing her arms into the air at the sight of the mess she’d created. “Madre mía! I’ve been trying to make space in here for Chiqui’s cot, but I just can’t make the two beds fit. I’ve rearranged everything a million times. Still, it’s hopeless.”

  The room was a disaster. But to me it looked more like a two-thousand-piece puzzle scattered on the floor. If I moved everything around, if I searched for the blank spaces, studied the shapes, then I could make it all fit.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  Her body relaxed. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. It’s fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll go make breakfast, then. What does the birthday boy want?” she asked with a grin.

  I thought about it. With everything so chaotic, so uncertain, so unpredictable, I needed order. I craved something comforting, something perfectly round.

  “Pancakes. A stack of three, please.”

  “All right. Pancakes it is,” she said, disappearing down the hallway.

  As soon as she was gone, I began moving aside the smaller objects—chairs, side tables, lamps, potted plants, stacks of books, sculptures, and way too many knick-knacks. Mamá was a collector—my polite term for hoarder. Everywhere we went, she just had to bring home some sort of remembrance. I didn’t see the point in it. Anything that really mattered was stored away in your brain anyway. Stuff just collected dust, and half the time, maybe even most of the time, nobody bothered looking at it.

  When the room was mostly clear, I was left with two beds and a desk. Mamá’s bed was full-size, the wrought iron kind, and the smaller one, the one Chiqui was supposed to sleep in, was more like a foldaway cot for guests. I guess it would do. She was small and she was a guest after all.

  It was temporary.

  I dragged Mamá’s bed from one side of the room to the other, which wasn’t much work since the space wasn’t too big anyway. Then I placed the desk right next to it, so it could also double as a side table. The rug went in the middle, and then I tucked a chair in the corner with a lamp beside it for reading. The only spot left for the cot was on the opposite wall. It was ideal. Mamá could keep an eye on Chiqui, and there was a window—a sunny window overlooking the street.

  I paused mid-motion and thought about Chiqui in that chicken coop. About what a lonely place it must have been after her grandfather died. She was all alone. In the dark. No windows. Not even a single lightbulb.

  “Pancakes are ready!” Mamá shouted from the kitchen.

  I bent down and took hold of the cot, pushing it toward the window. Pushing until the shadows started to fade. Pushing until every inch of it was bathed in sunlight.

  ELEVEN

  There was a slice of park by the hospital. It wasn’t much of a park. More of a block of concrete and stone, with holes for trees and planters filled with manicured bushes. I sat on a bench trying not to touch anything with my bare hands. Surely there were loads of residual germs, not to mention the bird poop—lots of it.

  “So. Twelve, huh?” said Miguel, who lounged beside me as if he were at a pool with a piña colada in his hand. “That sucks. But you’ll get through it,” he added with a smirk.

  I glared at him. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  He laughed so hard I could see his pearly-white teeth and tonsils. Miguel was Mamá’s boss, but really he was more like her sarcastic little brother. She’d once told me he was a black sheep. He came from a rich Filipino family who’d made their fortune in mining and palm oil plantations. Basically destroying nature for profit. So at twenty-one, when he got his trust fund, he left the family business and decided saving wild animals was his calling.

  “But seriously, Pablo. Being a little man is tough. If you ever need anything, if there’s a problem your mom can’t help you with … I’m here. Anytime. Okay?” he said, lifting his sunglasses.

  “Okay.”

  I diverted my gaze, tracing the square tiles with my eyes in an effort to numb what I was feeling. What Miguel said, the way he’d said it, reminded me of how much I missed having a father around. I loved Mamá. But sometimes I just needed someone else.

  “So, this whole thing with Chiqui. You okay with it?” Miguel suddenly asked.

  I squirmed. “Yeah. Sure. It’s fine.”

  The spaces between us felt kind of awkward.

  “Look. There they are,” he said, pointing toward the entrance of the hospital.

  I followed his finger, breathing as calmly as I could. Zeus appeared first, carrying a small duffel bag, a pillow, and a blanket. Mamá wasn’t far behind. Chiqui’s legs were wrapped around her like a squirrel clinging to a tree. Even from a distance I could see how scared she still was. How she hid her face and cowered with every sound, every movement.

  My breaths weren’t so calm anymore. Even Miguel, whose tan never seemed to fade, was three shades paler. He gripped my shoulder and whispered, “C’mon, Pablo. Let’s put up a brave front.”

  He stood, and I stood too. They were right there. Chiqui’s back was to me, but there was a hint of an eyeball peeking through her thick hair.

  “Well, that was exhausting. I’ve never had to do so much paperwork in my life,” said Mamá.

  Zeus gestured to the parking garage. “Ma’am, sirs, I will go get the car.”

  “Yes, it’s quite hot. Thank you, Zeus,” said Miguel.

  Mamá sat on the bench and exhaled. “She’s actually heavier than she looks,” she said, meeting my gaze. “Pablo, come. Sit.”

  I stared at the empty space beside her, and then looked at Miguel, wondering if he could save me somehow. But he only smiled.

  The bench. Focus on the bench.

  I counted its six metal slats and walked over.

  Sit. Just sit.

  So I did. Chiqui twitched and buried her face deeper into Mamá’s shoulder. “Shh … it’s okay, Chiqui. That’s your kuya Pablo, and over there, that’s Tit
o Miguel,” she said gently.

  “Big brother” and “Uncle,” that’s who we were supposed to be. I glimpsed at Miguel to see if he was as uncomfortable as I was. But I couldn’t really tell. His sunglasses were too dark, and he just stood there as if he were waiting for the bus or something. I cleared my throat and slid two inches closer. Mamá’s eyes jumped from me to Chiqui back to me. “Um. Hi, Chiqui … Uh. It’s nice to meet you,” I croaked.

  She turned slightly. The eyeball was back, glistening like a glob of Nutella.

  At least she didn’t smell like a barnyard anymore. Thank god. She also looked cleaner. Like they’d given her a bath. Though the faint odor of hospital disinfectant was still there.

  Eeww.

  Beep. Beep.

  Miguel’s truck pulled up.

  The eye was gone again. I sighed. It was going to be a long ride home.

  TWELVE

  Chiqui slept in the car. The whole ordeal must have been too much for her. When we arrived home, she was still slumped over like a rag doll. Miguel carried her to bed, while Mamá popped open a bottle of Spanish wine.

  “Thank god. My arms were starting to go numb,” she mumbled to herself.

  Glug, glug, glug.

  She poured herself a glass, and then she settled on the sofa with a sigh.

  I crept away slowly. Really, really slowly. The last thing I wanted was to keep on talking about poor little Chiqui.

  Ugh.

  Miguel’s footsteps echoed down the hallway.

  I snuck into my room and closed the door before he could see me.

  Breathe, Pablo. Breathe.

  He would call. My father would call. It was my birthday.

  I opened my laptop and stared at the video chat screen, adjusting the volume, checking the Wi-Fi signal, waiting, waiting, and waiting. The silence hummed, taunting me. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes went by and my eyes started to burn. I allowed the screensaver to burst and bounce into a prism of colors. The only thing I could do to pass the time, to stop myself from losing it, was to stare at my bedspread. The plaid pattern turned into roads, highways, trails, and pathways as if I were following a map to nowhere. I wasn’t really sure how much time had passed. It could have been several minutes. It could have been hours. But finally my laptop dinged. I fumbled with the keyboard and clicked “Accept.”