Sugar and Spite

by Gail D. Villanueva

  “You’ve got this entire park to inspire you, and you pick those pesky little things,” she continues, sitting beside me. Ate Nadine tosses her silver notebook on the picnic table. “I swear, Sab. This obsession needs to stop.”

  It’s a little after one in the afternoon—the time of the day when the humid, sweltering heat of Metro Manila is most unforgiving. Ate Nadine and I are wearing similar tank tops and denim shorts, but hers look fresh and clean. Mine, on the other hand, are icky with sweat and smeared with oil pastel.

  “I’m not obsessed.” I flip my painting over, hiding it from her sight.

  Thing is, I do love to draw and paint butterflies. But I never color them black, nor do I make them bigger than an inch or two. Okay, maybe I am obsessed with drawing other kinds of butterflies, since I can’t bring myself to draw the Butterfly.

  Dad described the Butterfly as being as black as a starless night sky. It’s a giant compared to your garden-variety moth—probably even bigger than my hand. Its dark, mysterious vibe is beautiful and sinister at the same time. A perfect inspiration for a newbie artist like me.

  Still, I can’t get myself to create anything remotely resembling my father’s Butterfly. Call me superstitious, but no way am I making art that might bring bad luck to our family.

  “Stop being so melodramatic. It’s not like I can’t un-flip your painting.” Ate Nadine rolls her eyes. “Let me see.”

  I study my sister. We have the same bronze skin, flat nose, and small, dark brown eyes. But her black hair cascades on her shoulders in soft waves, and mine hangs from my head like a dull wig. I have skinny arms, and she has curves. During my insecure moments, I think of her as an upgraded version of me. On days like this one, however, I look up to Ate Nadine.

  I’m pretty sure I managed to capture the view of a bug from the ground. Still, I want to know my sister’s opinion, so I push the artwork across the table.

  “It’s fine, but you need to add more shadows behind the blades of grass. Right now, it looks like a picture frame of fake leaves,” Ate Nadine says in a brisk manner. She’s harsh, but I’ll take it. I’m lucky she has time to look at my work at all.

  Ever since my sister went off to college and started writing for the school paper, I barely see her. She often comes home late on school nights. On weekends she’s cooped up in her room with the music blasting so loud the floor vibrates in the hallway. When I do see Ate Nadine, she’s either typing away on her laptop or bickering with someone on the phone.

  I thought she’d have time for me now, since it’s summer. Then Ate Nadine got this internship with a national paper, and it just got worse.

  “I love how you blended the blue hues for the sky here,” she continues. “The butterflies’ colors pop out nicely, but if you put more—”

  “I think it’s pretty,” says a chirpy voice behind me. I look over my shoulder and find myself staring at the bright blue eyes of my best friend, Pepper Lemmington. “I love the details on those butterflies. You make them look so real.”

  Ate Nadine snorts. “You think everything Sab paints is pretty.”

  I beam at my friend. If Ate Nadine is my harshest critic, Pepper is my greatest cheerleader. She’s been my best friend since first grade, when she and her dad moved permanently to the Philippines from the United States.

  “True.” Pepper shrugs. “Still—”

  CREEENG!

  There’s a loud ring coming from Ate Nadine’s shorts pocket. She hands me back my work and answers her cell phone. “Hello? Yes, this is she. You mean the one that went viral? Yes, ma’am, I wrote it. Uh-huh …”

  So much for my art critique. Whenever her internship mentor calls, Ate drops everything, including me.

  She’s right though. The lighting and shadows on my painting do need fixing.

  I smooth down the edges of my artwork. The oil pastels leave green-and-blue smudges on my fingers, as well as a distinct smell I find most comforting. Waxy, but with a hint of something like face powder. I create a thin black outline beneath a leaf and use the tip of my index finger to blend it in.

  “Nice.” Pepper nods in approval. “It’s so much better now.”

  “Ahh-teh Nah-deen!” I call, waving my painting like a flag to catch my sister’s attention. “I’m done. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think they get it on campus, but the main distributor is definitely nearby. Uh-huh. Maybe. There aren’t any famous politicians who went to San Jose Pignatelli College. The school would publicize it if someone did. Yes, I understand. A byline? Oh my g— Yes, ma’am. I’ll find as much evidence as I can. You can count on me,” Ate Nadine says to the person on the phone. As Nadine stands up she throws me a look so deadly I jump and knock my things off the table.

  “She’s just busy.” Pepper helps me put the oil pastels back into the box. I avoid her gaze, but I can feel the pity in her eyes. “I’m sure Ate Nadine will make it up to you on your birthday.”

  “I doubt she’ll even remember.” I say it more roughly than I intend to.

  Mom’s in Singapore for a conference, and there’s a chance she won’t make it back in time for my eleventh birthday next Sunday. I thought it would be okay. Mom’s boyfriend is taking care of us, and Ate Nadine has to keep Pepper and me company while he’s at work.

  Kind of like today. But even though Ate Nadine’s just a few feet away, her mind is obviously elsewhere.

  “I wish Dad were here.” I stuff the wax-crayon case in my backpack, zipping it closed. “He’s weird, but at least he’s fun.”

  Ate Nadine continues to pace under the mango tree with the phone on her ear. I try to hear what she’s saying, but the words mean nothing to me.

  “Come on.” Pepper glances at the park entrance. Nannies and dog walkers are coming in for afternoon playtime. Pepper and I quicken our steps. We claim the swings at the corner of the park before anyone else does.

  I hold the chains tightly, balancing myself on the hanging seat. My breath goes out in quick intervals, almost as fast as the thumping in my chest. I’m on the brink of an asthma attack.

  Pepper clucks her tongue and reaches behind me. From my backpack, she brings out the inhaler, which I grab with shaking fingers. I press the metal canister, spraying medicine into my mouth. It leaves a bitter aftertaste, but it stops my asthma from going any further.

  “You should keep that thing near,” my friend says, helping me wiggle out of the backpack. She zips it closed and tosses it on the grass. “Chill out, Sab. It’s your birthday next week. If I were the one turning eleven, I’d be more excited.”

  Easy for her to say. Pepper has her family to celebrate it with—my own mom probably can’t even make it to mine. And now, I wouldn’t be surprised if my sister won’t be able to either.

  “What do you want to do for your birthday anyway? We can start planning it!” Pepper kicks at the ground and swings, her brown hair trailing behind her.

  Pepper could have a career as a tween model if she wanted to—girls who have a light complexion usually do. With her blue eyes and creamy-white skin, she’s the most beautiful ten-year-old I know.

  Ate Nadine said that I think of Pepper this way because I’m a product of colonial mentality. “When Spain colonized the Philippines, they made sure we remember they’re better than we are. They had this whole tax system where rich white Spaniards paid little. We paid more even though we did more of the work, just because we’re brown,” she explained. “Our American colonizers weren’t any better. Sure, we got more rights and education and all that. But the mentality remained the same—white is beautiful, brown is not.”

  My sister tends to sound like a boring history book if you make the mistake of asking her to explain something. I just know my friend’s pretty, prettier than I’ll ever dream to be.

  My hand reaches for the locket on my chest as I start to answer Pepper, but I grasp air instead. I never take the locket off except to shower—I can’t believe I forgot to put it back on this morning. It was from Dad. Unli
ke Ate Nadine, I value his gifts and actually use them. I let out a long sigh. “Birthday brunch at Lola Cordia’s Garden Resort would be great.”

  Pepper stops swinging. “Your dead grandma’s resort? The one your papa inherited?”

  “Yeah.” I wince. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, that Pepper’s more blunt and honest than any of my Filipino classmates. So, I just try to understand her.

  “Your papa’s there. And Wendell. Ate Nadine—”

  “I know.” I follow her lead and slow down my swing. Ate Nadine would rather drop dead than spend a second in Dad’s company. But Pepper’s brilliant. Nothing is impossible with her. “Can you come up with a plan to get Ate Nadine to come?”

  “That’s a tall order, Sab. Your sister’s really stubborn.” Pepper takes a lock of her brown hair and twirls it around a finger. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Great.

  Pepper’s biting her lower lip. I don’t see her do that often, but when I do, it worries me. Because it almost always means she’s worried too.

  I force myself to smile as my sister heads our way. If Pepper isn’t sure she can come up with a plan, I might as well accept this birthday reunion isn’t happening. Ate Nadine will never speak to Dad, and that’s just the way it is.

  PEPPER GOES HOME BEFORE DINNER, but she leaves me with an assignment.

  “Test the waters,” she says. “Ate Nadine’s in a good mood. Maybe she’ll agree to talk to your papa.”

  Easy for Pepper to say. It’ll be like dipping my toe in a tank full of sharks, and I can’t do this alone. I need reinforcements. I need my pet Pekin duck, Lawin.

  Lawin is the Filipino word for “hawk.” It’s like naming a cute little puppy “Wolf”—a name too intimidating for its holder. But Lawin is a brave little guy; he totally deserves his name.

  I wish that some of Lawin’s courage could rub off on me right now.

  As expected, my sister’s in her room, busy typing at her laptop. Her fingers dance over the keys so fast it’s a wonder she’s able to get anything down correctly. I can’t even type my own name without struggling to find where the letters are.

  Sometimes I complain a lot about my sister’s busy schedule, but I’m proud of her. She’s always been great with words, unlike me. I had trouble learning to read, and I would have taken even longer had it not been for Ate Nadine. Mom tutored me whenever she had time off from work. But it was my sister who taught me how to make sense of those groups of letters. She painted flash cards that helped me associate words with pictures.

  I wish I had Ate Nadine’s way with words so I could convince her that we should spend my birthday weekend with Dad.

  “Ate.”

  My sister’s brows furrow in concentration as she continues to type on her keyboard, glancing at her silver journal every now and then.

  “Ahh-tehh!”

  “Don’t shout, Sab.” Ate Nadine finally looks up from her computer, glaring at me. “And get that ugly duck off my rug before he poops.”

  “He’s not ugly.” Actually, he is, but I don’t want him to hear her say so. At five weeks old, Lawin’s no longer the cute duckling he was when Pepper first gave him to me. His yellow fuzz is coming off as white feathers begin to emerge. Almost everything about him has grown five times in size—head, body, and even his feet. His wings, on the other hand, remain tiny.

  Lawin resembles the creature you’d get if you crossed a platypus, a raptor, and a half-plucked chicken. It’s a terrible combination. He’s at the stage where he’s not quite a teenager but no longer a baby either. Kind of like me.

  But I’m not here to argue with Ate Nadine about Lawin. I take a deep breath. Test the waters. I can do this. “I thought about Dad today.”

  Ate Nadine’s fingers freeze in midtype, and her back stiffens. “So?”

  “Well,” I begin, shifting my feet. Come on, self. Just dip your toe in before the shark bites. “I was thinking … It’s my birthday next week, and it’s been a year since you’ve last seen Dad—”

  Ate Nadine turns, her eyes staring at me like laser beams. I want to open a hole in the floor and have it swallow me whole.

  “What do you want, Sab?”

  “Uhm …” I want to spend my birthday at Dad’s resort. I want Mommy to come home. I want Ate Nadine and Daddy to set aside whatever issue they have so we can be a family again. I want to say all these things, but I’m having trouble getting the words to form. It’s like a part of me wants to be brave, but another part is so scared that it’s refusing to let my brain know what to say.

  As I muster courage, there’s a distant ringing.

  “Answer the phone downstairs,” Ate Nadine orders, her voice rough. “I’m working.”

  I can’t believe I just threw away my chance to ask. “But—”

  “Now, Sab.”

  Defeated, I grab Lawin and hurry to Mom’s office. I tested the waters, got bitten by the shark, and failed.

  “Sabrina?” a man says from the other end of the line. It’s my dad’s boyfriend, Wendell. His voice is high-pitched and squeaky, quite like how you’d imagine a tiny elf’s voice to be. “Is that you? Are you okay? How about your sister?”

  Lawin waddles around the room, then settles near my feet. Careful not to disturb the resting duck, I take a pencil from the holder and pull a notepad in front of me. I draw two circles and two cylinders, filling in the details so they look human.

  “Hi, Wendell. We’re fine.”

  Unlike my parents’ Filipino friends, Wendell doesn’t want my sister and me to refer to him as uncle. Aside from being much younger than our parents, Wendell grew up in the United States. His Filipina mom died when he was a baby, so he was brought up by his Italian American dad. He might have mastered the art of pasta making, but there really wasn’t anyone who could teach him about Filipino titles.

  Still, Wendell’s been in the Philippines for ten years already. He’s spent a lot of time running the family resort, first as Lola Cordia’s assistant and now the manager. Wendell interacts a lot with the staff. I guess getting called “Tito Wendell” is just too strange for him. Ate Nadine said it’s because Wendell doesn’t like the idea of being referred to as Dad’s brother instead of his boyfriend.

  Wendell breathes a sigh of relief, and his mouthpiece amplifies the sound. I wince, but I keep the phone to my ear. The pencil in my left hand continues to slide over the paper. I finish the last touches on my doodle—two men holding hands.

  “Your dad won’t stop hounding me about you girls,” says Wendell. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. You know how your dad gets after working on a new piece.”

  Oh, I do.

  Dad’s concentration is so intense when he’s working on a sculpture. I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgets he has children, or even knows he’s on planet earth. Still, when Dad emerges from his artistic trances, he’s fun to be with. We had these art sessions where he’d teach Ate Nadine and me something new like calligraphy or Chinese painting.

  Come to think of it, Dad did seem like he was elsewhere most of the time. But Wendell can tolerate Dad’s “space cadet” moments, even at times when Mom and Ate Nadine couldn’t. I guess that’s why he and Dad are together.

  “Anyway …” Wendell clears his throat. “We’d really love to have you and Nadine visit us here at the resort. We were even thinking … You could celebrate your birthday here!”

  Funny. It’s almost as if Wendell read my mind.

  “I’ll order a roast pig and all the ice cream flavors you want. Bring Pepper and your mom too! Is she still with the police guy?”

  “Yeah, Mom and Tito Ed are still together.” My forehead creases in a frown. I tear the drawing off the notepad and crumple it into a ball.

  Tito Ed isn’t really my tito either. He’s my mother’s boyfriend. They’ve been together for three years, but Mom and Tito Ed can’t get married because divorce isn’t allowed in the Philippines. Mom and Dad’s only options, legal separation or annulment, are too
complicated.

  I’ve always considered Wendell “Dad Number Two” and Tito Ed “Dad Number Three.” It’s not something I tell anyone without being asked. Awkward pauses usually follow my explanations. Still, the three of them—Dad, Wendell, and Tito Ed—care for Ate Nadine and me in their own fatherly ways. They all deserve to be called Dad.

  I thought Ate Nadine felt the same way. I remember this one instance when Dad was getting treatment from that purple-and-pink building in Pasig. It didn’t look like a hospital at all, more like a school. Mom told us Dad had a medical condition, so he needed to stay there for a while. Ate Nadine looked like she couldn’t bear to leave Dad, crying all the way home.

  Then my grandma, Lola Cordia, died last year, and everything changed. My sister never said why.

  Wendell is still talking about all the fun things we could do if we came to the resort, but if my pathetic attempt at “testing the waters” was any indication, there’s no way Ate Nadine would go for it. Even if the food spread does sound like heaven.

  I aim for the wastebasket across the room, throw the crumpled paper like a basketball, and miss. “Ate Nadine will never agree to it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wendell sighs again. I’m getting used to hearing air blown into the mouthpiece, so I don’t wince this time. “Your dad talks about you and Nadine a lot, you know. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t mention your names. He really misses you—both of you.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about going there,” I promise, even though I know it’s a lost cause. Because really, what can I do? I tried to ask but chickened out—which is probably all for the best. What if Ate Nadine had gotten mad at me? I would spend my eleventh birthday not only Mom-less, but sister-less too. I wish I knew why she stopped speaking to Dad. But no one has ever told me what happened. “Ate is so stubborn.”

  “I know.” Wendell chortles. It’s high-pitched, like Minnie Mouse’s giggle, but comforting somehow. “Well, let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. And, Sab? Tell Nadine that your dad …”

  “Yes?”