He shakes his head as if I’ve disappointed him. When he walks to the parking lot, he doesn’t look back once.
The wind picks up, whipping a lock of hair across my cheek. I stumble back inside where Toby puts a beer in my hand. I’m pulled on the stage to sing the anthem for nineties girl angst, “Torn.”
I sing it unironically.
CHAPTER 18
LIGAYA
The pickleball court is new to the Centerstone Community Center, although the dynamic of this match is vintage Torres family. It might as well be the Monopoly board from my childhood, except instead of bankrupting me with hotel fees, my mom is trying to annihilate me with her terrifying backhand. The cold November air mixes with our heated breathing. You’d think it’s the US Open for how seriously I take my serve.
Parents vs. daughters. The tradition continues.
We’re four people who have different, perhaps even seemingly incompatible, personalities on the surface. There’s rarely a discussion without a debate, or a competition without trash talk. The one thing we have in common is enjoying each other’s company.
Dad is our steady rock. Pragmatic and protective. The man is the human equivalent of a seatbelt. Always keeping “his girls”—and in that, he includes his wife—from flying off the rails. Orlando is unconditionally supportive of his very different daughters. One of them a determined and courageous warrior, the other a smart-ass theater junkie.
Me. I’m the smart-ass theater junkie.
Mom is warmth and might in equal measure. Cathy will hug you and offer encouraging words, then trash-talk your pickleballserve in the next breath. She’s got a mean competitive streak that her daughters inherited. But unlike either of us, Mom can cook a feast to take the sting off a loss.
Or the sting off the pickleball! She overhead smashed into my foot!
Ami is visiting on leave from her station at Fort Worth, Texas. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t spend a lot of time asking about that part of her life. Unfortunately, my stress about my sister’s choice to serve in the military overshadows all else. Her deployments wreck me. I’m grateful for her patriotic duty, but terrified of the potential cost.
We talk about a lot of things, but not that.
At the moment, Ami and I are trying our best to undermine the parental unit, but I’m playing like garbage. My body’s dragging, my focus is shot, and I’ve missed more returns than I care to admit. I blame the virus I caught at work. High school kids are basically petri dishes that stare at their phones and complain about curfews.
“I’m carrying you,” Ami says after she lands a savage smash. Dad dinks the return. I flail and miss. The ball rolls away in disgrace.
“You carried me into defeat,Ate,” I mutter, winded.Ateis the Tagalog word for older sister, and a form of respect in Filipino culture.
Before I can sulk, Ami throws an arm around me and pulls me in tight. She smells like Dove soap and Tide detergent. Familiar. Safe. She presses a quick kiss to my temple like she used to when we were kids and I had a bad dream.
“We’ll get them next time,” she assures me. I lucked out. My big sister is the best.
Back at our mid-century time capsule of a bungalow, dinner is in motion. She’s only here for the weekend, so this Saturday night is extra special. My parents went full fiesta-mode. Grilled chickenskewers marinated in sweet, sticky Filipino sauce made with soy, brown sugar, garlic, and magic. There are shrimps thawing for thepancit, enough rice to feed a hockey team, andlechon kawalifrying on the stove.
We help put away the latest Costco haul. I point at the wall of toilet paper rolls. “Look,Ate! they knew you were coming. Preparing for the apocalypse.”
“No joke, sis. I prayed for two-ply when I was stationed in the desert,” she says, hoisting a package onto her shoulder like it’s a sack of feathers.
The kitchen is warm and cluttered with love. Brown laminate counters. A fridge covered in old magnets from road trips. The same lumpy wooden spoon that’s been in use since the turn of the century. Garlic and soy sauce—the savory fragrance of home—floats in the air. It’s making me ravenous. Unfortunately, we’re not allowed to snack and ruin our dinner appetite. That’s the rule.
Mom stops me from sneaking a piece of the lechon.
“You two can wait ten minutes. Go set the table.”
I gather plates and glasses, resigned but not defeated. “You’re making enough to feed the block, Mom,” I say.
“Shut up,” Ami cuts in, gathering Tupperware from the pantry. “The containers are ready. I’m freezing leftovers and bringing them back to Texas.”
“Not if I grab them for myself,” I tease.
Dinner is delicious and boisterous. I see my parents at least once a week, but it’s not as elaborate as when Ami comes over. Having her back in town turns the gathering into a holiday.
Everyone’s talking over each other. Dad tries to tell a story about a clogged sink, but no one listens. Mom claims Jollibee isn’t “real” Filipino food. Ami and I protest, united. I shovel pancit onto my plate. After a few bites, I can’t seem to chew.
