by Carrie Arcos
The whole audience seems to sit up a little straighter and lean forward after Hanna’s introduction. She takes a deep breath and begins to read.
“ ‘If I could tell you, I’d start with how I think you look in the morning. It’s not all sunbeams and dew and mountaintops. It’s more sleepy eyes and messy hair and pillow lines on your cheek from resting so hard.’ ”
Hanna’s voice falters. She stops and stares down at the paper, and I want to run to the stage, to stand with her, but I can’t move.
“It’s okay, girl,” someone says from the audience. “You can do it.”
“Take your time.”
“Go on.”
“We’re with you.”
They call out with the same rhythm and cadence of a congregation ready to hear the message in church. Hanna looks up and gives a courageous smile before she starts reading again.
“ ‘If I could tell you, I’d start with how I’m feeling. It’s not all butterflies and passion and my heart skipping a beat when you walk in the room. I am scared and shy and overwhelmed.’ ”
As Hanna talks, her voice gets stronger. I close my eyes and listen to the words, and suddenly it’s as if Grace is saying them, not Hanna. It’s as if Grace is here, with us, speaking to me.
“ ‘I’d tell you not to say those words, the ones you’re hiding in plain sight, the ones that will turn kisses and holding hands into promises. I want to say wait.’ ”
Hanna whispers, “ ‘Wait. Slow. It. Down. I’m not ready.’ ” She pauses, and we all wait with her.
“ ‘Time is churning, spinning, swirling us into infinity. I want to open my arms, lie on my back, and let the current take me. Close my eyes and not think about what is ready to pull me into the deep, pull me under. I don’t want to think of forever and ever and ever. I want to follow where the water leads, which is to this moment.
“ ‘This moment is not forever. This moment is me and you and us in time. This moment I want to tell you everything, but I can’t because I am not everything and you are not everything. Not everything needs to be spoken. Because when you or I speak things, they come to be. Our words become worlds where people dwell and live and hurt and laugh, and there’s no destroying what our words create.
“ ‘If I could tell you anything it would be that I am here with you now. And that’s better than forever, because lots of things can happen between seventeen and forever.
“ ‘So I will simply take your hand, kiss the tips of your eyelids, and walk with you toward tomorrow.’
“Thank you,” Hanna finishes.
The audience stands and applauds. Hanna is beaming. The MC lets us know that it’s time for a break. It’s my chance to get away unnoticed, so I hurry down the aisle. Outside, I double over on the sidewalk. I try to catch my breath, like someone’s punched me in the gut.
“Are you okay?” a girl asks.
“Yes. No.” I stand up and it’s Hanna with Sebastian. The three of us form an awkward triangle. They don’t say anything, waiting for me to say something. The night is cold and Hanna rocks back and forth on her heels.
“You were really good,” I say finally.
“I messed up on the first part,” Hanna says.
“No, it was perfect,” I say. “Grace would’ve loved it.”
“Thanks.”
I think of Lily’s drawing, taped to a wall in my room. “You guys are my best friends. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be a porcupine anymore.”
“We all hurt people,” Hanna says. “We just need to make it right when we do.”
“I’m sorry for hitting you,” I tell Sebastian.
He nods. “I forgive you.”
I smile because it reminds me of the way that Dad would make Grace and me apologize to one another when we were little. Dad said it wasn’t enough to say that you were sorry, it was important to also forgive the other person when you were wronged.
“Thanks, man.” I turn to Hanna. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. Forgive me?”
“I forgive you,” Hanna says.
Their forgiveness makes me feel like I can breathe again, but I’m not sure where to go from here.
“It’ll be okay,” Hanna says.
“How do you know?”
“Because nothing lasts forever.”
Normally that sentiment would make me sad, but I am grateful for it. I know she means she’s not as mad. She’s saying I have another chance.
We start walking and our triangle converges into a line, with me in between the two of them. Where we’re going, I don’t know, and none of us says anything. We walk a couple of blocks.
“I’m hungry,” Sebastian says.
“I could eat,” I say. I could do anything now that I have my friends back. But I’m cautious. I don’t want to mess anything up.
We head toward the fluorescent lighting of a small diner. The hostess tells us to grab any table. We sit in the corner on ripped red leather seats, patched with silver duct tape, talking about the poets we heard and making our own Top Fives. I sneak glances now and then at both of them, glad that, for the moment, the world is becoming right again.
Twenty-Two
We live on the most perfect street for skateboarding. It’s like six hundred yards long, all downhill, and there’s not a ton of traffic because it’s a cul-de-sac at the top, which is where I start and just let her go. Every now and then I get some freaked-out neighbor lecturing me about how I should wear a helmet because if I’m hit by a car, my brains will be splattered all over the road. My bass teacher would probably kill me, afraid I’d break my wrist or something, if he knew. I don’t really care, because skating’s awesome. The wind presses against your face, and runs through your hair. It’s the closest thing to flying. Sure, I’ve eaten it a couple of times, but that comes with the territory. Sit out if you’re afraid to get hurt.
I turn, skidding to a stop right before the street spills out onto a major road, flip the board around, and push it back up the hill. I could go over to the park, but I wanted some speed this morning.
Hanna comes out and sits on the curb, watching me. Though all has been forgiven, we’re still working our way back to normal. I wad up the shyness in my gut, and I skate over to her.
“Want to join?”
“I don’t skate.” She puts one hand on her hip.
She’s lying. She does skate. I learned that a couple of days after she had moved in. I was doing some ollies off my wooden ramp and she came over with a board underneath her arm like she had been skating all her life. She started doing ollies and landed each one solid. I got cocky and tried to land a 180, but came down chicken-footed every time. Hanna stopped skating in the ninth grade, but that doesn’t mean she can’t.
“Chicken?” I ask, pushing my board up the hill, knowing that’ll get her.
I wait for her at the top. She’s got an old dusty black helmet on her head and carries her board under her arm as years before.
“Seriously?”
“I’m not going to get brain damage if I fall.” The straps hang from both sides.
“Here.” I help her with the fastener underneath her chin. “If you’re going to wear it, wear it right.” The strap’s too tight, so I loosen it. I try to ignore her eyes and the way her skin feels against my fingers. My gaze falls to the rest of her, which I also try to ignore, and I step back a bit. “When’s the last time you wore this?”
“Two years ago.”
“There.” I hit her on top of the head like we’re teammates ready to take to the game. “Looking good.”
“Just one time.”
“Ready? Go.” I push off and Hanna is right beside me as we zigzag down the hill. I crouch low on the board, which makes me go even faster. Too fast. I’m not going to be able to stop, so I jump the curb and fall onto someone’s lawn, rolling a couple of times.
Hanna gracefully skids to a stop at the end of the street and comes over to me. “You hurt?”
I hold up my elbow, where the blood is already oozing.
“Don’t be a wimp. Race you.” She pushes off on her board.
I jump up and run with mine, throwing it down in front of me before hopping on.
“That’s cheating,” she says.
“Look who had the head start!”
She picks up her board and starts running up the hill.
“Who’s the cheater now?” I call after her.
• • • •
After skating with Hanna awhile, practicing bass, and working on homework, I text Pete that I’m back in. His response: Practice tomorrow after school. Then I get ready for my dinner with Mom. Since she’s coming from the south and I’m up north, we decided to meet in the middle at a little sushi place she suggested downtown. When I get there, I scan the restaurant, but she’s not here. I take a table for two next to the window, which faces a busy sidewalk and gray bank building. I look over the menu, but know what I want. It’s pretty much the same thing every time: miso soup, rainbow roll, and tuna hand roll, for starters. I’m a creature of habit.
I people-watch. Downtown offers a little bit of everything. An eclectic group of suits, a cyclist, an Asian couple walking their dog, and two skinny white hipsters walk by. An old man in black baggy clothes, most likely homeless, paces back and forth on a corner across the street. The waiter asks if I’d like something to drink. I glance at my watch and order a Coke.
About halfway through my second Coke I get a phone call. I let it go to voice mail. I finish the drink in one quick gulp, and leave more than enough money on the table to cover my tab. Outside the noise and the smell of the city rush over me. My stomach growls, but I ignore the hunger. I take a walk and play the message.
“Mark, I’m so sorry. I’m not going to be able to make it. I was called back to the hospital. They’re short on nurses. This is the first chance I’ve had to even make a phone call. I’m so sorry. Please believe me. I . . . Well, I’ll try to reach you later.”
I hang up. I feel taken and it’s my fault. I should have known that Mom wouldn’t follow through. I laugh and shake my head. What an idiot. But this time feels worse than others. Before, I had Grace to help me face the disappointment that is our mom. I never felt completely abandoned because there was solidarity with Grace. She understood exactly how I felt. This time I’m alone.
A text comes in from Lily.
Today it’s the way she’d read to me at night.
I keep walking, surrounded by a city of strangers.
I text back.
Today it’s that she was my twin and I was never alone.
Twenty-Three
On Thanksgiving Day we go to Tita Christie’s, which is way better than being at home. I think none of us wanted to be there for our first Thanksgiving without Grace. All of Dad’s side of the family is here: his three sisters, some cousins, and my grandparents. The food is amazing. There’s the traditional stuff—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole—but there’s also a Pinoy flair. There’s all this Filipino food that makes me nostalgic and sentimental. Opening the door to Tita Christie’s and getting hit with the aromas, it’s like I’m returning to a home I didn’t know I missed.
The aunties sit in the kitchen around the table speaking Tagalog as fast as a train. They grab at me and pull me toward them, giving me hugs and asking me how I am, have I eaten? When am I going to visit them? How handsome I’m getting. Do I have a girlfriend? But then they get ahold of Fern, and I am saved. They start in on how beautiful she is and how big she’s getting. Jenny oohs and aahs about all the food and asks for recipes, which makes the aunties love her more. There’s steamed kangkong with soy sauce and kalamansi, bagoong, steamed white rice. Tita Christie’s made her adobo, which I haven’t realized how much I’ve been craving until I smell it, even though it’s different from my mom’s. But I don’t want to think of Mom, so I grab a fried golden lumpia and take it out of the kitchen. On the dessert table, someone’s placed buko pie and apple pie and flan. I’m in heaven.
Before we eat, my grandfather offers up a prayer. He thanks God for food and family and all the blessings. He also thanks Him for the strength to get through a painful year. He asks for a moment of silence in memory of Grace. If it were just Dad, Jenny, Fern, and me at home, I would get up and go outside, and even though I still feel like the walls are closing in at the mention of her name, I stay where I am. I remember what Greg said about how other people are grieving too. This is important for my grandfather, so I give it to him.
After we stuff ourselves, the men go to the TV room to watch the football game. The women stay in the kitchen, cleaning up and chatting away about who knows what. I’m thankful for sports and for talk of players and how bad or how good the teams are. We stay for hours.
At home, Jenny asks if I want to watch a late-night movie, but I tell her I have to finish composing something. Jenny pouts because Dad already has a book under his arm and is climbing the stairs to their room. She’s on her own tonight.
Upstairs, I put in Sebastian’s track for the show and play along. I start adding the notes, hearing both the bass parts and the cello in my head. As I play, I can see when the models start walking in. I don’t know if it’s my good mood from the food or what, but I think it’s going to be a great show. I hope Pete is ready with his designs.
• • • •
The next morning my bed shakes, and I wake to find Fern jumping on the end of it.
“Fern!” I groan. “Get out of here.”
“Time to get up,” she says. “Time to go tree shopping.”
I look at the clock. “It’s only seven thirty.”
“I know.” She starts jumping again. “But we have to eat breakfast, and get ready, and drive, and find the tree, cut it down, and eat lunch, and come put it up, and make hot chocolate, and string the popcorn, and cranberries, and everything.” She says it all in one breath, her voice rising with each activity.
I put my pillow over my head, although breakfast does sound good. I’m sure Jenny has leftovers. Even though I ate like a pig yesterday, it’s now a new day, and I’m hungry.
“Come on, Mark.” She plops down and crawls toward my head. “Please. Come eat breakfast. They won’t let us go until you’re ready.”
“Okay. Okay,” I say, throw the pillow and covers off, and grab Fern, tickling her. She squeals until I free her. She darts away from me. I follow Fern downstairs to a plate of scrambled eggs, rice, and leftover lumpia from yesterday. Dad has also made a run to the bakery, so there’s some pan de sal, sweet bread. Billie Holiday’s voice is in the background, coming through the speakers.
“Morning, Mark,” Dad says as he cuts a piece of cheese, adds it to the bread, and hands it to me.
“Morning,” I mumble.
“Fern, did you wake him?” Jenny asks.
“How can you tell?” I ask. My hair is standing up all over the place and I’m in rumpled pj’s: a gray shirt and red plaid pants.
“Yep, but I was quiet about it.”
“She was jumping on my bed.” I poke Fern in the side and she darts away from me.
“She’s just excited,” Jenny says, but she gives Fern a stern look.
“I know.” I start eating.
“This’ll help,” Dad says, and places a cup of coffee in front of me. I normally don’t drink the stuff, but I think he’s right.
“You were up pretty late last night,” Dad says. “You finish the piece?”
I nod. “Yep. I’m sending it over to Sebastian today and he’ll lay the track for the dancers to practice.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Jenny says. “I would have loved going to a high school like yours. So creative. It’s like being inside the movie Fame. Everyone dancing around and singing.”
“It’s not like we’re walking around in a musical.” I think of Grace and her Gene Kelly obsession. She would have loved the idea of her life being a musical. Rumor is he was a perfectionist, practicing moves
over and over again, long after everyone went home, so that it looked effortless. Which is kind of like me, I guess. If I commit to something, I want it perfect.
Jenny sticks her tongue out at me. “Don’t ruin my fantasy.”
“There’s also the orchestra concert,” Dad says. “Right? You’re still in that?”
“Oh yes, orchestra,” Jenny says, her voice all bland and bored.
I have to laugh. Jenny isn’t such a fan of the classical music. She comes to all my performances, but she’s obviously more excited about the fashion and dance show.
“They moved orchestra to spring. You don’t have to come, Jenny,” I say.
“Of course I do. I mean, I get to come,” she teases.
“I’m going to be a singer,” Fern announces. “And you can play for me.” She belts out the first line to Annie’s “Tomorrow.”
“Not bad,” I say.
“Thank you. Are we ready yet?” she asks, dancing around like she has to use the bathroom.
“Go make your bed and brush your teeth and by the time you’re done, we’ll be ready to go.”
Fern speeds out of the room, and Dad and Jenny laugh. I finish my food, sipping on my coffee, listening to Dad talk about the business. Jenny places some more eggs on my plate without me having to ask. Our words dance around each other shyly at first, as if we’re still not used to it being just the three of us. But it gets easier the more we talk, and soon I know it’ll be like there were only three of us all along. I glance at Grace’s empty chair, and instead of anger, I feel sadness. I miss her. She should be here.
But I pretend I’m not sad, because I don’t want to ruin the moment. I used to think it meant I was being inauthentic, but now I think sometimes it’s okay to pretend for others, to choose to be happy, to choose not to be sad. It’s an act of kindness. Everyone doesn’t need to know how you’re feeling all the time.
