Hero had already taken off her seat belt. She had to think for a minute to remember what Rosalyn was talking about.
Rosalyn went on. I’m not like—I wasn’t like outing you officially as my girlfriend, or.
Even in the dark Hero could see the nervous twitch of her jaw. I never thought that, she said. Don’t worry.
But the resulting expression on Rosalyn’s face wasn’t one of relief; Hero saw, before Rosalyn shuttered it away, the hiccup of disappointment.
Rosalyn leaned forward, and Hero leaned in, too, eager to move on, but was thrown when Rosalyn bypassed her mouth for a moment to switch on the radio and turn the volume up loud, as they usually did on those nights. Rosalyn still had one of Hero’s old tapes in there, so all of a sudden an Aztec Camera song burst out of the speakers. The chirping buoyancy of the song was so jarring that when the keyboards started in on their fake calypso steel drum, Rosalyn and Hero turned to each other and swiftly broke into laughter. By the time they’d calmed down, there wasn’t any room left between them to bring the subject up again. Rosalyn tipped her face up, mouth slack but jaw still slightly tense, ready for the kiss she’d evaded earlier, and Hero—couldn’t make her wait. Gave it to her.
* * *
By the time spring emerged from the February rains, Paz had a new project, which Hero later suspected she must have been planning more or less since Roni had been suspended for fighting: she wanted to send Roni to a Catholic school on the other side of the Bay, over in Los Altos, an elementary school called St. Michael’s that, Paz boasted, had been named a Blue Ribbon School.
In 1980, Pol said, looking through the brochure.
Paz had gotten the idea, unsurprisingly, from Belen, who had planned to send Charmaine to St. Michael’s, only the commute was a bit too far, and Belen said she got nervous driving on the highway, especially during morning rush hour. Belen had pointed out that St. Michael’s wasn’t all that far from the Veterans Hospital in Menlo Park where Paz worked—couldn’t Paz drop the girls off at school on her way in? Belen would arrange somehow to pick them up and bring them back to Milpitas; either herself, or she’d get her husband to do it, or a friend. It’d work itself out somehow.
Paz reported all of this with a passion and deliberation Hero rarely heard from her, and which dimmed only somewhat when Pol thundered,
The only reason she wants Roni to go to that goddamn school is so Charmaine can have you as a chauffeur! What about what Roni wants?
Silence. Then Paz said, firm: It’s for her own good.
If she were in the Philippines, she would only have a few years left until high school, Pol reasoned. She would skip the seventh and eighth grade, be in college at sixteen.
Well, she’s here, Paz shot back.
From the eavesdropping position on the stairs where Hero was frozen, she heard Pol sigh, or exhale cigarette smoke, she couldn’t quite tell.
How much is it going to cost?
Paz made a high sound of dismissal in the back of her throat. Akong bahala.
More silence, and then Pol said: Mahal—
Paz repeated that she would take care of it. Akong bahala.
Hero didn’t hear them discuss St. Michael’s again until one Wednesday a month later, when Paz was in the kitchen on the phone with the school trying to find out when the entrance examinations would take place and what Roni would have to bring with her.
Pol, who’d silently left the kitchen as soon as he’d realized it was St. Michael’s calling, was now standing behind the couch in the living room and watching the television, his arms crossed. He raised his voice, uncharacteristically. Shh! They acquitted the police officers.
What? Paz asked, confused, then turned back into the phone, No, pardon me, I’m still here—
Pol said again, even louder, as if he were directing the words not at Paz but at whoever was on the other end of the phone: They acquitted the police officers!
Paz murmured, Excuse me, and pulled the phone cord behind her as she slipped into the garage, still in her house slippers, the door to the garage left ajar by the stretch of the cord, curly-taut, curly-taut.
For the rest of the week, Pol watched the news every evening before leaving for work, always standing behind the couch, not sitting, his arms crossed. Maúyong, he said in Ilocano, without looking at Hero. This country. That was the only thing he said.
At the restaurant, they’d been talking about it, too. There was a fucking video, Rochelle said. What else do they need? On the restaurant television, they watched the riots in Los Angeles unfold over the rest of the week. One of the afternoon regulars, an Ilocano navy veteran who’d lived in San Diego for years before moving up to the Bay and who often made disapproving and racist comments about the music that came out of Ruben and Isagani’s cars when they drove up to the restaurant, joked to Rosalyn: Tell your grandpa and grandma to barricade the doors. Rosalyn barked, That’s not funny.
Maúyong. Hero didn’t disagree with Pol, but there was something about the way he said it that made her feel uneasy, like someone pulling a curtain down over a screen in the middle of a film. Pol had stood there for a few more minutes, and she’d tried to think of something to say. After a moment, Pol cleared his throat and said he was going to work. Paz was still in the garage on the phone—Pol passed her without saying good-bye.
Later, Hero would wonder what she should have said in that moment; if Pol had been looking to her, as the newer arrival, to tell him that he was wrong in his judgment about the country. But no, that wasn’t it. The look on his face was the look of a surgeon. A doctor-to-doctor look, waiting for a second opinion: waiting to be told that his diagnosis was flawed, that the patient in question wasn’t terminal. But Hero wasn’t a doctor anymore.
* * *
Roni started spending more time with Charmaine, so that there were even days when Paz told Hero ahead of time that she didn’t have to pick Roni up from school, she could work straight through at the restaurant, that Belen had offered to pick Roni up along with Charmaine so they could play and do their homework together.
During those bereft, Roni-less days, Hero was adrift in the restaurant. Rosalyn tried to take advantage of the extra time, find some excuse for the two of them to buy groceries or pick up something at the house, but without Roni, Hero’s moods were duller, her mind elsewhere, and eventually Rosalyn gave up, said Hero could leave early and pick up Roni from Charmaine’s house.
One week in early April, Hero was helping Rosalyn bring food to some Couples for Christ event at the community center, not in the large banquet hall where Roni had celebrated her birthday, but in one of the smaller conference rooms. It made Hero oddly uneasy to be back at the community center, seeing the doorway to the large hall, seeing the corridor that led to the kitchen. Rosalyn noticed her discomfort, said, You okay? Hero shook it off, nodded.
Rosalyn entered the conference room first, which was full of adults and children, the former in small groups, gossiping, the latter either running around and hitting each other, or playing Game Boys.
Rosalyn put the food down on the long buffet tables set up at the edge of the room, then looked around at the guests, vexed, and said: I don’t see the auntie who’s supposed to give me the check. Wait here, I’m gonna go look if she’s in the bathroom or something.
Hero nodded, and hovered awkwardly at the door. An older woman wearing a string of pearls approached her with an inviting smile on her face, said, Are you a member, my dear?
Hero shook her head, said, I’m with the catering.
The woman’s face shuttered, warmth drained from it. Oh, okay, she said, still upbeat, then conveniently found someone else to speak to.
Hero heard a Pssssst come from outside the conference room; hers wasn’t the only head who turned toward it. She saw half of Rosalyn’s head, as she beckoned Hero out of the room.
Suppressing an eye roll at Rosalyn’s cust
omary theatrics, Hero followed, then stopped short. Behind Rosalyn was Roni, looking sheepish, her hand closed in a fist.
Hero startled. What are you doing here?
Roni tilted her head. I was supposed to play at Charmaine’s house but they said they had a thing so they brought me here.
And what if I had come pick you up and nobody was there? Hero said, the pulse in her throat jumping. Nobody called me at the house or at the restaurant, did anybody even tell Tita Paz or Tito Pol—
Okay, okay, chill, Rosalyn said, putting a hand between Hero and Roni, who looked like she’d been slapped.
I just went with them ’cause they said I had to.
The blood in Hero’s temples was pulsing. And if they told you to jump off a bridge, wou—
Just chill. Rosalyn placed her hand on Hero’s chest and pushed her back slightly. Roni, we’re busting you out. Is that okay with you?
Yeah!
Run in there and tell Charmaine that you’re leaving with your cousin. Tell her to tell her mom.
When Roni returned, Rosalyn silently opened up her bomber jacket so that Roni could duck her head inside, and then the two of them, looking far more conspicuous than if they’d just walked at a normal pace next to each other, hurried out of the community center, into the parking lot, and toward Rosalyn’s car—which, as was customary, she’d forgotten to lock.
All part of the plan, Rosalyn said as Roni climbed giggling into the front seat, which Hero allowed without negotiation, just this once. All part of the smooth getaway.
From the back of the car, Hero saw that Roni’s fist, just the one, was still clenched tightly. What’s wrong with your hand, she said.
Roni looked down, then opened her fist. There was a large wad of chewed-up gum in it.
Rosalyn let out a loud, theatrical ewwww sound. Man, Roni, that’s hella gross, just throw your gum away in the trash like a civilized person—
It’s not my gum.
Rosalyn turned her left signal on. The hell? Whose gum is it then?
It’s Charmaine’s grandma’s.
Why the hell are you holding Charmaine’s grandma’s gum?
Roni shrugged. She told me to open my hand and then she took it out of her mouth and put it there.
Both Rosalyn and Hero fell silent, stumped. Then Rosalyn plucked and peeled the gum out of Roni’s hand and threw it out of her open window, flicking several times to get it off.
That’s littering, Roni said solemnly. There’s a fine. Our teacher said.
They ended up driving to Serra Theater and watching the only thing that was on that early in the afternoon on a Sunday, which was White Men Can’t Jump; the person selling tickets gave Roni a skeptical look, but handed them three tickets without comment. Rosalyn told Roni she could sit in between her and Hero, but Roni refused, said she wanted to sit in the aisle.
Roni laughed all through the movie, a sound Hero nearly blushed to hear. Rosalyn threw popcorn at Roni when she laughed too loudly and conversed openly at the characters in the movie, saying, SOME of us are trying to enjoy the film, in exactly the same loud tone as Roni’s. They were the only people in the theater, so nobody was around to complain except for Hero.
Afterward, instead of going back home, still in the bubble of their stolen day, they took their merry caravan to the restaurant, where Rochelle and Jaime were already in the parking lot, the hood of Rochelle’s car popped open and Jaime leaning into it, shaking his head.
Where you guys been, playing hooky? Rochelle asked from the curb where she was sitting, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun.
How’d you know? Rosalyn asked.
Who played hooky with you in college? I know that look.
Where’s Maricris?
Went to Vallco to pick up a new outfit for the show.
Lowme, when you’re done with Rochelle’s car, come fix my radio, one of the speakers is all fucked up again.
What about my hourly rate, Jaime said, but he was already slamming the hood shut and coming over to the Civic. Roni ran after him, saying, We watched a movie today—!
Rochelle clambered off the curb, pulling a Twix out of her pocket. She held it out to Hero. Wanna share?
Hero had never eaten a Twix before. Sure.
They found themselves sitting on the trunk of Hero’s Accord, watching Jaime, Rosalyn, and Roni toggling with the controls of Rosalyn’s speaker, Roni obviously getting in the way but Rosalyn calling her Jaime’s trusted assistant.
Gani’s been calling me, Rochelle confided, chewing.
Hero turned to her, whipfast. Okay? And?
Rochelle lifted a shoulder, eyes on the ground. I don’t know.
Hero thought of all the recent nights Rosalyn had spent excoriating Isagani’s character in Rochelle’s defense, before thinly admitting that she missed his dumb fucking face, Do you want to get back together with him?
I miss him, Rochelle said, biting down on her Twix, cupping a hand to catch the biscuit crumbs that fell, a string of caramel swooping onto her bottom lip before she licked it up. I don’t know what that means. He says he’s been acting like an idiot. He—he says he’s ready to have kids.
The chocolate was melting between Hero fingers. She could hear Rosalyn whining, Wait does it work now? Check if it works now—no, don’t play that, play Soul Flower, play Soul Flower—and Jaime, exasperated, saying, What does it matter what I play if we’re just testing it?!
I haven’t told them yet, Rochelle said. You’re the only one who knows so far.
Me?
You don’t know him that well, so I figure you won’t judge him as hard as they do, Rochelle said, gazing at Rosalyn and Jaime. Hero could hear in Rochelle’s voice that the word him also meant me.
Do you love him?
Rochelle nodded. She finished her Twix, licked her fingers, then groaned into her hands. Then she looked up and nodded again.
Hero exhaled, heavy. Do you trust him? Does he make you feel safe?
Rochelle frowned. Is it bad if I say no to the first question but yes to the second one?
Hero stared at her. Well—
I know! Rochelle dug the heel of one hand into her eye. But what am I gonna do? When I think about getting old, when I think about—I don’t know, the person I want to see at my deathbed, I can’t imagine anyone but Gani. He’s my first love. But that’s probably dumb. People aren’t supposed to stay with their first loves. I fucking know that.
That’s not necessarily true.
Rochelle crumpled the Twix wrapper in her hands. What happened with your first love?
Hero watched Jaime smack the back of Rosalyn’s head, lightly, as she turned the volume up so loud that Roni scrambled out of the car, hands over her ears.
Nothing happened between us, Hero answered.
When was that?
A while ago. A long time ago.
Do you regret it?
Hero thought about it. Sometimes, she said.
Rochelle bit at her thumbnail. Do you think I’m gonna regret it? If I don’t give him another chance.
Hero finished the rest of her Twix. You’ll find out either way, she said.
They were quiet for a while, and then Hero felt the weight of a gaze on her. Rochelle was watching her watch Rosalyn, Pharcyde’s Soul Flower (Remix) echoing from the parking lot all the way to North Milpitas Boulevard, a song so blooming and joyous Hero felt as though she could practically hear the weather in it: sun-hot cars in driveways, sweaty beer bottles, the feeling of pulling the damp collar of a shirt away from a body. It was almost evening but the song made it feel like it was daylight all day, sunshine blaring down on them, warming everything it touched, thawing Hero all the way through the skin, into the bones, down deep into the marrow. I mean, you got it pretty bad yourself, Rochelle teased, trying to sound upbeat and not quite getting the
re. Hero didn’t even try to pretend like she wasn’t watching Rosalyn; didn’t even try to pretend like she wanted to look away.
When Hero and Roni finally came home, Hero waited for Paz or Pol to bring up the fact that she’d more or less absconded with the girl for the entire day; that Belen had noticed the girl was missing and had been reliably informed of her whereabouts. Instead she only heard Paz ask Roni if she’d had a good time at Charmaine’s house; only heard Roni reply, Yeah, it was fun.
* * *
Hero showed up to work and found the restaurant empty, blinds drawn, CLOSED sign hanging unmoved on the door, all the lights still off. The restaurant was always open at seven, at least an hour before Hero ever showed up after dropping Roni off at school.
She walked over to the salon, eyes scanning the parking lot. Neither Rosalyn’s Civic nor Boy’s truck were anywhere to be seen. Mai greeted her when she opened the door and the bells rang, used to her by now. Not long after she’d started working at the restaurant, Hero had taken up Rosalyn’s suggestion to get her hair cut at Mai’s salon every now and then; nothing fancy, just a simple trim to keep the length of her hair mid-back. Rosalyn sometimes jokingly volunteered herself for the job, but when Hero said she was fine with that, lacking the vanity to be wary of Rosalyn’s limited skills, Rosalyn chickened out.
Has Rosalyn come in?
Mai shook her head. No, but she doesn’t start until noon today.
Do you know why the restaurant’s closed?
No, is it? Adela’s not there?
Hero shook her head. Mai’s brow rose. I don’t know. You want to call somebody?
Could I?
Mai waved her toward the phone at the counter near the door, where Rosalyn sometimes sat and wrote people in for their appointments. Hero knew Rosalyn’s number by heart, knew she wasn’t dialing it wrong, but still she dialed it again and again. No one picked up. She paged Rosalyn twice, then paged Jaime three times, knowing that Jaime was more reliable at answering his pages, both times leaving the number at the salon. She waited there for a while, eyes on the parking lot, waiting to see if the Civic or the truck would show up.
America Is Not the Heart Page 35
