The House That Lou Built

by Mae Respicio

  “Because Dad was going to, remember?”

  Everyone says that before Dad died, he planned to build us a house on his family’s land. I’m going to finish what he started.

  “Are you excited for the Barrio Fiesta?” Alexa’s mom asks. “It’s such fun.”

  “You should invite Jack Allen,” Alexa says. I elbow her and she snickers.

  For the rest of the meal Alexa and her parents joke and laugh and eat rubbery non-cheese in their cozy, interesting home. I’m glad I came. I feel better now.

  Maybe another way I’m like my mom is that sometimes we both wish for a different kind of life.

  Alexa’s right; I’m probably worried for nothing.

  “I propose a toast. To Lou’s tiny house,” Alexa says, and we clink our glasses.

  Finally, the first official day of summer break. I rush out of the house, turn a cartwheel down the sidewalk, and stick my landing right as Manang Maribel and Manang Sheryl drive up to the curb. “Ta-da!” I shout.

  “School’s out!” Sheryl yells as I get into the car.

  “Hey, Louie,” Maribel says.

  “Hi, manangs.”

  Maribel is the coolest seventeen-year-old I know, because Auntie let her get a teeny-tiny diamond nose ring—and she can drive. It’s strange to think that in a couple years Maribel will be the same age my mom was when she had me.

  We’re taking a field trip to a place that makes me feel inspired: Annie’s Salvage Yard, a large cement lot full of junk and treasures. I work there once a month as my sort-of-a-job. Normally Maribel drops me off on her way to volunteer at the Humane Society. She wants to be a vet one day.

  My main task at Annie’s is to keep her company while we dream up new ideas for our 1,001 Cool Things to Build List. Like #424, the world’s largest catapult. I also help go through the mail and point customers toward the bathroom, that kind of thing. In exchange, I get first dibs on house parts. It’s a materials heaven.

  Mom lets me work there because she and Annie are old friends, and Mom says she thinks having a job will teach me to be responsible. I think the real reason is because it’s like free babysitting.

  Today at Annie’s is different: We’re on a mission.

  My family came up with the idea to charge for jeepney jaunts around the senior center during the festival. In the Philippines, jeepneys are old military jeeps covered with trinkets or decked out in different themes. They’re traveling works of art, the flashier the better. An uncle donated his old jeep to the festival, and today we’ll find decorations to make it shine.

  As we walk into the yard, Sheryl says, “Look for anything silver or sparkly,” and she zigzags through rows of things that catch the light and glint.

  * * *

  —

  Little jingle bells chime as we walk into the office. Annie sits behind the counter staring at the computer, probably at cute videos of hedgehogs snoring. She’s wearing her uniform of overalls and crazy socks with funky clogs.

  Annie’s the one who taught me that if I build my house on top of a trailer bed, like the one that’s already on my land, the city won’t make me pay for an expensive permit. So all I need today is wood. I’ve been saving up.

  “Hi, ladies,” Annie says, smiling at us.

  “School’s finally out.” Sheryl pops a peppermint disk from a tray on the counter into her mouth.

  “Hooray!” Annie grabs a couple of old wooden milk crates and hands them over. “Okay, Lou, show your cousins where to look. You can fill these up.”

  “Sounds good,” Maribel says, and she and Annie bump fists.

  * * *

  —

  We snake through a labyrinth of old furniture, car scraps, and oddly shaped metal sculptures that Annie welded together.

  This yard is full of things that came from someplace else, so they all have stories behind them. One day my house will have a story behind it, too.

  Sheryl stretches out a bunch of flattened soda cans strung together. “What about this?”

  “Sure, why not,” Maribel says, and Sheryl throws it into a crate with a clunk.

  “Hey, can I show you something?” I say. I lead them toward a covered pile in a corner and lift the plastic. “Special sneak peek. House parts.”

  I point out all the materials I’ve worked hard for, like a stainless-steel kitchen sink (not a single dent!) and some pretty brass drawer handles that might have lived in some old San Francisco Edwardian. I’ve been eyeing thin strips of sugar maple in a dreamy cream color to use for my floor.

  “That’s exciting. You’ve been talking about your house forever,” Maribel says. I’ve read every blog, watched every video, and even taken a free planning class online.

  The girls move on to pick through other rows, but I walk straight toward the wood piles. Long rows of reclaimed hardwoods and softwoods line the fence in short stacks, too many for me to name since there are more than one hundred thousand kinds.

  A truck is parked there—with a man loading up my sugar maple.

  I run and shout, “Hey, you can’t take that!”

  “Excuse me?” He closes the back of his truck.

  “That’s my floor.”

  The man looks my way. “Sorry, little girl, but Annie just sold it to me.” He pats my head, gets in, and drives off.

  Little girl?

  That sugar maple sat on the lot for months. I thought we’d never sell it. I kick the closest thing, a pile of hubcaps, and they scatter.

  “Everything okay, Miss Lou-Lou?” asks Fernando, one of Annie’s workers.

  The girls sprint over. “What happened?” Sheryl asks.

  “I was going to buy that wood! I’ve been saving all my allowance.”

  I watch my floor leave the lot, dust trailing in small puffs as the truck rolls away. Fernando smiles at me and says, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you find something even better.”

  “Yeah, there’s all kinds of wood here, Lou.” Maribel says.

  I picture Dad’s old sketchbook. Mom gave it to me, and on the last page, in big block letters and his messy guy’s handwriting, he wrote Sometimes plans change. He probably meant things like this.

  Fernando and the girls know I can do this. Together we stack the hubcaps back into a tall tower of metal pancakes.

  * * *

  —

  When Maribel drops me at home, our garage door is wide open. Mom is inside, surrounded by boxes and big plastic bins. She’s getting organized for the festival’s rummage sale.

  “See you at Lola’s party tonight!” Maribel beeps and Mom waves as she drives off.

  “How’d it go at Annie’s?” she asks.

  I think about telling her what happened with my wood, but I’m not ready.

  “We found a bunch of jeepney decorations.”

  “Oh, good.” Mom reaches toward a top shelf and I go over to help. “Thanks, sweetie,” she says as we lower a suitcase. I notice our laptop open and resting on a box, showing an airline site with cheery passengers high up in the clouds.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I am. It’s something I wanted to talk to you about. You have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Mom dusts off her hands and sits on the doorstep. “I have some really big news, Lou,” she says, smiling. “I was offered a job.”

  “Wow! That’s great. Which hospital? The one in Oakland?”

  “No, the one in Washington State we were talking about.” She’s still smiling, but avoiding my eyes.

  Exactly what I was afraid of.

  “And you turned them down, right?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, not exactly…”

  I feel my face crumple. “Are we moving?”

  Mom wraps an arm around me and gives a tight squeeze. “Not quite yet. I haven’t made
a final decision, but I do need to give them an answer soon. I booked a flight to check things out.”

  “Why can’t you get a local job?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear back from hospitals here,” she says. Her face lights up. “Hey, you know how you want your own room? If we move, we’ll find our own house, not an apartment. We’ll decorate it however we want.”

  “But I’m going to build my own house. Here.”

  Mom takes my hand and looks at me. “Lou, a great-paying job in a more affordable place will open up all kinds of doors. Remember the taxes I have to pay on your land every year? With a job like this, it won’t be as hard. Then, when you’re older, you can build your house, I promise. Does that make sense?”

  “Not really,” I say, and her smile fades.

  “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, honey, but this could be a wonderful opportunity for both of us.” She gets up and shuts the laptop. “I booked a red-eye for after the party tonight. I’ll only be gone two days, and when I get back we’ll figure everything out, okay?”

  I nod, but I don’t look at her.

  “We should get going so we can be early for once,” she says, even though we’re always on Filipino time. Late.

  Tonight we celebrate Lola’s sixty-eighth birthday, although most people think she’s a lot younger. It reminds me of my favorite tree fact: The older a tree gets, the faster it grows. The longer Lola lives, the more lively she seems.

  Mom and I get into the car. I carefully hold a box on my lap. Inside sits a bright purple, ube-flavored spongey cake with white icing, rainbow sprinkles, and glittery candles. We had to buy five packages of candles to make sure we’d have enough.

  We’re throwing her big bash at a different lola’s house—Lola Juaning, my grandmother’s sister who lives in Daly City.

  “Did you girls meet any interesting customers at Annie’s today?” Mom asks as she drives. She’s perky, but I don’t feel like talking.

  She tries again. “How’s the bahay kubo coming along?”

  I stare out the window.

  Mom glances from the road to me. Finally, she turns on the radio. My family’s so loud, I don’t think they know what it means to just sit and listen to nothing.

  Whenever I’m mad at her, I think about how different my life would be if I had a dad, too. He’d take me for ice cream and walks on the beach, and we’d have secret jokes and signals like my friends do with their dads. Sometimes I hang out with my uncles, tagging along when they’re out with my cousins, but it’s not really the same.

  The aunties always bother Mom about getting married. We do our best to ignore them. She dates, but there’s no one special.

  My parents met at an art and design college in San Francisco. Dad majored in architecture, like I will one day, and Mom studied interior design. They had a plan. He’d create buildings and she’d make them beautiful inside. But obviously, that never happened. When Mom got pregnant, Lola and Lolo made her leave art school and get a job. Filipinos didn’t study interior design. They were practical professionals, like nurses and teachers and certified med techs.

  My dad’s mother, Grandma Beverly, passed away a long time ago. Mom and I never knew her. I do remember Grandpa Ted, the happiest man with the strongest hug. I can still feel his arms around me whenever I think of him.

  Right after I was born, Mom and I went to live in Grandpa Ted’s guesthouse, a one-room studio where I felt safe and cozy. I think it counted as my first tiny house. Everyone says that our living with Grandpa Ted helped him cope with the tragedy as much as it did Mom and me. Lola likes to tell the story of how she and Lolo thought they didn’t have anything in common with my white grandpa, but it turns out they did—a love for their kids.

  I never knew the difference between my white grandpa and my brown one because they loved me the same. Being half and half is something I don’t think about much. A lot of my friends at school are a mix of all kinds of people. Sometimes I get asked “What are you?” It’s a silly question. I always say “I’m me.”

  Grandpa Ted died when I was almost six, so we went to live with Lolo and Lola. I missed Grandpa Ted, but Lolo and Lola comforted me with their stories and hugs, and with the dishes they cooked that made their house smell so good.

  I own two things of the Nelsons’—their land and my not-so-Filipino features. I’m taller and have lighter hair and skin than my cousins, with a pointier nose and eyes that only sometimes look Asian. When I’m around them, it’s easy to see I’m only half. Once, in Golden Gate Park, someone asked Mom how long she’d been my nanny. She got so mad. Still, Mom knows that inside I’m just as Filipina as she is. We connect with each other no matter how different we look.

  Finally, we reach Daly City. A lot of Filipinos live here. You can find calamansi juice and green beans for stewing at the farmers market, or a ton of Filipino restaurants and shops. I always spot people who look like my family, and get a feeling of home.

  Mom parks in the steep driveway of Lola Juaning’s house.

  “Lou, honey, I’m sorry if I upset you. Let’s go in and enjoy the party.” She smiles at me, but I don’t want to look her in the eye.

  She’s serious about moving, and I have to do something about it. But what?

  Think, Lou.

  We get out of the car and pause long enough to notice the sun slung low, pink clouds piled high. And suddenly, my brain sprouts a plan.

  * * *

  —

  At the doorway Mom slips off her sandals and I fling my flip-flops onto a mountain of shoes. Younger cousins are planted on the couch playing video games, while uncles and lolos drink San Miguel beer and argue about corrupt Philippine politics. People belt out sappy love songs around the karaoke machine, and all the aunties in the kitchen make chismis, gossip. The house surrounds me with the familiar noises of a big room holding a family I love.

  A long table in the dining room has all my favorite dishes: crispy lumpia rolls, clear pancit noodles, and sweet and sticky banana turon. “Go eat, go eat,” says Lola Juaning—the first words I hear when I walk into any Filipino party.

  Sometimes this mix of sounds and smells overwhelms me, but when it’s gone, I kind of miss it.

  “What took you guys so long?” Sheryl says. “Uncle Benny’s on his fifth version of ‘Dancing Queen.’ ”

  “Meeting time,” I say. She grabs two sodas and a handful of lumpias, and I pull her outside.

  * * *

  —

  We sit on the curb, flicking open our cans and watching some cousins play hockey. They grip their sticks and smack a black puck back and forth across the street, until one of them shouts, “Car!” and they scatter. Once the car’s out of sight, the game’s back on.

  Sheryl hands me a lumpia, freshly fried. I crunch in, and juice from the veggies and meat bursts in my mouth.

  “What’s so important?” she asks.

  “Only the worst possible thing.” I spill the whole story.

  She shoves the last inch of roll into her mouth and mumbles, “Wow, it’d be so strange if you didn’t live near us anymore.”

  “Not gonna happen. I came up with the best idea.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You know my tiny house?”

  “You mean our tiny house? I get my own reading nook, remember?”

  “Yup. I’m going to build it this summer, and then Mom won’t want to take that job.”

  Sheryl gives me her I-don’t-believe-you face. “Exactly how’s that supposed to work?”

  “Well, when Mom sees what I’ve made by myself, she’ll want to stay. She’s always talking about my land being my future and how it’s supposed to help with college and all that. So if I put a house there, she’ll see that my future’s right here.”

  The more I talk about it, the more sense it makes.

 
And now the thoughts rush in: adjusting the blueprints, prepping the trailer bed, lounging on the finished deck with my friends while sipping lemonade from fancy glasses. But the best part? The look of pride on Mom’s face when she sees it.

  “That’s it! I’ll surprise her!”

  Sheryl’s not excited. “Louie, do you even know how to build a house?”

  “Sure. I’ve built lots of things.”

  “Wooden flip-flops don’t count.” I liked that idea, until the principal called Lola to come bring me regular shoes. My invention was too noisy for school.

  “I have to at least give it a shot.” I don’t see any other way.

  “You should convince your mom to get a job someplace more exciting, like…Disneyland! I’d visit.”

  “Don’t say anything about my plan yet, okay? If Mom hears, she’ll make me stop, and I need some time to get the house up for this to work.”

  One of the aunties shouts from the doorway, “Cake time, kids!”

  “Let’s go light the candles.” Sheryl springs from the curb and dusts off her bottom. She offers a hand and lifts me.

  * * *

  —

  Sheryl and I push sixty-eight candles into creamy icing, packing them in tight. I light two and we use those to tag-team the rest, racing to finish before the wax drips. We carry the cake out on a silver tray, lit and sparkling.

  Lola sits at the table, her black-and-gray hair pulled back in a low bun and a crown of flowers topping her head. Everyone holds up phones to take pictures. Flashes blink like fireworks, and we sing at the top of our lungs, “Haaaaaappy biiiiirthday tooooo yoooou!”

  Sheryl glances at me and I smile: We’re in on a secret now.

  * * *

  —

  After the party we drive back to Lola Celina’s house. Uncle Jon-Jon, Sheryl and Maribel’s dad, carries in large bags packed with gifts. Lola asked us not to bring presents, but for once nobody followed her orders. Anyway, I can tell she wanted them, because she’s giddy, clapping her hands like a little kid as Uncle dumps her loot into a bright pyramid.