I stiffen and nearly drop the plate I’m holding.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. What’s the matter?”
“I’m a little, um, late.” The last word is barely a whisper.
“Don’t joke about that, Ligaya.”
My glare is serious.
“How late?” she asks loudly.
“Forget it. Never mind.”
“How many weeks?”
“Eight. Maybe nine,” I squeak.
Her eyes go wide. “Are you possibly preg—”
“Shh!” I hiss. “Not so loud!”
She purses her lips like she’s determined to discredit my wonky math. I’d like that, too. Surely, a calendar will reveal my faulty memory.
“We’re having a sleepover at your place tonight,” Ami declares.
“Ate—”
“It’s happening.”
She wipes her hands and disappears into the dining room. She tells Mom something about sisterly bonding and girl talk. Within seconds they’re back in the kitchen.
“I’ll make youbaon,” Mom says, already reaching for foil. “Thanks for doing the dishes.”
We finish washing up while Mom packs up ourbaon.There isn’t an exact equivalent of this Tagalog word in the English language. It’s sort of a doggie bag, but the concept exceeds leftover scraps of a meal.Baonsignifies food to remind you of home. An emergency stash of your mother’s love when food is how she expresses that love.
“Call me when you get home,” she orders us both.
We hug goodbye, and Dad mumbles from the recliner, half-asleep under a throw blanket, “Drive safe. No racing.”
Ami grabs the car keys before I can argue. The November air is chilly with a hint of distant fireplaces. We load up the trunk with a plastic bag of leftovers,pancitandlechonin Tupperware, andleche flanin a shoebox that is questionably spill-proof.
At the drugstore, the fluorescent lights pierce my consciousness. I feel like a bug under a microscope. The carpet is inexplicably crunchy and sticky. I follow my sister down the aisles of makeup, cold meds, and flushable wipes. I’m momentarily distracted by Ferrero Rocher on sale. Finally, we find ourselves in front of ovulation kits, pregnancy tests, and prenatal vitamins.
We wipe out the pregnancy test aisle like it’s a fire sale.
Digital. Analog. Blue lines. Pink lines. The fancy kind with apps. Backup tests for the backup tests. I even throw in a box that promises “Early Result!” in a font that screams panic.
Before we get to the cashier, Ami grabs a bottle of prenatal gummies. At the checkout, Eric awaits. A former student who I recall was chirpy with gossip.
“Hiya, Miss Torres. How are you doing?” he says, eyes crinkling with genuine goodwill.
He assesses our haul and raises one brow. It twitches.
I force a smile with too much teeth. “Hi, Eric.”
“These are for me,” Ami jumps in, overly bright.
