by Tif Marcelo
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@Lucianna: And really, @True North? Advertising on my feed? When is that ever okay? #never
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I silence my phone, irritated and unwilling to see another notification come through. I won’t let True North take today’s excitement away. Minutes pass, and one by one, students walk out of the double doors and approach the older people who dot the landscape of the lawn—parents, I assume. Some are biting their nails, others are engaged in nervous chatter, exchanging stats on their children’s accomplishments thus far.
I close my ears against the noise and hum under my breath, though I train my eyes on the building’s entrance.
She will be fine. She will be fine. She will be fine.
When a grinning Ally opens the door, I am on my feet. Her movements are controlled, but I see them. The crack of thunder with every step, confidence in her eyes, and the rebel swag after a win.
I meet her in the middle of the quad and throw my arms around her neck. “And?” I keep my voice low. Faces are turned in our direction, watching our reactions. The summer institute is for the best of the best, and I am as protective of my sister as these parents are of their children.
“I killed it, and I’m in,” Ally says to me through her hair, which the wind has blown in front of her eyes. She’s shivering. “I kicked butt, just like you said I would.”
I know I have to get her to a place where she can let go and scream, but I hug her again. “Of course you did. I mean, who else could work with oil and plaster but you?”
She covers her mouth with her hands. “They thought my best piece was Soul and Sand.”
Tears fill my eyes. Soul and Sand is the work of her heart. She finished the abstract mixed-media piece last year, but it never saw the light of day. Not until she brought it to the first-round interviews the other week. “I am so proud of you.” My voice croaks, because pride doesn’t touch what I feel for this girl or the potential I see. Now I get what Nonna was saying all that time, when she thought culinary school would take my skill higher. She wanted me to reach for the best opportunity. With Ally, I see no limit, and this intensive will propel her skills to the highest levels. “Let’s get out of here before the two of us explode.”
Hand in hand, we walk down cement stairs leading to the student union, allowing gravity and the weight of our bodies to drag us down. It’s something we would have done as kids, daring each other not to let go until we reached the bottom step. By the time we reach the university cafe, Ally and I are in a fit of laughter.
The smell of java hits me the moment I open the door, and I’m high without a drop of coffee on my lips. I order a caramel latte, and Ally orders a Frappuccino, no whip. We sit next to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out as students in their thin jackets pass by. That’s the thing with the city; one minute it’s hot as Hades, and the next, my nose is a Popsicle.
“The admissions counselor is supposed to call and talk about specifics. Parent-guardian stuff,” Ally says before she takes a long sip of her drink. A thin foam coats the top of her lip.
My latte is perfect, with a flower outlined in the foam. After a sip, the flower looks more like a mushroom. “Got it. I’ll pick up, promise.”
“I looked up the course requirements the other day. Did you know the institute has a partnership with the Museum of Modern Art? There’s a chance what I make during the intensive can make it to one of their collections . . . me, Cam. My work could end up there. That would be amazing . . . Oh! And the top student during the intensive will be offered a full-ride scholarship to the institute for a fine arts degree. Oh my God. I can’t even. I mean, I love BAU, but can you imagine?”
“I can, Al. That’s so, so awesome.” I love this passion. It’s the only time Ally’s not forlorn or scheming to sneak out of our apartment. Nonna must have seen this, too, that art would be the basis for a happy life, as cooking is for me.
She pushes a folder in front of me, glossy and formal, with the institute logo embossed in gold. “My acceptance letter,” she says. But as I open the folder, she keeps a firm hand on the cover. “It’s so expensive. I knew it was expensive before, but I looked up the tuition. And inside there’s a list where they break down all of the expenses. Flight, lodging, food, materials, mad money. It’s a fucking lot of money.”
“Ally, hush.” It doesn’t matter she’s technically an adult; I will never get used to my sister cussing. And while Ally is only seven years younger than me, this moment turns me into a bear. The mama kind. “We’re gonna take it a step at a time.”
She opens the folder and pulls out a piece of paper with the heading Cost. “Look at it, Cam. It’s more than we have. Ever.”
My eyes focus on her and I will them not to betray me. I want Ally to keep dreaming, to keep feeling invincible. Scrunching down an eyebrow, I say, “Look, if I get desperate, I’ll sell my blood.”
“Ew.”
“Yeah, a pint will get me, what . . . seventy bucks? I’ll need to donate”—I count overtly on my fingers—“oh . . . maybe twenty times max?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. I will handle this. I promise. What you need to worry about is what to pack. You’ve only got a couple of weeks to decide.”
My answer satisfies her for now. Her phone buzzes and she begins to text back, intermittently guzzling her drink. My fingers find their way to social media, pressing hearts and likes. Encouraging comments from my last picture pop up, and some snarky comments ensue from my last post to True North. I don’t pay it any mind, because the open acceptance folder nags at me, despite my attempt to ignore it.
Like a witness to a pending disaster, I can’t look away, my sights landing on the ridiculously steep number.
24
DREW
Camille’s and Ally’s outlines are backlit by the light of the student cafe, hunched over a tiny table. The temperature has dropped, and gusts of wind cut through my thin long-sleeve shirt. I forgot how labile the weather is, and without my knit cap, there’s nothing to protect my head from feeling like I dunked it in cold water.
I can tell from where I stand across the street that the two sisters are cozy. Their jackets are slung on their chair backs; both are wearing short sleeves. It’s apparent they’re not having their usual feisty conversation. They’re doing more smiling than talking, more laughing than rolling eyes. They look like they’re having a moment, bonding over their drinks.
I don’t get their attention right away. Cami wasn’t expecting me to come back, and I didn’t expect me to come back here. On my drive from downtown, I had every intention of heading straight to the restaurant. That would have been the responsible thing to do. No, the stand-up thing would have been to tell my dad before pulling the appeal.
Going home terrifies me. What I did will disappoint my ma and piss off my father. Coming here to find Cami was part procrastination and part fear. I had to see Cami’s face, bolster myself against the hammer that’s going to come down on me for what I’ve done.
I took a risk that they would be here at the student cafe. It made perfect sense that Camille would insist on stopping in for a cup of coffee. She has this thing for lattes and foam shapes and dessert. Stupid me, now I know it doesn’t end in lattes. Camille loves food, too. Correction: Camille makes food. Camille is synonymous with cooking. Just like my father eats, sleeps, drinks True North, this woman lives for Lucianna.
Panic rushes at me like a Pacific Ocean wave. Camille owns That Damned Truck. The one I’ve helped scheme against. And the advice we were giving each other about zones and social media? It was ammo against each other.
I gave Camille and Ally a chance at the expense of my family’s success.
But whose chance was it to begin with? If the sun and the moon fought for the same spot, which would the Earth fare better with?
Both. Both must exist. Both must share space. Someh
ow I’ve got to make my father feel the same way, and then . . . and then tell Camille who I am.
With a sudden rush of bravado, I pull out my phone. My conscience screams at me as I dial my pop’s cell. This news should be broken to him in person. This is a crisis, dammit, and I’ve got to take whatever he dishes out, in the flesh, like a man. But the chickenshit kid in me stomps back. It’s now or never. This will explode in everyone’s faces soon enough, so the earlier the better, right? It doesn’t make the news less shocking either way.
I bite my lip as the restaurant phone rings shrilly in my ear.
“True North,” the voice says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Pop.” Then, before giving him the time to respond, I say, “I want to let you know I pulled the appeal.” There. It’s out in the open. And instead of wincing, I brace myself, ready to take the brunt of profanity and accusations.
But the voice that answers me is calm. “Why would you do something like that?”
“I don’t understand why we can’t work with this scenario. Our target audience is absolutely different from Lucianna’s. If people want Filipino food, they come to us; if they want panini, they go to her. She isn’t our competition.”
“Andrew, this is not what we talked about. This was not our agreement. You . . . we . . . sat and talked about this plan. We agreed part of standing out is getting rid of potential obstacles, and That Damned Truck is a huge one. You can’t change the course of something that was decided half a month ago.”
“Our plan was to make True North better, not to push someone else so they fail. There’s got to be a deal we can cut. People do it all the time . . . partnerships, affiliates, referrals. We can probably find a way to cross-advertise. Like a rewards-type deal.”
“We decided the truck is a hindrance to the restaurant’s view. An eyesore. True North is white tablecloth, and the truck is . . . ugly. No one can see our front door, our signs. We ourselves can’t look out our front windows and see the street.” My pop’s voice spits out the comparison, as if the mere mention of Lucianna is poison.
Yet the view in front of me, of Camille and Ally, is everything but. “It isn’t necessary to bring another business down. As small businesses, shouldn’t we look out for one another? Their street food is attracting pedestrian traffic that didn’t exist before, don’t you agree? There are other choices.”
A snort echoes through the phone. “This is ridiculous. Why did I expect any less?”
“Excuse me?” My grip on the phone tightens, my hearing heightened to pick up my dad’s breathing on the other end.
“You can’t come home and make these kinds of decisions. Not only do you know nothing about this business, you don’t even have the right to. I allowed you to help because I thought we were on the same page. I thought we wanted the same things, but you obviously don’t. If you aren’t working with me, Andrew, you’re working against me.”
Steam and anger infiltrate my vision. Along with it, a conversation—a fight—I had with my pop the night I left for my first duty station replays in my head. My father didn’t want me to go. He begged me to back out. But I knew I couldn’t stay. The dreams I had went beyond the street, the city, the state. I wanted more. To get him to let me go, I denounced my role in True North. And what he told me haunted me and kept me away.
Don’t expect to come home and have everything the same.
Don’t think you can come home and I’ll forget you left when I needed you.
So I bite my tongue. Even if I know my pop’s words are false, a last-ditch effort to rein in his child, the mere thought triggers the guilt I carry. I did refuse my legacy, and I was too proud then to come home and say sorry.
But if there’s one thing my father has taught me, it’s you have to hold tight to the decisions you make. Own them, whether it leads to success or to a monumental face-plant. I’ve made Camille’s and Ally’s business mine, and I can’t waffle now. “I’m sorry, but it’s done. I’ll fight the appeal myself if you file another one. And we’ll no longer be calling the cops on them for every little thing you don’t like. It’s harassment.”
A growl echoes in my ear and the phone clicks off.
I exhale.
I stare at my phone and sense the foreboding feeling of World War III, thick and inevitable. I’ve been home less than two weeks and I’ve made our relationship worse, not better.
My mother needs to be involved now. She has always cracked the stalemate, broken the silence, and pieced truths together. My father always listens to her.
But the phone buzzes in my hand and a text flies in.
Is that you out there? Ten feet away, Camille waves. While I can’t hear what she’s saying to Ally through the double-pane window, I can see she’s wearing an honest-to-goodness smile. It’s the same smile I haven’t been able to get out of my mind since I’ve been home. Since ten years ago.
ME: I dunno. Is it me? Feeling out of body at the moment.
CAMI: If it isn’t, I’m going to end up kissing the guy outside this cafe. We got some good news.
ME: Hell, if you put it that way, I’m coming in.
CAMI: You okay? Did you make it in time for whatever you needed
to do?
ME: Yeah. I have great timing. OMW.
I cross the street and approach the cafe window. Camille lifts her coffee cup to me and mouths, Want some?
I nod. Yeah, I want some. And if I have any chance to keep Camille, Lucianna has to stay exactly where she is.
25
CAMILLE
Bank of the Bay’s waiting area is colorless and tasteless, slathered with fake plants and Crest-white pleather furnishings. The tired scent of pine lingers, artificially sprayed every two minutes from somewhere in the room. Instead of relaxing me, it twists my stomach. It doesn’t help I’m on a 360-degree display because the seats are in the middle of the bank’s lobby. Much like an aquarium in a seafood restaurant, I’m being appraised and ogled for consumption.
Today was a fantastic day at work. Sales were steady, and we stayed open an extra hour, which meant I rushed across town to get here before they closed, haphazardly dousing myself with body spray and deodorant. I probably still smell like grease.
But I want to be next. I want my chance. My fingers fiddle with the locket hanging from my neck, and my knees feel light despite the white binder balanced on them. In it is everything about Lucianna, Nonna’s bequest, and Ally’s school paperwork. My speech is as rehearsed as one of my recipes, down to the expression on my face. My goal is to appeal to this banker’s sense of pity.
My phone is on silent, but the screen lights up with an incoming text.
JAZ: That *&#$%^ True North and their stupid posts.
ME: What now? Wait. Do I want to know?
JAZ: Yes. You do. They’re posting every hour about their opening. Talk about bombarding my feed. It’s like a complete amateur is running their advertising.
ME: Sit on your hands. Don’t even respond. My last response was bad enough.
JAZ: o.O
I wince thinking about the backlash to my sarcastic remarks made last night after True North posted another comment about my customers catching pneumonia while waiting for their food. I jumped into their posts, which was the absolute wrong thing to do. Fans of True North called me out, and I was reminded how one little thing can be taken and spread around like wildfire on the Web. I didn’t need another media storm like that first photo of me telling off Blake, so I decided it was time to lie low. Follow the advice I gave Drew about social media done well.
Which triggers a yearning for Drew, whom I haven’t seen in a day. I whip out a text:
ME: Hey, stranger. What are you up to?
DREW: Oh you know. Chasing away the hordes of women.
ME: Do you mean your mom and cousins?
DREW: Dammit. How did you know? ;) Wha
t’s up?
ME: I was thinking of that conversation we had about social media. Did I mention drama is inevitable with social media?
DREW: Should I ask what prompts this?
ME: You don’t have to. I’ll tell you, since you are now privy to my life. Sort of. Social media is fickle. One second you’re the queen bee. Then next you’re stomped like a pancake.
DREW: And you are now . . .
ME: In a passive-aggressive fight with a restaurant.
Seconds pass with no response.
The phone flashes. Drew is calling.
I stare at the screen. I shouldn’t take it. But it’s Drew, and I . . . I miss him, so I head toward the bank’s front windows, away from patrons, and pick up. “Hello?”
“What does one do in that situation?”
Drew’s voice is smooth, sexy like a radio DJ, and I realize this is the first time we’ve talked on the phone. We are doing this relationship backward. “In what situation?”
“In a social media fight.”
“Well, someone has to stop or concede. Otherwise, followers take sides, and it starts a war.”
“What are you going to do?”
I sigh. “Dunno. I gave you that advice like I’m some expert marketing person. But guess what? I’m full of shit. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Drew laughs, and his voice is such a turn-on, I groan.
“Great. Glad I’m so entertaining,” I say.
“Do you know what your problem is? You are so hard on yourself. There’s this thing my mom and I used to play. It’s called ‘one good thing.’ It’s easy—tell me one good thing about you.”
The waiting room is deathly silent. I bet there’s some camera picking up this conversation and the security guards are laughing at me right now. “What? This is silly.”
“C’mon, Marino. One good thing right now. About you.”
“This is lame.” My voice muffles as I press my lips onto the phone to enunciate my opinion on this.
