It wasn’t really true that Hero had quit smoking, not exactly. In the camp, she’d only felt two cigarettes against her lips, both of them incitements to get her to talk, to give someone up. She hadn’t talked; she hadn’t finished either cigarette. When the guard put the first one out on her stomach, it was a surprise. The second one, she’d been expecting, so she knew to inhale deeply so there was more ash than ember on the cigarette once it touched down on her belly. That was long before they’d gotten to her thumbs. By the time she got to Soly, she couldn’t keep a cigarette between her fingers for more than a few seconds without crying out and dropping it, and in any case it took months for the look of the red cherry at the end to stop sending her heart racing. Some part of her missed smoking, though. The part that never learned.
Are you Ilocana? Hero found herself asking.
Adela smiled. A little bit, she said.
Hero didn’t know what that meant, but knew she wasn’t going to ask. I don’t speak it, Adela explained. Boy can speak a little bit, he used to work with a lot of Ilocanos when he was younger. But we always spoke to each other in Tagalog and English. From the beginning.
Hero believed her, though privately she’d thought that both Boy and Adela had choppy accents even in Tagalog, and they often made what Hero knew were grammatical mistakes—their handle on tenses was especially irregular. But in their speech the errors occurred so frequently as to appear less like mistakes and more like natural vernacular texture, like they’d been living outside the country for long enough to have transformed the language into an intimate dialect, the rules of which were known only to them. In English, on the other hand, they were much more relaxed, even fluid. Boy’s accent was especially American, which had surprised Hero the first time she heard it. Boy was usually so quiet, she’d just assumed that he was like Paz’s siblings, unshy people who’d been locked into themselves by their stumbling English.
You’re Ilocana, Adela said. Hero nodded.
Full, right? Where were you born?
Hero nodded again. Vigan. Ilocos Sur.
So you speak Ilocano?
Hero nodded, then tilted her head mid-nod. I’m losing it, she said.
Adela picked up the jeprox tail and crunched down at it with her molars. Happens to everybody.
I’m half Ilocana, half Pangasinense, Roni announced, after swallowing. She said it, as always, like it had been taught to her.
Yep, that’s right, Adela said. Your mom’s Pangasinense. Very difficult language.
Roni shrugged. Dunno.
Dunno, Adela mimicked. Do you know if you like sotanghon? Noodles?
Roni looked doubtful. I’ve never had that. Like Cup O’ Noodles?
Adela glanced over at Hero, still smiling. It’s kind of like Cup O’ Noodles. It’s a very Ilocano dish. Hero didn’t know what to do with the warmth that passed through her body at the thin thread of conspiracy—camaraderie—that Adela had thrown out to her, so easily, just with the word Ilocano.
Roni looked up at Hero for confirmation. It’s good, Hero said, giving it.
Adela put her hands on the tabletop. Okay. I’m gonna make it in the back, now. You’ll take it home?
If it’s good, Roni said petulantly.
Adela laughed. Can you guys wait, or you want me to bring it to your house? I can get Rosalyn to bring it over. But if you wait, you can stay for karaoke.
Roni was still resistant to the prospect of karaoke, but now she was looking at the TV and VCR in the corner, both of which were turned out. She was thinking, Hero remembered, about the videotape that was in her backpack, waiting to be returned to Rosalyn, even though she’d never gotten the chance to watch it.
Could I do my homework here? Roni asked, directing her question not at Hero and Adela, but more at the TV itself.
Hero sighed. Let’s call Tito Pol and ask if it’s okay.
When Roni came back from her phone call home with Pol’s permission to stay, she was bouncing with newfound motivation for finishing her homework. Adela stood up. Okay. I’ll start making the sotanghon.
Roni stopped. Wait. Is that it?
Is what it.
Our. You know. Thing. Roni looked away, then gestured vaguely at her own skin. The healing stuff.
Adela had an unlit cigarette between her fingers, was tapping it on the counter.
You’re right. Okay, halika dito. Come here, she said, gesturing for Roni to approach. Lift your face to me.
Roni took two small steps toward Adela, raised her chin. Adela passed the hand holding the cigarette over Roni’s face, just covering above it. She hummed, in appraisal or approval, it wasn’t immediately clear.
Put out your arms, she said, and Roni complied, then closed her eyes for good measure, even though Adela hadn’t ordered her to.
Adela passed the hand over the arms there, lingering on the parts with eczema, making slow circles in the air.
Abracadabra, she intoned somberly.
Roni opened one sore eye, indignant. Is this a joke?
Adela grinned, gold teeth glinting. Then pinched Roni’s nose, the cigarette filter brushing against the girl’s skin.
Huwag kang matakot, she said, so softly that Hero wouldn’t have heard it, if she wasn’t straining to. Ligtas ka dito. So you just let me worry about the healing, okay?
* * *
When Roni was finished with her homework—done sloppily, even though Hero told her again and again to write the letters neatly; her handwriting was terrible, even for a child—she practically thrust the videotape into Hero’s face.
Can we watch it now, can we can we can we can we—
Hero took the video out of Roni’s hands. We should ask Lolo Boy and Lola Adela if it’s okay. They didn’t say. The TV’s not even on.
Roni slumped back in her seat. Okay.
Hero stood. Boy and Adela were nowhere to be found; in the kitchen, she surmised. Hesitating, she made her way to the door, unwilling to poke her head in. Ah—excuse me—
Just come in already, Adela barked.
Boy and Adela were standing by the large stove, Boy in the middle of knifing a whole chicken into parts, its guts collected in a metal bowl, Adela watching over a large pot of boiling stock filled with older, frozen bones and wings.
Uh—can Roni watch a video on the TV? Rosalyn lent it to her last week.
Oh, Adela said. I don’t know how to work that thing. Can you ask Rosalyn to set it up? She’s in the salon.
Hero opened her mouth, but words came out slower than she intended them to. Sure. Of course. Okay. Thanks.
She went back out into the restaurant to relay the plan to Roni. The girl bounced up. Okay, let’s go!
It was early evening when they walked out of the restaurant, leaving Roni’s backpack and scattered homework papers at their table. A chill in the air, the sky that strange shade of violet it turned here, pale but deep at the same time, late enough there was no orange in it. Hero put her arms around herself, shivered in her long-sleeve shirt, no sweater. Looked at Roni, who was wearing something similar. Malamig, ’di ba? she said.
Roni’s arms were swinging all the way to the salon. Not really.
They pushed open the salon doors, the cold picking up in a heavy, sudden gust that slid just past them. Hero looked at the sinks, but Rosalyn wasn’t standing there; there was another young woman, talking to a young man, both of them probably Vietnamese.
Hey, Roni! came a voice from the other side of the salon.
Hero turned her head as if she’d been the one called. Rosalyn was sitting down on a stool just in front of a young woman who was seated in one of the hairdressing chairs. The young woman’s face was angled toward a large mirror lit bright with vanity lights. Rosalyn’s back was to the mirror, focused on the young woman, so the mirror reflected the woman’s face and Rosalyn’s long, sweatshirt-covered back. The yo
ung woman’s face was cupped in one of Rosalyn’s hands, her eyes closed, hair pulled back from her face with a cloth headband, towel around her neck and shoulders. Rosalyn’s other hand was holding a slender brush. She was smiling at Roni.
So you get into any more fights?
Roni grinned, raising herself up on her toes. Not yet.
Rosalyn flicked her gaze up to Hero, then looked away, back to the upturned face in front of her. She leaned forward, applied something to the young woman’s eye, then pulled back.
Whatcha doing, Roni asked.
Makeup, Rosalyn replied. Wanna see? She looked at the young woman, who’d opened her eyes. Is that okay? she asked, low.
The young woman nodded, turned her face slightly, careful not to disrupt Rosalyn’s work. Hey. What’s up.
What’s up, Roni repeated. She looked impressed. You look cool.
The young woman laughed. Thanks. It’s all her, she said, pointing her lips at Rosalyn.
Rosalyn gestured with a hand. Janelle, Roni. Roni, Janelle.
Your eyes look cool, Roni said.
You’re so cute. Ask Rosalyn to do it for you, too.
Roni didn’t, though, content to look at Janelle, whose eyes had been enlarged and shaded with what looked like a complicated mixture of shadows.
Rosalyn met Hero’s eyes for the second time, lingering at last. Hey, what’s up.
What’s. up, Hero repeated, sounding stiff even to herself. That relaxed Rosalyn, somehow. It was only in that moment that Hero realized that Rosalyn hadn’t been relaxed.
Can you help with the VCR? Roni asked. Your grandma said. I wanna watch Castle of Cagli. Cagli. Cagliostro.
Rosalyn leaned back on her stool, hands between her legs, balancing. She laughed. What, you didn’t watch it yet?
I got in trouble. I forgot. So can you? Or. Roni glanced at Janelle. Are you busy—
Rosalyn tilted her head to Janelle. I’m kinda busy, yeah. Can you give me like five minutes, let me just finish up her eyes? Then I’ll come do it for you quick. But then I gotta finish working on her. She’s got homecoming tonight.
What’s homecoming, Roni asked, still hugging the video. Hero was glad that Roni asked, so she didn’t have to.
It’s a dance, Janelle said. Her face in the mirror, lit and glowing, looked less real than the face gazing at Roni and Hero; its contours hazier, skin poreless, brighter.
She’s got a daa-aaa-aaaate, Rosalyn teased.
You’ll go to homecoming, too, when you’re older, Janelle informed Roni. This year’s my last one, now that I’m a senior in college. Wait, how old are you?
Almost eight.
Oh, really? You kinda seem older.
Like how old?
Like a hundred, Rosalyn interrupted. You guys wanna take a seat? She indicated to the two empty hairdressing chairs next to Janelle. You can sit here if you wanna watch. We don’t have any more appointments tonight, so no one’s gonna come in.
Roni climbed into the chair closest to Janelle, eyes hungry. It looks cool, she said again.
Hero hovered awkwardly next to Roni, hands wringing, then finally sat down in the free chair next to her, farthest from the action. She looked at Rosalyn, who wasn’t looking back at her, but scrutinizing Janelle’s face. Hero looked at Rosalyn’s hand instead, the brush held capably in it, then at the long line of her back in the mirror, then at Janelle’s eye, a denser black line cutting through the cloudy shadow and extending just past her lashline, slightly lifting the corner of her eye.
She does the best makeup in the whole South Bay, Janelle said, sounding sincere but stilted, trying not to move her face too much. I have to use tape when I do this at home.
Shut. up, Rosalyn muttered.
Probably the whole Bay Area, Janelle amended.
Cool, Roni said, leaning forward so she was practically crouching on the chair on all fours, her hands balanced on the arm closest to the two young women. Rosalyn was blending something on Janelle’s eyelid with her middle finger, then using a different, shorter brush to blend something out beneath her lower lashline. When Janelle opened her eyes, there was a more defined halo of bronze diffused around the crisper black line, making her eyes recede, the expression in them faraway, secretive, ancient. It did look cool; Hero had to agree.
Okay, Rosalyn said, brisk. You need to curl them?
Janelle lifted up one corner of her mouth. What do you think?
Rosalyn made a tsk sound, but turned to the assortment of tools and brushes that had been laid on the counter in front of the mirror. Janelle rolled her eyes, defensive. Just ‘cause you hate curled lashes—
What’s curled lashes, Roni asked, practically hanging off the chair.
Janelle held up a hand. Nah, nah. Don’t get her started on curled lashes, overplucking your brows, uh, why you should use lip liner as lipstick, why you should use eyeliner as lipstick, why you should use mascara as eyeliner—
Would you. just. chill, Rosalyn muttered.
Janelle made an ooh-ing sound. It was true her brows were very thin, like they’d been plucked and redrawn in a skinny, perpetually haughty line.
You don’t want to show her your lip trick? Janelle leaned forward, pointed at her own lips, which were painted a very dark brownish red. You put brown or black eyeliner on the bottom lip, red lipliner on the top lip, then smudge them together and the color you get afterward stays forever, you need cooking oil to take it off—
Then she glanced back furtively at Rosalyn and her face turned serious, like she regretted making fun of the process.
She’s the best. Go look at the album of all the girls she’s done. Go ask Mai for it, it’s behind the counter—
Just chill already, damn, Rosalyn snapped, louder. Hero knew all of a sudden that she was embarrassed; this was what Rosalyn looked like when she was embarrassed.
Janelle was laughing. How’re you gonna be shy in front of an eight-year-old—
Rosalyn was holding a silver contraption Hero didn’t recognize in one hand, a blow-dryer in another. Inexplicably, she started blow-drying the contraption, loud, purposely drowning out Janelle’s voice, who sat back and rolled her eyes at the tactic. Roni, for her part, was mesmerized, staring hard at the contraption, the blow-dryer, then Janelle, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.
Rosalyn tested the temperature of the contraption on the back of her hand, gently at first, then holding it there against her own skin for just a second or two longer. She held it up to Janelle’s eye. Don’t move, dumbass.
Hero watched as Rosalyn slowly clamped and then curled Janelle’s lashes, focusing on the outermost corner. She took a tube of mascara, deftly wiped off the excess on the rim, applied the inky black to the base of the lashes with with a kind of stamping motion, then, drawing the lashes outward, followed the line she’d drawn on Janelle’s eyelid. She repeated the whole procedure on the other eye.
Roni looked like she’d just watched someone perform a magic trick. Wha-at, she whispered.
Janelle opened her eyes, looked at herself in the mirror. She smiled at the face she saw there: someone who wasn’t quite herself, but wasn’t anything like a stranger, either; someone she recognized, and enjoyed living in, every now and then. She looked at Rosalyn, who was studying her own work with a critical eye. She moved to stand behind Janelle, so she could look at it in the mirror, too, edges blown-out with light.
In the mirror, Rosalyn’s gaze eased over to find Hero, who’d been looking and looking at the reflection of Rosalyn, forgetting that the reflection belonged to a person who could look back.
Rosalyn looked away first. She turned to stare directly at Janelle, looking at her face close up, in the real world.
Don’t act like you don’t know it looks hella good. Janelle preened.
Rosalyn rolled her eyes. Then turned away from the mirror, toward Roni and
Hero. The direct gaze felt less intimate to Hero than the brief glance they’d shared in the mirror.
You guys want me to set up the VCR now?
Uh, Roni said. She looked like she’d forgotten all about the VCR, the tape, the movie, her desire to watch it.
Look at her, she wants to watch you, Janelle said. Let her stay, it’s cute.
Rosalyn ignored her. Let’s go, I’ll help you set it up.
She turned to Janelle. Just gimme five minutes.
I’m good. Janelle shrugged. She was smiling at Roni. Nice meeting you, Roni.
Nice meeting you, Roni returned, polite. Then, honest: You look so cool.
Janelle’s smiled widened, lit up by the flattery, by her own beauty, the feeling of being admired by another girl. Thanks, ading.
Then she glanced over at Hero. Hey, nice to meet you, she said, not quite as heartfelt. She didn’t even know Hero’s name; Rosalyn hadn’t introduced her and Hero hadn’t introduced herself. See you around.
See you, Hero said, though she wasn’t sure she would. She followed Rosalyn and Roni out of the salon.
A woman called after them—Mai, Hero remembered—Rosalyn, you finished?
I’m just gonna go to the restaurant for a few minutes. Janelle’s not done yet.
Can you close up tonight?
Yeah, sure, Rosalyn said. Mai tossed a set of keys toward her and Rosalyn plucked it out of the air mid-flight, with one hand. She jerked her head at Hero and Roni. Let’s go.
Rosalyn led the way, back into the cold air. She made a big show of shivering, of tucking her arms into her sweatshirt, so the fabric arms flopped about, limp and empty.
It’s hella cold already, she breathed.
Puffs of air were forming in front of her mouth with every word. The fluorescent lights that lit the pathways between the strip mall’s various restaurants and stores diffused an unreal bright blue-gray light over them, washing out their features. The light made it feel colder outside than it was.
America Is Not the Heart Page 16
