Paz furrowed her brow. Tickling?
Hero felt sweat spring up on her palms. Oo, tickling, and—
Was she making too big a deal out of what she’d seen? All she could go on was instinct, the blood-draining certainty she’d felt when she’d seen Roni on that counter, but—it was possible she was wrong, of course it was possible she was wrong. Tickling her. They were holding her and tickling her.
Tickling, Paz was repeating again, the purple-gray bags underneath her eyes emphasized by the squint of disbelief she was offering up.
Hero pressed her lips together. They shouldn’t be so rough with her, she said finally.
Paz looked at her, and then nodded, brisk, a task in hand. Okay. I’ll talk to them. She turned around and disappeared into her bedroom. Hero went to her own bed, and didn’t sleep for hours.
* * *
Ruben and Isagani were invited to DJ a party in San Jose with three other dudes they’d started to loosely form a crew with, tentatively named Knuckles of the South Star, which Hero mildly said made her think of someone getting fisted. Not long after, Ruben and Gani said they were going to change the name to Vinyl Phantomz.
At the party they all congregated in the living room, watching a group of four young men practicing a choreographed dance to a mix Isagani had made himself, a hysterical-sounding remix of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal. The men’s movements were convulsive and robotic, but somehow still eerily affecting, like watching reanimated bodies of beloved people. Hero had never been a big fan of dance, but she found she, like the others, couldn’t tear her eyes away, clapped when they were finished.
That put everyone in a good mood, the pleasure of bearing witness to other people successfully pulling off something that they’d labored at, and by the time Ruben and Isagani’s mix started playing an oddly soulful remix of Baby Come Back, the original of which she hadn’t heard since riding around in Teresa’s jeep, Hero was leaning against a wall, talking to a girl, loose in her body, biding her time. The girl, Vanessa, was saying something about the upkeep of her undercut in response to something complimentary Hero had said about it that she now couldn’t remember, eyes fixed to the place where Vanessa was bending her head forward to reveal the long line of her nape, the black fur where the shave had grown in.
It was as Vanessa was saying, It’s so coarse, feel it, that Hero heard a chorus of voices, the soprano among them Rosalyn, going, Ohhhhh!
When she turned her head, she saw Jaime, Rosalyn, Rochelle, and Janelle surrounding a taller woman who was laughing, ruffling Jaime’s hair and accepting Rosalyn’s hug with one free arm.
As Hero stared, Rosalyn craned her neck around, then finding Hero, stopped when she found her. After a beat, she beckoned with her hand, mouthed, Come here, come here.
Vanessa’s head was still bent down, waiting for Hero’s hand. Hero pulled back and said, Sorry, I’ll be back in a minute.
This is Cely, Rosalyn said when Hero arrived, facing the woman who was being bounced against on both sides by Janelle and Rochelle. Jaime’s sister. Cely, Hero. Hero, Cely.
What’s up, Cely said, waving the hand that was caught in Janelle’s fist, then tsk-ed good-naturedly. You guys are acting like I just came back from the war.
You left us for the city, it’s the same thing. How come you didn’t even tell us you were back in the South Bay tonight? Rosalyn turned to Jaime. How come you didn’t tell us?
She paged me like half an hour ago to say she and a friend were on their way down, I’m supposed to be psychic?
Cely—Araceli—was several years older than Jaime, maybe only a couple years younger than Hero, and looked completely different from him, morenang morena. Rosalyn left Hero’s side to resume a hug that had only just been paused, Cely acting long-suffering when it was more than obvious she relished her return to the younger women’s worshipful parish. Rosalyn was showing Cely her hair, saying it’d gotten so long since they’d last seen each other, what did Cely think of the grown-out bangs. Hero turned away from Cely ruffling the face-framing layers, saying it looked cute.
Janelle said, So how’s your master’s going, are you finished? Cely said, Ugh, I’m never gonna finish.
Hero politely asked what she was studying. Cely replied, Adult Education at SF State, with the tempered pride of someone who’d worked too hard for everything she had to be modest about it.
Around the corner of Cely’s eyes was a halo of blackened-bronze eyeliner, the style of it unmistakable, even half-rubbed away from the day. Her lashes weren’t curled. She sat watchfully and spoke precisely, sensitive to minute changes in people’s expressions, making fun of her brother and Rosalyn with a dry, fond humor. It hadn’t occurred to Hero that Rosalyn might have a type.
Jaime took one look at Rosalyn, then at Hero, then stood up, saying he’d get everyone another drink.
Later, when Jaime and Cely had gone back out to the driveway to take a look at something that was apparently wrong with Cely’s car—Why don’t you just change your oil once in a while, Jaime muttered—Hero found herself alone with Rosalyn.
I’m glad you guys finally met, Rosalyn sighed. It sucks she moved all the way up to Frisco.
Maybe she was tired of Milpitas, Hero said irritably.
Rosalyn blinked, then scoffed. What, you saying you are? After what, not even a year?
Is that not allowed?
When Jaime and Cely returned, Hero and Rosalyn were still stuck in awkward silence. Rosalyn brightened and dove back into her chatter. Hero didn’t realize she’d barely spoken or moved until Cely turned her gaze to Hero and said,
You’re pretty quiet.
Hero tried to smile back and it didn’t work. Sorry, I’m just going to the bathroom.
She made her way back into the party, back amongst the blessedly unfamiliar faces. As she was opening a door that turned out to lead to a closet, a hand brushed against her shoulder.
You disappeared, Vanessa said. Are you guys leaving or something?
Hero looked at her. I’m not leaving.
Vanessa smiled, eyes crinkling. What, like ever?
Fifteen minutes later Hero was following Vanessa out of the party, moments after Vanessa said, looking her in the eye: I live just a few streets away from here.
On her way out she saw Jaime, alone with Cely. Seeing her—the sharp edge of her jawline when she laughed, the easy way her shoulder pressed onto her brother’s—it was tempting to slot Cely into all the scenes Jaime had described in their conversations: the cool sister who’d driven Jaime and Rosalyn to their first comic book store, their first high school dance, their first house party, maybe the first person who’d introduced Rosalyn to makeup, maybe the first person Rosalyn had ever crushed on, maybe the first person Rosalyn had ever kissed. Hero tried to rein in the impulse, tried not to piece the stories around Rosalyn just because she wanted to—what, exactly. Know more. That was it.
Hero was ready to leave without saying good-bye to anyone, but it was too late, Jaime had spotted her. He asked, You about to take off? when she approached. She nodded.
Cely smiled at her. It was good to meet you, Jaime’s told me a lot about you. Next time you guys come up to the city, hit me up.
Hero glanced at Jaime and saw clearly that he knew they would never hit Cely up, not together. She said, Sure, and punched Jaime on the arm in farewell, their usual send-off, but there was no real heart in it. Hero didn’t see Rosalyn until she—saw her, hanging back, holding a plastic cup, talking to Rochelle but staring at Hero.
Vanessa’s undercut went all the way up to above her ears, which were sensitive to kisses, and she moaned so sweetly when she came that Hero wondered if it was for show—then, when she was sure it wasn’t, felt more smug than was appropriate. Vanessa offered to get a strap-on or a vibrator if Hero wanted it, but Hero didn’t want it, didn’t know how to say that she wouldn’t be able to hold a vib
rator in her hands, that the one time she’d held an electric razor back in Soly’s house, intending to shave her hair off in what she knew now would have been an overly dramatic gesture she would have regretted later, she’d dropped the instrument before she’d even properly closed her fingers around it, the vibration making the nerves in her hand feel crazed, miswired. While Hero was thinking all of this, she’d apparently been looking at Vanessa’s mouth so intensely that Vanessa chuckled. I can take a hint.
The next morning, they ate defrosted waffles, still cold, the oven and microwave both broken. You live around here? Vanessa asked.
In Milpitas.
Vanessa was leaning on her knee, having brought her right leg up on the chair, a gesture Hero had hitherto thought was only Filipino. She’d thought Vanessa was Filipina at first, but Vanessa had said at the party that she was American, and only after they fucked did she say that her parents were lawyers from Vietnam who now worked as technicians on the manufacturing floor of a medical device company all the way up in Santa Rosa, in the North Bay—the wine country, Vanessa explained, like Hero might know what that meant.
They work with a buncha Filipinos, Cambodians, Laotians, Vanessa added, the end of her sentence lifted up like an open palm, waiting for Hero to make any note of comprehension, and when she didn’t, a silence of misplaced intimacy came between them. Still, when Vanessa stood and brushed past her, ostensibly to get another waffle from the kitchen, but deliberately swinging her underwear-clad ass in Hero’s face, Hero stopped her, spread her legs so Vanessa could climb onto her lap.
Afterward, Vanessa said it was fun, but pointedly didn’t ask for Hero’s number, or if they could see each other again. There was a pair of shoes Hero saw by the door, slightly bigger than Vanessa’s feet, and Hero nodded, relieved. She asked if she could use the phone before she left.
Hero paged Jaime to pick her up, self-aware enough to realize she’d been taciturn and even rude to his sister. Her first page said 5012124. Sorry.
The page came back quick, easy: 80085. BOOBS. It was his signature; they were fine. He picked her up in less than an hour and they went to El Rincón Michoacano, had the nopalitos.
* * *
Things were only subtly different after that. People who didn’t already know, or had some idea, looked at her differently: Janelle and Lea often found a reason not to sit next to her; Ruben and Isagani took on an awkward, uncomfortably jokey air with her, like she was one of them, which she wasn’t. Only Rochelle and Jaime acted the same.
One Tuesday toward the end of April, Rosalyn cornered her during a lull in the workday, fists at her side, and instead of shoving a new manga into Hero’s face like usual, said, while holding her gaze so hard it looked like she wasn’t even letting herself blink: Can I talk to you before you leave today.
The tone of her voice sounded almost angry, so Hero’s first thought was that Rosalyn was still offended about how Hero had behaved when they’d met Cely. Her hackles went up, reflexively, but she calmed herself, decided she would apologize without hesitation or protest.
Hero was rooted on her feet and ready with her apology when they were outside in the parking lot, standing in front of Pol’s Corona, the restaurant empty, Boy and Adela starting to wipe the tables down. When she opened her mouth to say sorry, Rosalyn blurted out:
So you’re okay with girls.
Hero went still. Girls?
I mean. You’re okay with. Rosalyn was wringing at the fabric of her shirt, a faded and oversized FILA T-shirt that looked like it might have belonged to Jaime or Boy. I mean, you go home with girls. You sleep with girls. Women.
Not exclusively.
Sure, not exclusively, Rosalyn repeated, her voice too high. But, I mean. Women. Also. Are okay.
Yes, Hero said, the first time in her life she’d ever said something like that to anyone.
So then what about me, Rosalyn asked, all the words said in the same breath, the same flat tone, like if she put any emotion into the words they would slip out of her grasp.
Look, Hero said.
Uh-oh, here we go, Rosalyn said, finally relaxing, like the uncompromising tone in Hero’s voice had done the opposite of what Hero had intended. Rosalyn always looked relieved when Hero stopped being polite; it was unnerving.
Look, Hero repeated. If you want to experiment, there are plenty of women out there. Your own age.
What are you, like, six, seven years older than me, just chill with that, Rosalyn muttered. I’m turning twenty-seven next month, anyway.
If you want to experiment, Hero repeated. There are plenty of other people to do that with. People who aren’t— She found she didn’t like that approach, changed direction abruptly.
Does anyone else even know? About you?
Rosalyn crossed her arms. Just say no if you’re gonna say no.
Hero sat down on the hood of the car, heavy, slipping until she could balance herself with one foot on the curb. You might have noticed, she said finally, but I don’t say no that much.
Rosalyn, sharply: Okay, so, what, you can never say no? Or it doesn’t matter?
It’s just not a good idea, Hero said after a pause just as long as the first.
Because you don’t want to.
It’s just not a good idea.
Once again Hero saw Rosalyn think up and then discard two or three different responses. That’s not really a no, she ventured finally, quiet.
Hero opened her mouth, and the first word that came out was, Why.
Rosalyn scratched at her jaw. You’re asking why?
Hero nodded. Rosalyn looked down, smiling wryly at the curb.
I didn’t think I was being all that subtle about it.
Hero opened her mouth again, but Rosalyn jerked forward, lifting her head and holding up her hand.
Wait. Stop. Don’t answer yet. Just—think about it. That’s all. That’s all I’m asking for. Just think about it. I’m not. I’m not asking you out, or anything, like. Dating. I just mean—we could also. You know. But, no pressure.
It’s getting late, Hero said. I have to get the car home before Pol’s shift.
Will you just. Think about it? Rosalyn asked, mindful not to step too close to Hero. Hero, who was already thinking about it, no need for future tense; she was there, in the future. Thinking about it. I will, she said, wincing at what it sounded like, which was a promise.
* * *
The older Hero got, the less she got along with romantics: people who liked courtship and courtly love, people who had big ideas about how men and women should behave in their relationships with each other—since typically these people thought only of men and women when they thought of romance. She found, oddly, that those people were often the least suited to sexual or romantic relationships, were staggeringly selfish and borderline abusive both in bed and in life, and treated their partners and friends more like protagonists and side characters, props in the love story they were constructing, in which they played the starring role, full of grand gestures and pronouncements.
She’d befriended and slept with a few romantics in college, finding herself eventually doing their homework, their laundry, personally interpreting the minutest detail of their daily lives while rarely getting a word in edgewise to share anything of her own—in those days, it wasn’t like she’d wanted to share things about herself anyway. But it rankled that she was being conveniently employed to shine the spotlight on some narcissist who’d never even bothered to remember that Hero was from Ilocos Sur, not Iloilo. Hero had no truck with people for whom the heart was a dreamt-up thing, held together by divine saliva, a place where gods of love still made their beds. A heart was something you could buy on the street, six to a skewer or piled on a square of foil, served with garlicky rice and atsuete oil. In high school, when they’d had to operate on piglet fetuses, only Hero and two other boys were able to successfully remove the he
art without puncturing it.
What—worried—Hero was that Rosalyn was obviously a romantic. She hadn’t made any effort to hide it: the parts she squealed at in movies, the way her mouth dropped open in an unconscious pant as she read the last chapter in the manga, as her chosen couple finally came together.
After that night in late April, Hero went into the restaurant half hoping that nothing would have changed between them, that Rosalyn would pretend that their conversation had never happened.
But when Rosalyn came in on her regular break, Hero knew there wasn’t any hope. Rosalyn hadn’t forgotten; she wasn’t going to let Hero forget. She snaked around Hero to get a calamansi juice out of the drinks refrigerator, brushing against the back of Hero’s calf as she knelt down, then standing slowly, deliberate. You want some, Rosalyn said, holding out the box, plastic straw poked through the foil hole.
Sensing she had to be the adult in the room, Hero glared back. No pressure?
Rosalyn fumbled the juice in her hand, terrible spell broken, laughing. Okay, okay, okay. She scurried out from behind the counter, made her way to the kitchen saying she had a question to ask Adela, which almost sounded genuine.
* * *
In the weeks after Roni’s birthday, Hero spotted Pol taking folders with him to work, manila envelopes full of papers. She’d noticed that he was receiving more mail from the Philippines; when she first saw the Tagalog letters on the envelopes, she felt her entire throat close up in terror, sweat springing up in her armpits at words like REPUBLIKA NG PILIPINAS, or TANGGAPAN SA PAMAMAHALA NG MGA KASULATAN AT SINUPAN. Records Management and Archive Office. It took several minutes for her vision to shimmer back into focus, for the terror-stricken goose bumps to settle back into skin, for her brain to realize that the name on the envelope was not her own, but APOLONIO C. DE VERA.
Hero didn’t have the courage to ask Pol what the papers were about, but she got a glimpse at what was happening when she was bringing Roni home from school, and instead of being asleep, as Pol usually was on the days when he had to work that evening, Pol was already awake, with papers spread over the kitchen table, where Roni was used to doing her homework.
America Is Not the Heart Page 28
