How to Make Friends with the Sea Page 4

  “Hello?”

  My father materialized, shirtless and tanned with the endless blue sky above him. “Hey! Happy birthday, man!”

  “Thanks … thanks for calling.” I could feel the warmth spread from my cheeks to my ears and neck.

  “So, you got something exciting planned? Trekking in the jungle with your friends? Camping on the beach with your girlfriend?” he said with a wink.

  My entire face was on fire. “Um. Yeah. Something like that … I haven’t really decided yet.”

  “Well, you’re almost a man. You better enjoy it before you become an old fart like me.” He guffawed. I laughed along, but it sounded like I was trying too hard. “Oh. I almost forgot,” he said, pulling something out of his pocket, something triangular and white. “Check it out. It’s a shark tooth from a great white. I found it on our dive yesterday. I’m going to send it to you so you can wear it around your neck and show it off to the girls.”

  I studied the sharp tooth. In the background, my father smiled. He was so rugged, so carefree. I could see why Mamá had fallen for him—why all the other women had fallen for him too.

  “Hey, Cal!” someone shouted off camera.

  He put the tooth away and stood. “I have to go. We’ve got Nat Geo with us. They’re doing a show on the sharks of South Africa … Anyways, you have a good birthday, all right, Pablo? Say hi to your mom for me.”

  I nodded. My lips parted. My tongue moved as if to speak. But no words came out. My father waved. “Talk to you soon, okay?” And then he was gone.

  I was embarrassed. Humiliated. Stunned. There was this bitterness at the back of my throat. Is that what lies taste like? If only he knew the truth. What a loser, what a freak I really was. The majority of my time was spent inside the house obsessing over numbers and patterns and shapes and germs and dirt and dust and every little thing that bothered me. There were no jungle treks with friends, no camping on the beach with girls. In fact, there weren’t even any friends or girls to speak of.

  It was a joke. My twelve years of life were a joke.

  THIRTEEN

  There wasn’t supposed to be a party, just dinner at home, cake, and presents. But that was planned days ago.

  A lot had changed since then.

  Zeus, Ms. Grace, Miguel, Mamá, and Chiqui gathered around me. It had gone from a party of two, to a party of three, to a party of six. Whoop-de-doo. Once again, Mamá had managed to convince me. She said we had so much more to celebrate now.

  As if my birthday wasn’t enough.

  I sat at the head of the table. Once in a while, I’d glance over at Chiqui. She had on one of Bing’s hand-me-downs—a purple T-shirt dress with lime-green polka dots. But as ugly as the dress was, and it was pretty ugly, it was her eyes that bothered me. They were too big and too round; for some reason they made me nervous. I looked away. Instead tapping my fingers as I counted the spaghetti remnants in the serving bowl. With the sauce congealed and the herbs dried out, the strings of pasta resembled dead earthworms. I shuddered.

  “I’ll start clearing the dishes,” said Mamá, hurrying into the kitchen. She wasn’t fooling anyone, especially me. Every year on my birthday she’d make some flimsy excuse to sneak away and get my cake.

  “Sir Pablo,” Zeus said, pulling his chair closer to mine. “It is good your mother made spaghetti to celebrate. You know why?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He grabbed a fork and twirled the leftover noodles, slurping them so globs of sauce clung to his chin. I leaned back. But what I really wanted to do was drag my chair to the other side of the room. “Because it is good fortune to eat long noodles on your birthday. Long noodles equal long life,” he explained.

  I wanted to frown. I wanted to raise an eyebrow and say, Huh? So how exactly are noodles supposed to make you live longer? But I just smiled, not really wanting to engage in a conversation with a tomato-stained chin. But then Ms. Grace swooped over. “This is a good history lesson, Pablo! Long-life noodles are a tradition that Filipinos adopted from Chinese merchants who traveled to the Philippines as early as the ninth century. Of course, they weren’t eating spaghetti back then. But rather thin rice noodles, which evolved to what we know as pancit today,” she said in her teacher-y voice.

  I knew I was supposed to be fascinated by the historical significance of noodles in the Philippines. But I didn’t care. Not one bit. What I cared about was Chiqui inching closer. Though her chin wasn’t stained, it slithered at the edge of the table, picking up germs along the way.

  Just ignore her.

  I stared at my lap and tapped my fingers again.

  One. Two. Three. Repeat.

  But then something touched me. I jumped. The crack—Chiqui’s cleft lip. I saw it up close, for an instant. And then it blurred as she scurried away under the table.

  “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” Mamá emerged from the kitchen holding a cake with twelve candles. Ugh. The singing. I was panicked all of a sudden. Cornered. But they were doing it for me. I couldn’t possibly run away and hide.

  Miguel slapped my back. “Go on, little man. Blow out your candles.”

  “And make a wish,” said Mamá.

  It felt like I was in one of those nightmares where faces were distorted and voices were low and slow. I tried to drown them all out. Instead focusing on Abuelita’s orange almond cake, which was pretty much the best cake ever—clean and simple and devoid of any goopy frosting.

  Whoosh.

  I blew the candles out.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  For a moment I was trapped in a vortex of hugs and kisses and handshakes. “Thanks. Thanks so much,” I gasped and then held my breath until everyone backed off.

  But then somehow, the candles lit up again. I frowned.

  “I think you need to blow a bit harder, Pablo. C’mon, take a deep breath and give it another go,” said Miguel with a grin.

  Whooooooshhhhhh!

  I blew them out. Nobody clapped. They just gawked at me, and held their breath.

  The candles lit up again, the flames wiggling as if they were mocking me. I glared at Miguel, and then at Mamá, whose eyes looked as if a bunch of confetti was about to explode out of them.

  Whooooooooooshhhhhhhhhh!

  I blew them out. One. More. Time.

  The candles lit up. Again.

  Mamá giggled. “I’m sorry, Pablito. The trick candles were Miguel’s idea,” she said, elbowing him.

  “Blasphemy!” Miguel raised his hands as if to protest.

  Zeus and Ms. Grace laughed.

  Humph.

  I crossed my arms and stared at my stupid cake. Through the burning candles, I spotted Chiqui. She glowed, the flames reflected in her eyes. I caught her gaze and she caught mine. For a second, maybe more like a millisecond, she smiled. It was lopsided. It wasn’t very pretty. But it was a smile. It really was a smile.

  And then it was gone.

  Chiqui covered her mouth with her hand and quickly ducked under the table.

  FOURTEEN

  After my torturous birthday celebration, I retreated to my bedroom. I needed my safe space. I needed my rituals to relax. I showered, washing my hair, then rinsing the shampoo and conditioner residue off my skin with black charcoal soap. Next, I brushed my teeth for exactly three minutes and gargled six times. I washed my hands again just to be sure, and dried them with a fresh hand towel before getting into my pajamas—the ones with airplanes, trains, and automobiles on them.

  I laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Staring at nothing at first. But the more I stared, the more I started seeing things. Shadows that moved and shifted like flying birds. Peeling paint the same shape as the sun. A water stain that was eerily fish-like.

  Fish. Birds. Sunshine. All those things reminded me of when I was a little kid in California. Mamá was still working at the World Wildlife Fund, and my father was a consultant at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. On my fourth birthday, my father had come home all excited, his eyes shim
mering as he pulled a gift from behind his back. I glanced at the package wrapped with sea-creature-themed paper. “What is it?” I asked.

  My father grinned so wide, his suntanned skin crinkled. “You’ll see! Come. I’ll show you,” he said, leading me to my bedroom. He placed the gift on my bed. “Go ahead, Pablo. Open it up.”

  I began unwrapping the package carefully.

  Don’t rip the paper, Pablo, I said to myself.

  My fingers slid in between the seams, searching for the pieces of tape.

  Don’t rip the paper. Don’t rip the paper. Don’t rip …

  “C’mon, Pablo. Just rip the paper already.” My father reached out, tearing off the paper in one go.

  I flinched. My vision hazed.

  “Isn’t it cool? I wish I’d had one of these when I was a kid,” said my father. He opened the box, fumbling with plastic and paper and batteries and switches. I had no idea what the gift was, much less what he was doing with it. “Okay. You ready?” he said with his hand on the light switch.

  I nodded. I didn’t really know why I nodded.

  My room went dark.

  “Ta-da!” My father’s voice sounded like a hokey magician’s.

  All of a sudden, there were fish and dolphins and sharks swimming on the walls and ceiling. The lights changed colors every so often.

  Blue fish.

  Green dolphins.

  Red sharks.

  My heart was beating too fast. I was scared. I wasn’t sure why. But I was scared.

  “Well? Isn’t it awesome?”

  I wanted so badly to say, Thanks, Dad! It is awesome. Best gift ever!

  But I couldn’t. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  Click. He turned the machine off—the fish and dolphins and sharks were gone.

  It was bright again. My father stood there, squinting at me, squinting at the tears in my eyes. He looked so disappointed. No words were spoken. All he did was stuff my gift back into its box, leaving only the shreds of paper behind.

  I blinked.

  My father vanished.

  My bedroom vanished.

  My four-year-old self vanished.

  I was staring at the water stain on my ceiling. It was just a water stain. A stupid water stain. I looked away and stared at the airplane on my cuff instead, stared and stared and stared until my eyelids drooped.

  Creak.

  What was that noise?

  I opened my eyes.

  Creak.

  My bed groaned.

  Creak.

  It groaned again. But I hadn’t moved at all. I bolted from my pillow, eyes adjusting to the darkness. There was something—no, someone—there. Maybe I was dreaming. It looked like Chiqui … It was Chiqui. She was crouched at the foot of my bed watching me.

  I screamed.

  FIFTEEN

  After I screamed, Mamá burst through the door holding a kitchen knife.

  She looked panicked.

  Chiqui looked panicked.

  I was panicked.

  “Que pasó? What’s going on?” she managed to say in between breaths.

  I pointed toward Chiqui but she was already gone; her tiny footsteps were echoing down the hallway. “She—she was watching me. From over there.”

  Mamá put the knife down and exhaled. “I’m sorry you’ve had a fright, Pablo … I’m sure Chiqui was just curious, that’s all. Now try and go back to sleep. I’m going to go find her and make sure she’s okay.” She blew me a kiss and closed the door.

  Make sure she’s okay?

  Really?

  Ugh.

  After that, I most definitely couldn’t go back to sleep. My room was contaminated.

  Germs.

  I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there.

  I pulled off the bedspread and put it in the hamper. And then I wiped the wooden footboard and the doorknob on both sides with 70 percent alcohol. The finishing touch was a couple of spritzes of lavender-scented Febreze. I inspected everything one last time to make sure it was all spick-and-span.

  “Chiqui! Don’t hide … Please,” said Mamá from somewhere outside my room.

  I could hear more footsteps and scurrying. I quickly locked my door. There was no way she was getting back in. Not that night. Not ever.

  Finally, it was safe again. I huddled in bed trying to forget about what had happened. But it was impossible. Chiqui’s eyes kept on watching me. As if she were still there. Through the shadows, the crack on her lip twitched and quivered like she wanted to say something.

  Yet all I could hear was silence.

  * * *

  Bang.

  Plonk.

  Wumpth.

  It was morning. I was on the sofa trying to read a book. Trying but failing. Chiqui was turning the house upside down with her stomping and jumping and grabbing and dropping and door slamming. Stuff was toppling all over the house.

  Crash.

  “Oh, Chiqui…” Mamá sighed from the kitchen. “That was Abuelita’s cazuela.”

  I doubted Chiqui understood the significance of an heirloom earthenware serving dish.

  Zoom.

  Chiqui ran into the living room. She snatched the throw pillow by my feet and threw it up into the air.

  Thud.

  It landed on the carpet. She picked it up as if to throw it again, but stopped when she saw a frazzled-looking Mamá by the doorway. Her hair was a mess, her upper lip sweaty, her shirt buttoned in the wrong holes. “Chiqui…” Her voice was a few octaves lower than normal. “Those are throw pillows, but they aren’t for throwing. Okay?”

  At first Chiqui didn’t react.

  Maybe it was because she hadn’t understood a word of what Mamá had said.

  “PIL-LOW. NO throwing. Huwag … No. No. No,” Mamá said more slowly.

  I was actually impressed that Mamá had managed to squeeze in some Tagalog in between all the noes. But it didn’t seem to make much of a difference, really.

  I closed my book, sat up, and held my breath.

  Was Chiqui going to cry?

  Throw a fit?

  Crumple on the floor and pound her fists on the carpet?

  Instead, though, she grabbed the pillow and hurled it into the air. Again. It hit Mamá on the hip, before landing with another thud.

  I looked at Chiqui. I looked at Mamá. It was tense and quiet, like in those old Western movies, when the two gunmen were about to have a standoff.

  “Umm…” I stood and tiptoed around them. “I think I’ll go outside for some fresh air,” I mumbled.

  Neither of them seemed to hear me.

  Phew.

  I was out on the stoop. It felt safer.

  Chiqui.

  Ugh.

  The last thing I wanted was to be in the middle of that disaster zone.

  I hopped down the stone steps. It was early morning, but it was already too hot and too humid. Everything seemed to steam and sizzle. The only shade within a twenty-foot radius was under the big narra tree where Mamá had placed a rusty white garden set. I stared at the patches of rust, which looked like some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.

  “Are you going to sit or just stand there?”

  Happy appeared in all her Hello Kitty glory—gray leggings with thousands of miniature Hello Kitties, an aqua colored T-shirt with a winking Hello Kitty, and flip-flops with a Hello Kitty in between her big toe and the one next to it.

  “Um. I don’t know. Do you think it’s safe?” I replied.

  Happy plopped down on the rustiest chair. “Safe from what?”

  “Safe. You know, like from germs and stuff.”

  There was a slight crease on her forehead. “It’s a chair, Pablo. I think it’s safe to sit on it.”

  I sat. I guess she had a point.

  Happy smiled a dimply smile. She placed a closed hand on the table. “I heard it was your birthday. Catch,” she said, tossing something toward me.

  I reached out clumsily and caught it. The object was a small cube, sort o
f like origami but made out of leaves. I’d never seen anything like it. “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s something we play with. A toy made out of palm leaves.” Happy got up and plucked the cube from my hand. Then she slipped her flip-flops off. “Like this.” She lifted her foot to the side and bounce-kicked the cube as if it were a mini soccer ball.

  To be honest, the sight of her dirty, bare feet grossed me out. Like really grossed me out. But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I faked a smile and said, “Oh. Wow.”

  Happy plopped the cube on the table and glanced at the house. “Chiqui—”

  “Yeah, Chiqui’s inside. That’s why I’m out here,” I replied with a sigh.

  “No. I mean she’s over there,” she said, pointing at the window nearest to us.

  I turned around. Happy was right. Chiqui was staring at us with her nose smooshed on the glass. She looked ridiculous. My cheeks were burning. I was not only embarrassed—I was embarrassed about being embarrassed. “I’m sorry. She’s just … getting used to everything, I suppose.”

  But then something strange happened. Something unexpected. Happy waved at Chiqui, and Chiqui waved back. Like they were friends or something.

  “She’s cute,” said Happy.

  “I guess.” What else could I say?

  Happy dragged her chair so it was in front of mine. I cringed. She was way too close. Her dirty, bare feet were right there.

  Ugh.

  “So,” she said.

  “So,” I said back.

  She leaned forward.

  Too close. Too close. Too close.

  Her eyes sparkled. “Well, since it’s summer break, I was thinking maybe we could hang out. Me and you and Chiqui. I’m really good with kids. I watch them all the time…”

  Happy was so still. It was as if her breathing were on hold.

  She wanted to hang out with me.