“Fake.”
He thought for a moment, like this was a problem he could solve. “Your passport. Don’t you have a passport?”
“Sa Pilipinas lang,” she said. “Doesn’t mean anything in the States.”
He looked out at the sea lions. “We’re not American.”
“No.”
She looked suddenly tired and rubbed her eyes, tried to explain: she was eight months pregnant when she got rid of the eye patch–wearing son of a bitch for drinking away half her savings, then blowing the other half on the Manila cockfight circuit. Despite her films, despite a Dynamite-Star! Manila Movie Award, there were no more acting jobs for her, no stunt work, nothing. “And my only family was your Auntie Queenie, but she was a live-in maid in Saudi Arabia. Do you know how they treat Filipina maids out there? You think I’d do that to myself? To you? No way.” Staying in the Philippines, unmarried and pregnant, was unacceptable.
Her best option was to call Joker. “Fifteen years, we didn’t talk, and you know what he said when I called? ‘Come to California. I’ll help you.’ That’s true family, believe me. He wired the money for a plane ticket, and a week later I’m on my way to California. Thank god for Joker. My only hope. Like Princess Leia and Obi-Wan, di ba?” She smiled, like that was supposed to make Excel feel better and salvage what was left of his birthday.
“Then what happened?” Excel asked.
“You,” she said. “You happened.”
He was meant to be born here. “I wanted a hospital room with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge,” she said. “Like in a movie I saw once. But no. You”—she jabbed his shoulder softly with her pinky finger—“you couldn’t wait. You were born on the plane.”
“On the plane?” Excel said.
“In the sky. Above the ocean.”
He knew how the world worked: if you were born in America, you were American; if you were born in the Philippines, Filipino. “So what am I?” he asked.
“You”—she looked at him for a moment, blinked a few times, as though she wasn’t completely sure who she was speaking to—“I don’t know. I don’t know what you are. Not yet.” She brought up the last visit to San Francisco, that day he’d spent in an office waiting room. She and Joker had met with a lawyer, hoping the circumstances of his birth might make him a citizen. “We paid that asshole seven hundred dollars,” she said, “just to tell us no.” Excel’s citizenship, technically, was like Maxima’s—Philippines. “But that’s not home,” she said, “this is.”
She told him being TNT was why she couldn’t get a driver’s license or a decent-paying job, why they couldn’t leave the country or cross California into another state, why their lives were the way they were. And Excel wanted to tell her to close her mouth and stop talking, that she was ruining his birthday, and she should go stand somewhere else and let him watch the sea lions on his own.
Then he remembered his arm.
“Is that why”—he lifted his short sleeve, pointed to the raised puff of hard skin just below his shoulder, the scar left from a bad fall on his bike two years before. The cut was small but deep and bled nonstop, and he reminded Maxima that she hadn’t taken him to the emergency room.
“I wanted to,” she said, pulling down his sleeve, “but I couldn’t. Joker was in L.A. with his brother, and if I took you to the hospital by myself, and if they asked for ID or a Social Security number or something I didn’t have, what if they found out? What if they took you from me? I was scared.” Excel had never heard Maxima admit she was scared, but he remembered the fear in her face as she sterilized the needle over the stove, then threaded it with dental floss, which she said would keep the wound shut. She pushed the needle through his skin, and when he screamed for her to stop, she told him to keep still, and what he thought was sweat running down her face was actually tears. The cut healed, eventually, and Joker said the scar was evidence of bravery, proof of strength. “A warrior wound, di ba?” he said, and Maxima nodded, tried to smile. But whenever he saw the scar he knew: This isn’t right. Now he knew why.
He stepped away from the railing and turned to leave (where to, he didn’t know), but Maxima took his wrist, pulled him close.
“Listen to me,” she said, “and do as I say. No matter what, never tell anyone you’re TNT. Understand?”
He sighed, nodded.
“Understand?” She took his other wrist, squeezed them both to the point of pain.
“I understand.”
“You’d better. Because you don’t want to end up like Lola NeeNee, the cookie lady. Remember her? She’s here for thirty years and one day she makes a right turn on a ‘No Turn on Red’ sign, the cops pull her over, they see she has no papers, no green card. Nobody has seen her since.” He’d almost forgotten her, the old Filipino woman who went door to door selling homemade coconut cookies out of a small, foil-lined laundry basket. She’d sometimes stop by and have coffee with Maxima and Joker, one of the few visitors they ever had. Now he imagined her alone on a curb somewhere, an empty laundry basket at her feet.
“If you tell,” Maxima said, “we’re all in trouble.”
He promised he wouldn’t. Then he asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
“For a better life. What else?”
“No. To San Francisco.”
She loosened her grip, let go of his wrists. “I wanted you to have a nice birthday.”
Below, the sea lions rolled off the platforms and into the water, one by one. “I want to ride the carousel,” Excel said.
She gave him five dollars. He charged ahead and bought a ticket, got in an already-moving line and stepped on, curved around the carousel until he found a half horse, half fish. But instead of climbing on he just stood where he was and leaned against it. The ride started up, the revolutions of the carousel faster than he’d expected. He kept a firm hand on the line where the horse became fish, his arm rising and falling as he spun, and he looked out to see Maxima—there, not there, there, not there—until he just closed his eyes, and everything was gone.
They went back to Colma. Joker was on the couch when they entered the apartment, fighting sticks on his lap. “Alam ba?” he asked Maxima. “Yes, Grandmaster,” Excel answered for her, “I know.” He said nothing else, walked straight into Maxima’s room and climbed out the window onto the fire escape, stepped onto the roof. I’m hiding and hiding, he thought, TNT, and he stayed there until sundown and well beyond.
Every few days for the next few weeks, Maxima, at random points in the afternoon and evening, would ask how school had gone, what he’d eaten for lunch, whom he’d spoken to, then finally get to the point. “Did you tell anyone?” It was like an endless quiz composed of the same single question with the same correct answer: “No.” Eventually she stopped asking, but by then the question was wired into his brain, became its own kind of paranoia: because being TNT was the last thing he should ever confess, it remained at the forefront of his mind. He was a quiet kid who became quieter, often to the point of silence. In class, he spoke just enough to confirm his presence, learned the strategy of playing group games (dodgeball, kickball, freeze tag) without talking to other kids. Some days he’d skip lunch and sit at the far corner carrel in the library with a comic book, finish schoolwork in advance, or just put his head down and rest. What took effort and strategy became, as years went on, instinct and habit, a way of moving through the world. Tolerable, predictable, alone.
AT THE START OF NINTH GRADE, IN ENGLISH CLASS, EXCEL SHARED a desk with a Filipino kid named Renzo. He’d moved to Colma from L.A., was wiry and tall with black spiky hair tipped dark blue, and wore a leather wristband with metal studs; Excel wondered if he belonged to some kind of punk rock street gang. They never spoke, not until the day Excel saw, on the upper corner of Renzo’s notebook, a sticker of an armadillo in a varsity sweater wearing a backpack.
“That’s Junichi,” Excel said, stunned that someone else knew of You Don’t Say, Junichi! an obscure Japanese cartoon about teenage armadillos, infa
mous for its bad dubbing and awkward English translations.
Renzo looked at Excel right in the eye. “Shall we play balls?” he said, quoting one of the show’s taglines. They started laughing, and that no one nearby understood what was so funny only made them laugh harder. “I’ve got the graphic novels in my locker,” Renzo said, “if you’re interested.” Excel shrugged and said okay, and after school they went to the Target café and read through them, then continued to hang out afterward, cracking each other up with their favorite lines from the show (“You’re giving us happy time, Junichi!”)
They developed a routine. Three or four times a week after school, they’d split a two-for-one hot dog meal at Target, then walk around the store to screw with the merchandise (they’d stuff a pair of women’s panties into a four-pack of men’s underwear, stash toothpaste in the freezers behind the ice cream). Though Excel never invited him into the apartment, he’d occasionally bring Renzo to the roof, where they’d concoct their own Junichi story lines while watching planes taking off from SFO or throwing bits of rooftop gravel at the Old Hoy Sun Ning Yung headstones, four stories below. Sometimes they’d just sit without speaking, a silence that didn’t bother Excel at all.
On the last Friday night before the end of ninth grade, Renzo, out of nowhere, thanked Excel for a good year. “I didn’t have a lot of friends in L.A.,” he said, “didn’t think I’d have any up here.”
They were sitting on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the edge, and Renzo’s honesty made Excel a little tense; mostly, their time was spent making each other laugh. He stood up, pretended to stretch his back. “For sure,” he said. “It’s cool you moved up here.”
Renzo nodded, went quiet. “What if I told you something,” he finally said, “something nobody knows.”
“Nobody?”
Renzo shook his head.
Excel bent down and picked up a piece of gravel from the ground, wondering about the moment to come. Of course he knew there were other TNTs in the world, but he’d never actually met another before, and to have that person be his friend—his closest? his only?—seemed almost fated, that rare bit of luck that never seemed to come his way. Renzo’s confession would prompt his own (it only seemed fair), and he wondered how he’d say it, if he’d look him in the eye, or maybe stare at one of the departing planes as he spoke the truth.
“Okay”—Excel took a breath—“but if you do, then I need to tell you something, too.”
“Deal,” Renzo said. He took several breaths deep breaths, as if about to plunge himself underwater.
Someone like me, Excel thought, finally.
“I think I’m gay,” Renzo said.
Excel said nothing.
Renzo turned to face him. “Does that bother you?”
Excel threw bits of gravel into the air. He thought for a moment; it didn’t bother him, not at all. And he was glad that Renzo had confided in him when he’d confided in no one else. But Renzo’s coming out felt like a letdown, an opportunity lost; this was not the trade of secrets Excel had hoped for, the truth he’d needed to hear. He knew a deal was a deal, that it was his turn to tell the truth, but he could feel himself reverting back to the promise he’d made to Maxima, who was only two floors below.
“It doesn’t bother me,” he said.
Renzo looked almost expectant, like there was more Excel should be saying. “Okay then,” he said, “your turn.”
“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I have nothing to tell.”
“Nothing. After what I told you?” He stood up. “What were you going to say? Tell me.”
Excel picked up more gravel, wishing for more time to figure out the best thing to say. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I only said that to get you to talk. That was lame, I know. But I’m glad you told me, and if you want, I won’t tell anyone. Your secret’s safe, okay?”
“Oh.” Renzo looked at the ground and nodded, paced back and forth a few times. He bent down and instead of a single pebble he grabbed a handful of gravel and threw it at the sky. “This game is pointless,” he said, then climbed down the fire escape.
Renzo didn’t call that weekend, or the rest of the week. When Excel finally reached him, Renzo said he was busy with a summer job, and that he’d be spending the second half of the summer down in L.A. “To spend time with my friends,” he said. The conversation would be their last, and Excel spent the rest of the summer alone, watching TV, sleeping late, hanging out on the roof. Near the end of summer, Excel tried calling Renzo once more, but his father answered, explained that Renzo would be transferring to Saint Bishop’s in Oakland for the fall, a school so prestigious and rigorous that he wouldn’t have time for socializing with old friends. But in the last week before school began, Excel spent a few afternoons in the Target café hoping Renzo might show up, Junichi graphic novels in hand. He never did. The following Monday, Excel was alone again, a sophomore.
He was, more than ever, resolved to never tell anyone he was TNT. The fear of telling the truth had wrecked his only friendship, and what would have come of it anyway? Even if Renzo had been TNT himself, what would they have done? Started a club? Joined forces and marched on the capitol steps in Sacramento, demanding their right to stay? Maybe it would have been better if Renzo had kept the secret to himself. Or, instead of the truth, Excel should have made up a secret, said he was the son of Filipino gang members, had an incurable disease, or said he was gay too. Maybe then, Renzo would still be here.
And yet he couldn’t forget the feeling, that surge of fear and possible relief that had come with almost saying it: I’m TNT. It was a peculiar energy that sometimes possessed him, made him want to run down the street as fast as he could, scream his head off, punch and take down whatever stood in his way.
NOW, WITH GUNTER’S BIG HAND PRESSING HARD INTO HIS CHEST, pinning him to the wall, Excel is desperate for that energy again. There’s no point in fighting back—Excel would go down in a second—so he just waits to be hit, for the very center of himself to collapse from the force of the blow to come. “I’m not really here,” he says to himself, lips barely moving, but loud enough for him to hear.
Gunter’s fist stays frozen in midair, just above eye level.
“Nah,” Gunter says, “not even worth it.” He drops his hand, steps back. “You can have your job back. Shift starts now. Here”—he hands Excel the butter knife—“there’s more gum on the ceiling. Finish where I left off. And welcome back.” He walks out of the game room and Excel stays where he is, his racing heart slowing down, when suddenly bells go off and a red light whirls and wails like a siren. Excel looks up and sees that the boys playing Skee-Ball are scoring big points, the prize tickets snaking out of their slots and coiling on the floor. They’re high-fiving each other, jumping up and down, celebrating in a language Excel doesn’t know, but he thinks he understands what they’re saying—we win, we win, we win.
7
Gunter makes Excel work a double shift for a single shift’s pay. “Consider it part of your atonement,” he says, overenunciating atonement like it’s a new word acquired from Z’s dictionary. Excel follows him to the break room, where Gunter loans him a uniform, a black polo shirt with a picture of a spyglass on the back. “You’ll have to order your own, at your cost of course,” Gunter says.
“No problem,” Excel says, then notices the name embroidered on the left front pocket. “It says ‘Lydia.’”
“Better than your real name.” Gunter points to the clock. “Bathrooms are waiting. Chop chop.”
Gunter considers The Pie Who Loved Me’s “A” grade from the Health Department one of his great achievements (though he’d written over a dozen fake Yelp reviews himself, praising the restaurant’s cleanliness—“every toilet is FIVE STARS!”), and on the day he quit, Excel swore he’d never clean a bathroom for Gunter again. But for the next three hours, he scrubs every urinal and toilet, the floors, the walls, and the doors of each stall, even the inside and outside of the toilet paper and pape
r towel dispensers. When he’s done, he heads to the kitchen to do more of the same. Three guys are already working when he enters (two on food prep, one at the sink). Excel doesn’t know them, but from their glances and whispers, he’s guessing they know him—the big-mouth hotshot who’d tried putting Gunter in his place nine months before.
Someone in dark glasses and headphones singing “Little Red Corvette” enters, stops when he sees Excel. It’s Reynaldo, the assistant manager and Gunter’s second-in-command. He was there when Excel told Gunter off the day he quit, and Excel remembers the smirk on his face as he shook his head, like he knew Excel would one day be crawling back.
“S’up, Excel,” Reynaldo says, “back for more?” He gives a slight kick to the toe of Excel’s shoe, walks away, and laughs.
EXCEL’S SHIFT ENDS AT NINE BUT HE WORKS UNTIL TEN, AND ONCE outside, he can smell the day on himself—ammonia and bad cheese, Windex, a hint of what he swears is expired pepperoni. He wants to stand like a scarecrow in the middle of the parking lot, let the wind air out his clothes. But Colma is too cold tonight. He puts on his hoodie and zips it all the way up, starts toward the apartment.
He checks the time on his phone—10:19 p.m.—and figures, since his phone is already out of his pocket, maybe it would be okay to call Sab. To say hello and how are you—he’d be fine with that. Leave a voice mail, if nothing else.
She picks up on the fourth ring. “I was asleep,” she says.
“Oh. Sorry.” He thinks of Sab’s back against his chest, the two of them cocooned in a blanket in the back of the bus.
“Okay, I lied. I’m in bed, but sitting up. I just said that to make you feel bad. Did it work?”
“Kinda.”
“Well, now I’m the one who’s sorry. Where are you?”
He walks down Serramonte Boulevard, night traffic loud enough that he has to plug his other ear to hear Sab. “Walking back to the apartment,” he says. “I just got off work.”
“You got a job already? Where?”
The Son of Good Fortune Page 6
