Fresh Off the Boat

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Is not a big deal,” she assured.

  “Do you think Whitney’s done it?”

  “Who knows? Is so dumb. Did you see the questionnaire she was handing out? Which is a guy’s most erogenous zone? What kind of condom you prefer? I threw it away.”

  I was aghast. I didn’t mention that I planned to remain a virgin until I got married. Just like every good Filipino girl is supposed to—except for one of my cousins, who got knocked up when she was fifteen, but we’re not supposed to talk about that. I didn’t see anything wrong with waiting. I was having a hard time imagining French-kissing a guy, let alone doing…well…that.

  Claude would understand. Like a gentleman, he would wait until we had graduated from college and had a proper church wedding with seventeen bridesmaids (I have a lot of cousins). I practiced writing his name next to mine on all my notebooks. Mrs. Vicenza Caligari. Mrs. Claude Caligari. Mrs. Vicenza Arambullo-Caligari.

  If I couldn’t have Tobey Maguire, I would settle for Claude. If Claude were my boyfriend, I would become the most popular girl at Gros (even more popular than Whitney, because unlike her, I would use my powers for Good rather than Evil).

  “Americans are so puritanical,” Isobel firmly declared. “Why take a poll to find out how to make out? Did she need tips? Just pick up Cosmo. The whole thing was so ridiculous. Anyway, I need to try something on. Telephone you later?”

  “Oh wait, I totally forgot to ask you. How do I measure two acute angles? It’s the last question on my homework and I can’t get it.”

  “Pardon? Read the whole thing to me.”

  “In a right triangle, one of the acute angles is two times as large as the other acute angle. Find the measure of the two acute angles.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Vous cannot do this on your own?”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  Isobel harrumphed, like she always did when she thought I was being slow. “It’s so easy, chérie! In a right triangle, the right angle is always ninety degrees. And the sum of all angles is one hundred eighty degrees which means—”

  “I don’t need the theory. Just the answer.”

  “You’ll never learn.” She sighed.

  “Just give it to me, please?”

  “Sixty degrees.”

  “Goddess! Thanks!”

  “Cheater,” she said. “You’re welcome. Mais, I’ve really got to go now. I want to try on this Lycra catsuit.”

  I shuddered to think what leopard-print atrocity she was going to purchase now, said good-bye, and scribbled down the answer before I forgot it.

  FROM: queen_vee@aol.com

  TO: amparo.dellarosa@info.ph.com

  SENT: Thursday, November 5, 7:30 PM

  SUBJECT: bases loaded!

  Dear Peaches,

  It was a school night, but Mom let me go over to Georgia’s with Whitney and Trish for a sleepover last night and we had a looong discussion about really important stuff. We even put together this fun poll. (See attached!) You were right about second base. I’m attaching a breakdown of how it goes. They all said they’d hooked up tons of times, so I said I did, too. Even though YOU know I would NEVER (well, maybe first base).

  Later,

  V

  DOCUMENT ATTACHED: LOVEPOLL.DOC

  10

  Catwalking Down the Aisle

  WE WERE LATE for church today and it was all my fault.

  Actually it’s Mom’s fault.

  Every Sunday Mom wakes us up at an ungodly hour to get ready for nine o’clock Mass. I don’t think my parents have ever missed Mass in their entire lives. If we have to go on a trip or if we’re out of town, they’ll make plans to go to the Saturday Mass or else look everywhere for a Catholic church before we can do anything else. I have distinct memories of being five years old and walking around lost in Hong Kong while Mom and Dad asked directions to the nearest Catholic church. We missed a whole day at the Ocean Park roller coasters because of The Lord.

  My parents aren’t religious fanatics. They don’t speak in tongues or shake tambourines and sing with their eyes closed or anything. In fact, some of Mom’s (very distant) relatives are of the revivalist-percussionist strain, and for my grandfather’s funeral, they had planned a special performance. But Mom wouldn’t hear of it. “No one’s banging on a bongo drum anywhere near my father’s coffin!” she said.

  Our car doesn’t have a Jesus fish on it, and I don’t own a “WWJD” bracelet (although secretly, I think they are kind of cute). We did watch The Passion, but Brittany cried so much that we had to turn it off. (Oh well, we all knew how it ends anyway.) In Manila every Lent the TV stations don’t show anything but The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston. As practicing Catholics, we attend Mass regularly. In the Philippines, everyone attends Mass on Sundays. Friends say to each other, “I’ll pray for you” and it doesn’t sound corny or pious.

  Here in America there are Christian rock groups and Christian band camps and Christian cable networks. But for all the religious talk, it seems the only person who attends church is the President. And even then, it looks like he’s only doing it for the cameras. But back home, we bumped into everyone at church: relatives, friends, Mom’s socialite cronies, Dad’s business associates, and customers from the restaurant. It was just another thing you did, like going to the country club on Saturdays.

  No one at Grosvernor goes to church—at least that I know of.

  Dr. Avilla asked me to tutor Whitney and Georgia last week, and they asked when we could get together to go over the English exam. Stupidly, I told them I was free Friday night. They snickered and said, what about Sunday morning instead? But I told them I couldn’t, since I had to go to church. They both rolled their eyes and I knew they thought I was such a goody-goody.

  I’m not. I don’t even like going to church.

  Okay, maybe I do. It’s the only time other than geometry class that I get to see B-O-Y-S. You have to take what you can get when you go to an all-girls school. Plus, church is the only time I can dress up, so on Sundays I throw my own personal fashion show.

  Which is why I was late today.

  I couldn’t decide what to wear. Plus, I was dreading having to see the Dalugdugans later. I knew why Mom was so keen on having them over, and I did not—repeat, did not—want to have to go through with it. I was still hoping she would give up on the idea of Freddie being my date for the Soirée. But I know Mom. She’s persistent and she’s got it in her head that this Soirée thing is really important to “assimilating.”

  Anyway, I have to wear a uniform five days a week. Do I wear the gray skirt or the gray skirt? The burgundy sweater or the burgundy blazer? (We were allowed to switch off, although most of us wore the blazer only on the required Mondays for Headmaster’s Meeting.) Knee-high socks or knee-high socks? Oh, the choices! So on weekends, when I’m free to wear whatever I like, I make the most of it. At the cafeteria on Saturday, I wear jeans and sneakers because I’m on my feet all day. But on Sundays, I bust out what I like to call “The Outfits.”

  I’m very serious about “The Outfits.” I plan them days in advance in my head, coordinating shirts and skirts, colors and fabrics, deciding whether to go with trends or classics, plain-fronts or pleats. But this Sunday, I had no clue. I just didn’t know what to wear. For a while, I had taken to throwing my thrift-store blazers over Dad’s old tuxedo pants, which had gotten too small for him. I hemmed the bottoms to capri length and wore them with an old Lacoste shirt I had found crumpled up in the corner of the Gros locker room one day. But I was tired of doing that look.

  I took out everything I owned from my closet and tried stuff on: my shrunken T-shirts; my favorite jeans; my camouflage pants; my furry sweater; my itchy sweater; my holey sweater; a houndstooth vintage suit I’d found at the Salvation Army for five bucks that reminded me of something Madonna would wear, the dreaded 49ers jacket.

  But everything made me look fat, or short, or just didn’t gi
ve me a good vibe.

  “V, we’re almost ready to go!” Mom called from downstairs half an hour before departure time.

  I put on my standard backup ensemble: black sweater, black pants, and black flats. I looked in the mirror and saw a mime. Ugh. No.

  “VICENZA! Let’s go!” That was warning number two. Which meant I had five more minutes.

  I ripped through the stack of clothes on my bed, slipping in and out of khakis, corduroys, denim, cotton, silk, wool, and rayon. I looked in the mirror, sucked in my cheeks, pursed my lips, and held my breath. Nothing.

  “MARIA VICENZA ARAMBULLO!!!” That was DEFCON warning number three. Which meant we were in the danger zone—that there was a chance we wouldn’t arrive in time to get our favorite seat—the first pew.

  I quickly put on the new miniskirt that I had saved up for, thinking I would just wear it over my black tights and that would be fine. I walked down the stairs, grabbing my jean jacket and ran into Mom, who was standing by the staircase, her eyebrows raised.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Huh?” I looked down. Did I have a run in my tights?

  “You can’t wear that to church! Dios ko, do you want to give the priest a heart attack?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Your skirt! It’s too short! Show some respect!”

  “It’s not too short! And I’m wearing tights!”

  “Don’t talk back to me!”

  “But, Mom!”

  “No! You have to change! Hurry. We’re already late!”

  “Mom!”

  “PSSSSTTT!!!” She waved an angry finger and pointed to my room.

  I stomped back upstairs, my heart black with hatred. I took off the miniskirt, grabbed the nearest pair of jeans, slipped them on, kicking off my treasured pair of black patent leather Mary Janes, and ran back downstairs. The house was empty since everybody was already in the Tan Van, and Dad already had the engine running.

  “Ano ba? Bakit ang tagal?” Dad asked, looking over his shoulder at me. (What took you so long?)

  I was puffing as I scooted in and slammed the door. I shrugged and looked away, blinking back tears. Life was so unfair. I couldn’t even wear my new miniskirt to church! Where was God at this time?

  Everyone else in my family was well turned out and nattily dressed. Dad had his “Regis Philbin” tie and matching jewel-colored shirt on under his lone sports jacket, Mom had on a silk blouse, pearls, and nice black slacks, and Brittany was wearing an adorable sailor dress. She kicked the back of Mom’s seat absentmindedly, and for once Mom turned around with an irritated look on her face to tell her to stop. I slumped in the back, in my jean jacket and sneakers and uncombed hair, hating them all.

  Our parish church is Our Lady of Sorrows, which is appropriate enough, since many parishioners are Filipinos in what my parents call “reduced circumstances” like us, as well as a sprinkling of Irish families. Mom and Dad walked all the way up to the first pew, where the Dalugdugans were already sitting. Mom gave them a strained smile, and Dad ushered us reluctantly into the second pew. Freddie winked at me and I grimaced. He was wearing a Montclair Academy varsity letter jacket, but he’s no athlete. He’s the manager of the lacrosse team. That one game I was able to attend, I saw Freddie on the bench, keeping score and statistics and handing out water and towels to the players between breaks.

  I asked Dad once why we had to go to church, and he said because we are part of a community. I told him I thought church was boring and I didn’t choose the faith, it was chosen for me. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t argue with me. He said I might feel different when I grew up, but right now, I lived in their house and I had to follow their rules.

  The reason my family likes to sit in the first pew is because whoever sits in the first pew gets to take up the wine and wafers at the Processional Offering before Communion. I saw Freddie’s Dad get the nod from Mang Amoy, the gray-haired usher with the bad comb-over who smelled like cough drops. Sure enough, just as the choir burst into, “Yahweh, I know, you are near…” all three of the Dalugdugans stood up and walked slowly down the aisle to the little table holding two silver bowls and a crystal decanter of wine.

  Until my family arrived to challenge them, the Dalugdugans always brought up the offering at the nine o’clock Mass. I watched them walk up together, reeking of smug, pleasant self-satisfaction. Freddie’s dad, in his shiny sharkskin suit and Brylcreem in his pompadour; his mom, shuffling up in a beige crepe dress and plastic beads; and Freddie himself, the pride of Daly City.

  I dozed off during the sermon, then played a game of thumb war with Brittany under the wrathful eye of my mother. Brit was always easy to distract. I made faces at her when my parents’ backs were turned. As far as I was concerned, Communion was the most exciting part of Mass. It was a great people-watching spectacle. I craned my neck to see if my favorite church boy was there today. He was a tall Irish guy who always dressed in a button-down shirt and pressed khaki pants. But as the people passed us by, I didn’t see him. The congregation at nine o’clock Mass was so regular, so punctual, that everyone would notice your absence or that of a member of your family. The Tuazons, for instance, were one person short, since Amelia was off at college; and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s dentist husband had left her for his hygienist so she attended Mass alone.

  When it was our turn to stand, I felt none of my usual excitement. This was a chance to show off my clothes, but since I hadn’t been allowed to wear The Outfit, I merely slouched forward. I bent my head and clambered over Brittany, who had yet to take her First Communion. The holy wafer stuck to the top of my mouth, and I had to pry it off discreetly with my tongue. Like Mom and Dad, I hurried past the goblet of wine. Too many cooties. I couldn’t imagine drinking from the same cup as a hundred other people.

  As I knelt down, I prayed the same prayer I prayed every Sunday: Please, Lord, let me have a boyfriend. Claude Caligari would be nice. Please, Lord, I can’t be a teenager and never been kissed or never have a boyfriend. Please, Lord, let me have a cute date for the Gros Soirée so I can be normal. Please, please, please.

  When Mass was over, Mom and Dad made the rounds at church, greeting the priests and mingling with a few of their friends. They had maintained an aloof distance from the large Filipino community when we first arrived. “We didn’t move to America just so we could hang out in Davao,” Mom had sniffed. Mom and Dad took a lot of pride in Mom’s Norwegian ancestry and Dad’s Spanish surname.

  The Dalugdugans certainly didn’t look like any of Mom and Dad’s old friends back home—Mom’s best friend Tita Kikit used to model in Singapore and had married an Austrian businessman, while Dad’s social network was composed mainly of Spanish mestizos with blond children. But what Freddie’s parents lacked in glamour, they more than made up for in kindness. They were guarantors on our lease; they had helped Dad rent office furniture and had introduced him to Mr. Bullfinch, the manager of the Sears department store, who was a client of theirs.

  We met them through Mom’s old nanny. Mom practically fell over in joy when she spotted Manang Toneng praying by the altar at church one day. It was a tearful reunion. Toneng had moved to America twenty years ago, but she and my grandmother had kept in touch over the years. Her daughter, Annabelle Ocampo, was the mayor of Daly City. Everyone at church was really impressed that we knew them. The Dalugdugans were good friends of theirs and took us under their wing immediately.

  I had Freddie’s parents to thank for my life at Gros, since they were the ones who told my parents that it was the sister school of Montclair Academy, where Freddie was a student. Grosvernor was the “best all-girls private school in San Francisco” according to his mom. It was also the most expensive. My parents spent their life savings paying for Brittany and me to attend, even with the scholarship money.

  The church served coffee and bibingka after service, so everyone gathered in the vestry to snack and gossip. I wandered at the fringes of my parents’ conversations, bored and pick
ing at the sticky rice dessert in my hand. I wish the priests would just serve doughnuts.

  “V, did you say hi to Tito Ebet and Tita Connie?” Mom asked, steering me to the Dalugdugans.

  “Hi,” I said, kissing both wanly on their cheeks. I liked them well enough, but I knew what Mom was planning and I didn’t want anything to do with it.

  “Since they’re coming over for lunch, we should go home so we can get the Bean Dip ready,” Mom said as she pulled me aside.

  Somehow, Mom had gleaned that the proper food to serve while watching a football game consisted of six-foot submarine sandwiches, a tub of homemade guacamole, and something called Bean Dip. (When Mom said it, you could tell it had capital letters—it was that important.) We had never had any of this food before, and Mom was nervous about its preparation.

  We rarely entertained, so it was a big deal, even if it was just Freddie and his dorky family. But my parents had insisted they come over, since the Dalugdugans had been nice enough to invite us to their house to watch the football game last week. We had sat in front of their sixty-inch projection television in awe. We had no idea what any of the rules were or what was going on, but we cheered whenever they cheered, and we watched intently as Tita Connie prepared the famed Bean Dip.

  Mom asked for the recipe, and I knew she was eager to show Tita Connie she could be as American as they were.

  “Wanna ride?” Freddie asked, nudging me with his Styrofoam coffee cup.

  “Mom! Can I go with Freddie?”

  “What? Why?” I could tell she was annoyed that I was skipping out on her, but I didn’t want to be stuck at home making sandwiches. I’d had enough of that at the cafeteria. Besides, maybe if I went with Freddie I could lie to Mom later and tell her he had turned me down.

  “Hindi na bali, let the kids go,” Tita Connie said, so my mom had to agree.

  “I didn’t know you had a kotse,” I said, following Freddie to his car, a green Honda compact.