“Either is fine. I had a tour of the restaurant yesterday.”
“How about the bar, then?”
No one tends it for lunch, but we do mix drinks if a customer orders one.
“Good idea. I’ll wait there until you get your lunch break.” He follows me to the bar and flips an electronic tablet out of his briefcase. “Mix me a Leprechaun.”
“Leprechaun?” I cast in my mind for the ingredients.
“Oy! Don’t tell me you need bartending lessons.” He taps a note on his tablet.
I hook a glance over his shoulder, but he turns and keeps it away from me.
“Part of the job,” he says and slaps the cover over the screen. “A Leprechaun is Irish whiskey and tonic water.”
“Oh, yes, I knew that. Just testing you.”
His grin follows me as I glide behind the bar. I can’t help but feel my cheeks flush. “Where are you from, Mr. Dee?”
“Call me Johnny.” He folds his long arms over the dark mahogany bartop, his focus solely on me, as if memorizing every detail of my hair and dress. Not that I have anything on other than a unisex black shirt and black jeans covered with a black apron. My parents insist on black for all the staff, waitresses and chefs included.
I pour a shot of whiskey into a rocks glass and fill it with tonic water, then stick a wedge of lime on the lip. “Where did you say you’re from, Johnny?”
He raises the glass to me and takes a sip. “Harvard.”
“Oh, my sister goes to medical school there. I don’t suppose …” Really stupid thing to say. As if Boston was a small podunk town. “Sorry, I’m sure you’ve never met her.”
“If she’s as gorgeous as you, I’m sure I would have remembered.”
I gulp. Is this for real? This gwapo movie star handsome man is flirting with me at my family restaurant? Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the two new waitresses, Susie and Sarah, giggling and ogling Johnny.
“Nice try, Mr. Dee.” I polish another glass, even though it doesn’t have water spots. “My sister and I don’t look a thing alike. She’s taller, darker, with big brown eyes, the perfect Filipina. I look Chinese and have freckles.”
Not to mention a customer said I was chubby, and my sister Evie gave me a lecture about cholesterol and glycemic index right before going back to Boston.
“Maybe I happen to like that look.” He raises his tablet and I hear the click of a simulated shutter. “My mother’s Chinese Filipina and my dad’s white.”
“But, you’re Mr. Dee’s grandson.”
“I have my mom’s last name.”
Oops. When he said he was both Pinoy and American, I assumed his mother was the white one due to his last name.
I pick up another glass to polish. “Where did you grow up? Mr. Dee never mentioned he had a grandson at Harvard.”
Johnny takes a healthy swallow of his drink, and his eyes narrow. “He doesn’t talk about me at all. What you saw there was phony. He’s ashamed of me.”
“Really? What could you have possibly done?”
“You mean you really don’t know?”
“Know what?” I set down the glass I’m polishing.
He gives me this bad boy grin, shakes his head, and wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s for me to know and you to figure out.”
Chapter 4
Julia saunters a few yards ahead of me and sits on the seawall under the shade of a palm tree. Gulls flap above her, as if checking to see if she dropped French fries, then circle off toward a group of teens watching a beach volleyball match.
“Sunscreen?” I hand her a tube after liberally applying it over my face. Mama’s always complaining about my freckles and hinting for me to use skin tone cream, the kind they sell in the Philippines.
“Thanks,” Julia sighs and takes a deep breath. Ever since her wedding was canceled she’s been this way—wanting to take long walks with me to hash out every scenario that could have led to her fiancé, Steve, abandoning her days before the wedding.
A child’s bright beach ball sails above our heads.
“Sorry,” a nicely tanned young man jogs over and scoops it up. He grins at Julia and tosses the ball to a toddler boy. “Babysitting my nephew today. Do you come around here often?”
Julia’s shoulders sag, and she shakes her head quickly. “I-uh, my cousin, Choco, she … she likes to walk on the beach.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Turf it to me. The man flashes me a smile. “Choco? As in El Choco Loco?”
“No Moco Loco for you, bucko.”
“Zuni.” He holds up his hand. “And no Looney Zuni jokes from you.”
“Let’s go.” Julia tugs my arm, clearly uncomfortable of the male attention.
Zuni flashes her a smile, his white teeth a contrast to his darker lips. “Buy you girls a drink? How about a Tiki Kiki?”
Julia’s face turns pale, and she fans her chest. “I can’t believe he said that. Let’s get out of here.”
Uh hem, kiki is not exact a polite term among Filipinos, sort of like the American ‘c’ word.
Zuni seems oblivious to the insult. He grins and hefts his saggy pants, but the toddler yells, “Dada—” and pulls on the legs, dropping them to expose boxers covered with red hearts and lips.
I howl with laughter while Julia screams. She covers her eyes and runs over the sand to the sidewalk.
“Hey, Baby Daddy.” I flip Looney Zuni the bird. “Your Pampers are showing.”
When I catch Julia, she’s wiping her eyes furiously. I guide her to a shaded park bench. “What’s wrong? Don’t let that flake bother you.”
“If Steve were around, he’d flatten that gang banger.” She sniffs into her sleeve. “Everyone tells me to just get over it. Go out with other men, but they’re all creepers after one thing.”
I hug her and pat her back. “Not all guys are bad like that.”
“I’m tired of my life,” Julia wails. “I need a change. I feel so stuck. I hate where I am. I hate everything.”
“Look, you’re not stuck. You’re young …” I catch myself from saying “single.”
“I’m twenty-five, going nowhere, and the guy I thought loved me would rather go back to war than build a life with me.”
And I’m twenty-six, going nowhere, and never had a guy make plans with me, not even for a weekend or a second date. Well, again, not true, but I sure like to lie to myself. It’s better than dwelling on dating fails, or in my case, a total life fail.
Besides, unlike other twenty something year old women, I don’t need a man in my life to feel fulfilled. I have my … my … job at my parents’ restaurant, my brother and two sisters to care for, my friends, and well, someday, I’ll own my own business. See? I’m totally together.
I pat Julia’s back. “Maybe you can take up a new hobby or exercise. I know you had your heart set on marriage and a family, but don’t you think this is better? He showed his true colors before the wedding.”
Julia weeps harder. “You’re right. He’s shown himself to be unreliable. But I sank seven years into dating him. Being dumped sucks, and even worse, he asked for the ring back. Said he hadn’t finished paying for it.”
“Whew, narrow escape.” I wipe my brow for emphasis. “Imagine if you had married him. He’d probably max out your credit card and ruin your credit rating.”
She plucks tissue paper from her purse and blows her nose. “That’s it. No more crying. Time for a new man. Someone responsible and dependable. In the meantime, I’m going to look for a new job. Maybe I’ll meet someone better.”
“Atta girl.” I’m glad she’s feeling better. This is progress. I pull her from the bench. “Let’s make a pact. How about both of us get new guys by the end of summer. Let’s go to the Hangout and have a drink.”
“Sure, but going drinking won’t help.” Julia pouts. “I think I’ll start going to church again. Maybe all this is happening to me because I haven’t been to Mass.”
Ugh, if that’s happening to her, what about me? Ever since my
parents got really busy at the restaurant, none of us have been to church except Genie who’s bribed to go by my parents. She gets twenty dollars for each Mass. Little bandit.
“Besides,” Julia continues. “Tita Gloria says all the nice, marriageable guys to go church. She’s invited me to go with them Saturday afternoon.”
A light bulb explodes in my brain. “That’s it. You and Carlos. He’s the perfect guy for you.”
Julia blinks, her eyes still watery, but a hint of a smile tugs at her upper lip. “You think?”
“Yes, definitely. He’s kind, generous, and a real sweetheart, always going the extra mile. He’s also very reliable, someone you can count on, and he won’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I can’t imagine anyone better. Are you at all attracted to him?”
I can’t imagine anyone attracted to Carlos. Sure, he’s in great physical shape, and he could be considered handsome. But when you’ve seen a man bathed in sweat, yelling over a hot wok, well, there’s nothing mysterious or alluring about him. We all call him Kuya Carlos because he’s the eldest in his family and acts like a big brother to all of us at the restaurant.
“I don’t know …” Julia rubs her lip. “He’s really cute, but is he interested in dating?”
“I’m sure he is,” I reply with exaggerated alacrity. “I mean, I’ve never seen him go out with anyone, but that’s because my father never lets him out of the kitchen.”
“Then you better ask your father to cut him some time off. Think you can do that for me? Your favorite cousin, the recently jilted bride?”
“Definitely. You’ll go out with him if he asks?”
“I just might.” Julia primps her hair. “That is, if you’re okay with it. I mean, you two are close, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m more than okay with it,” I reply a little too quickly and adamantly. “Carlos and I are just friends.”
Chapter 5
“Do we have to go to another museum?” Twelve-year-old Livy Tan pouts as I park my car at Balboa Park. I’ve been Livy’s informal “Big Sister” since her mother died four years ago. Her father, a telecom engineer, wasn’t looking to get remarried or even date. When he came to my parents for advice on raising a young girl, my parents naturally volunteered me, the social anthropology major, to be her mentor.
“Your father wants me to take you to a different museum every week.” I keep my voice firm. Livy’s always cajoling me to take her to the beach or shopping or to an arcade where her friends hang out.
“So?” She slouches in the passenger seat. “We can take a few pictures, then go somewhere more fun.”
“Yeah, but it won’t help with the written report.” I swing open the car door. “Tell you what. You take notes on five exhibits and then we’ll go to Bombers and race the go carts.”
“Yay!” She pops out of the car, cell phone ready for picture taking.
We walk toward the California Quadrangle, the oldest and most distinctive part of Balboa Park, housing historic structures built for the 1915 Panama-California expo. The buildings resemble a Spanish Colonial church complex complete with arched walkways, a bell tower, and a giant blue and gold dome.
“Oh, look!” Livy points toward the left as we enter the square of the museum complex. “They have an Instruments of Torture special exhibit. Let’s go there.”
“Uh, I’m not sure your father would approve. I’ll have to ask him, but I don’t want to bother him at work.”
“You’re so boring.” Livy pouts and crosses her arms. “I bet my mother would have let me go in there.”
She cranes her neck at the entrance to the exhibit, where a large red sign proclaiming, “Ticket Holders Only,” blocks the ramp.
I cross the street to the steps of the main museum, a grandiose building, ornamented with sculptures depicting famous explorers and saints. Fortunately when we go to buy tickets, a notice informs us that children under the age of thirteen are not admitted to the torture exhibition without a parent or legal guardian. I point to the sign. “Sorry, you’ll have to come back with your dad.”
“Can’t you pretend to be my parent or legal guardian?” Livy nudges me. “I sort of look like you, don’t I? Besides, all Filipinos look the same.”
“I don’t look old enough to be your mother.” I shake my head and ask the lady behind the counter for two regular tickets.
Livy stifles a giggle. “You’re wearing old lady clothes and you act like you’re over thirty.”
I stare at my flip-flops and jeans. Maybe my horizontal striped T-shirt is not the height of fashion, but old lady? I don’t think so.
“They might check my driver’s license.” I put on a stern expression, the way Tita Gloria does when she wants an argument to stop.
Livy rolls her eyes. “My mom was real cool. She wore high heels and short dresses. She was really slim too. Dad always said she looked like my big sister.”
In other words, you, Choco, look like a mother in your dowdy clothes. Unfortunately, Livy’s mother disappeared on a trip to the Philippines and is presumed dead. There were a few unsubstantiated ransom notes, but no real leads other than a pool of blood and hair samples found at the place of her abduction. I’m not sure anyone told Livy the details, so I suppress a shudder and gesture for Livy to follow me.
I pick up brochures for the Empowering Women exhibit. “I want you to pick a country from this list and write about how a folk art cooperative works and how they transform the lives of the women in that country.”
“How about we just buy something from the gift shop and I write about it?” Livy saunters toward the colorful displays of woven cloth, baskets, and jewelry.
According to Livy’s philosophy, a Big Sister should open her wallet frequently and happily.
“Sorry.” I put my foot down. “No gift shop until after we watch the film on microfinance cooperatives and go through the exhibits. Remember, I want you to pick one of the women’s groups and tell me five things you learned, then I’ll buy you something, as long as we stay within the budget.”
“Can we raise it to fifty dollars?” She stares at the necklaces and amulets.
“Nope.” I yank her from the store. “You need to learn to prioritize whether you want to spend it all here, or race go carts later.”
She sighs loudly and drags her feet. “My mother’s family’s rich.”
Which is why she got kidnapped and possibly murdered. The kidnappers didn’t realize her father had lost all his real estate holdings in the recession.
“Come on, Livy.” I put my arm around her and give her a hug. “Let’s get some Ben and Jerry’s after this. Off budget.”
She gives me a long-suffering look and trudges toward the colorful exhibit.
It’s my turn to sigh. Being Livy’s Big Sister is important to me. I just wish she liked me better.
# # #
“Do you think I look old?” I turn sideways in front of the full-length mirror in my father’s office. Not that there’s anything for me to check out. I’m forever stuck with wearing black jeans, black shirt, black sneakers and a black apron.
Mama thumbs through a pile of receipts and enters them into the accounting program.
“You girls are always fussing. Am I fat? Do I look okay?” she says without glancing up. “Put it this way, you’ll never look as young as you look right now. Enjoy it.”
Such a cheerful thought.
I scrunch my face to see if I have any wrinkles, then run my fingers through my hair. Genie claims to have spotted a white hair, but when I asked her to pull it out, she refused.
I turn back toward my mother. “Livy says I look like I’m over thirty.”
“When you’re twelve, anyone over twenty is old. How was your day with her?”
“I don’t think she likes me.” I pull my hair into a ponytail and clip my bangs back. “Maybe I should get one of those anime haircuts, you know, a layered bob, or a pixie cut with spikes.”
“Your job isn’t to get her to like you,” Mama says. “She
needs a role model, a trusted female figure in her life for all the questions she’ll have as she goes into puberty.”
I don’t bother asking ‘why me?’ After all, we all know I’m the responsible one, the perpetual elder sister, the one everyone comes to for help and advice. Besides, I care for the kid, and she needs me to fill in for her dead mother.
“She’s idealizing her mother and acting like I’m a dork for setting limits.”
“It’s understandable. She’s playing you off against her memory. She’s testing you.”
“I hate to be the bad guy all the time. Her father isn’t paying her any attention. He’s always so busy with his work, and I only get to see her once a week.”
Mama gets up from the desk and walks toward me. “I know it’s hard on you, Anak, but you have to stand firm if you want Livy to turn out well.”
“I just want her to be happy. And like me, or at least not hate me.” My insides twist at the thought of Livy turning her back on me. I know I have to be the heavy and set limits, but can’t she at least appreciate me or admire me?
“Bet you hated me when you were a teen.” Mama pinches my shoulder. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”
# # #
I jiggle my Wii controller and prance in front of the screen. “I’m gonna get you, Carlos. Oh yeah.”
Unlike physical sports, I have a decent chance of winning a video game against Carlos.
“Wipeout! Ow, that’s gotta hurt,” the game host jeers as Carlo’s avatar, Silver Wolf, falls off the turntable after being punched by a paddle.
“Gotcha! Uh huh, uh huh.” I’m the one who made him fall because I shot the ball that activated the paddle. “I’m awesome and I know it, uh uh uh. Now watch me.”
I line up my avatar, an attractive brunette, of course, and wiggled my hips as Soaring Sabrina jumps from the tower onto a rolling platform.
“Not going to get away this time.” Carlos shoots balls at the target. “Ha, ha, you’re going down.”
“Oh, no you’re not.” My avatar waves her hands and loses her balance. A rotating lever arm knocks her upside the head.
Claiming Carlos Page 3
