by Donna Cooner
The truth is, I didn’t read the chapter either. I was too busy working on my history assignment and building up my Sienna profile over the weekend. “You’re going to have to figure this out,” I tell him coolly. “I don’t do anyone else’s homework.”
“You could make an exception.” He smiles and a dimple appears in his left cheek.
“I never make exceptions,” I say firmly. This is like pulling teeth.
He rolls his eyes.
“Keep rolling your eyes,” I tell him. “Maybe you’ll find your brain.”
He laughs. Not the reaction I expected. “Good luck with that,” he says.
I just stare at him, sighing heavily.
“Look. We have to get this thing done.” He points at the box of stuff on the table. “Can we call a truce?”
He holds out his hand and I look down at it for a minute in silence. I have to focus. There is no benefit to me keeping up this war of words when there is so much Sienna needs to know. So I nod and take his hand, shaking it firmly.
“Truce,” I lie.
CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE
SIENNA: HEY. HOW’S YOUR MONDAY?
JESSE: HEY! YOU’RE BACK.
SIENNA:
JESSE: IT’S OK. AM AT LUNCH NOW. HOW BOUT U?
SIENNA: I JUST BOOKED TICKETS TO SEE TROMBONE SHORTY IN DENVER NEXT SUMMER. SO EXCITED!!
JESSE: TROMBONE SHORTY???? R U SERIOUS? I LOVE HIM.
SIENNA: SAME.
JESSE: GUESS WE HAVE A LOT IN COMMON.
SIENNA: GUESS SO.
JESSE:
SIENNA: GOT TO GO. MORE LATER.
JESSE: K. DON’T BE A STRANGER.
“Okay, people.” My history teacher, Mrs. White, sits in the back of the room with the grading rubric and a red pen at the ready. She has on a psychedelic sweater with a white cat on the front. The cat is wearing red eyeglasses. I don’t know why. “We owe our last group of presenters our full attention.” She takes a sip from her Siamese-cat-shaped coffee mug.
I get the idea she’s talking just as much about herself as her students. My stomach tightens with nerves. Now I wish I had volunteered to go in the first group of presentations, but I always delay being the focus of the whole class for as long as possible. It might not have been better, but at least it would be over by now. The presentations are about different countries around the world. Mrs. White encouraged us each to choose a country with some connection to our own background. She said it was to “personalize the content.” We spent all last week on these presentations and I think we’re all a little bored of hearing about Canada or Great Britain by now.
“Graham, you’re up,” Mrs. White says. Graham lets out a long breath, runs his hand through his hair, and stands. He turns to face the room, two spots of red flushing across his pale skin. He may be absolutely comfortable running through the hallway catching Dezirea’s imaginary kisses, but public presentations are not his thing. It seems to trigger the stutter he mostly grew out of around the sixth grade. He starts out by showing his DNA report that proves he descended from Vikings. His country is Norway.
Grace, in the front row, nods encouragingly at Graham. Camila puts her head down on top of her folded arms, and Dezirea taps her feet under her desk, rehearsing some dance routine. At least Jesse isn’t here; chemistry is the only class he and I have together this year. I smile at the memory of the Sienna messages I sent him during lunchtime, while I was in one corner of the cafeteria with Owen, and Jesse was sitting with his football friends at the other end of the room. Clueless.
Graham is still talking. I pull out a sketch in progress and get to work, trying to distract myself from being next. In the one frame, I’ve drawn Dezirea, Camila, and all their friends following a trail of bread crumbs to a Hansel and Gretel–like witch’s house that’s actually a computer covered in candy. Zombie-like—arms outstretched—phones in hands, they trudge down the path. Scrawled on the bread crumbs are messages:
“You’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m so lucky to have a friend like you.”
“You’re important.”
“Follow me.”
“I love you.”
I zone out, letting Graham’s voice fade away while I concentrate on my story. I pick up my ruler. When I can’t think of anything new to draw, I make carefully measured-out frames across the blank page. Every empty square is a window for a tiny story that will eventually come, block by block by block.
It’s the smell that brings me back to reality with a huge jolt. A strong, fishy smell that comes from a plastic container being passed down the row. My pencil stops moving across the page.
Camila puts a hand over her nose and quickly passes the plastic container on to Dezirea. “What is that?” she exclaims.
“As I said in my p-p-presentation,” Graham says, annoyed that no one was paying attention until now. “It’s l-l-lutefisk. Dried cod soaked in lye.”
This is going to be a hard act to follow. I had hoped everyone would be dozing off by now and I could slide my presentation into the void without anyone even blinking. Now stupid old Graham has gone and woken everyone up with his fish.
“You have to at least try it. My grandmother sh-sh-shipped it all the way from Oslo,” Graham pleads.
“Absolutely. No. Way.” Dezirea hastily passes the container on. I sit on my hands, shaking my head vigorously, and make her skip me and hand it to Owen.
He takes a bite and chews slowly. “Interesting,” he says.
Graham looks pleased. “And th-that’s my presentation,” he announces.
“Thank you, Graham,” Mrs. White says. “Let’s give him a round of applause, class.”
People clap half-heartedly while Graham takes his seat.
I rock back and forth in my chair, clenching my teeth.
“Maisie, you’re up next,” Mrs. White calls out.
To get an “Excellent = A” on the presentation rubric, I am supposed to present several facts about my country, along with slides. Mrs. White didn’t say anything about bringing samples of food and handing them out like it’s Saturday in Costco. I would have gladly brought in balut, a steamed, fertilized duck egg sold as street food in the Philippines. That would have one-upped Graham’s fish for sure.
“Good luck,” Owen whispers to me.
I take a deep breath and slide out of my desk. On the long walk to the front of the room, I don’t think about my presentation. Instead, I think about how much I wish I was somewhere, anywhere, else in the world but here.
Too late now. I turn and face the class, clearing my throat. From this vantage point, the view is pretty depressing. Camila and Dezirea are looking at their phones under their desks. Bella and her latest crush, Leo Moore, are making googly eyes at each other. Owen and Grace are the only ones looking at me. For a minute, I can almost understand why Mrs. White turns to cats for comfort.
Straightening, I focus all my attention on the cat clock on the wall, counting out the seconds with twitches of its tail. Then I bravely launch my PowerPoint.
Just get through this.
“Here are some facts about the Philippines,” I begin as I pull up the first slide, which shows a map of Asia. “Fact number one: For about three hundred years, the Philippines was the Spanish Empire’s colony in Asia. That’s why Filipino people often have Spanish surnames. Like, um, I do.”
Owen nods at me, smiling. But even Grace is zoning out now, twisting her ring around on her finger. Everyone ignoring me should help me relax. I don’t want people noticing me, right? Then why do I feel bothered by my classmates’ indifference now?
I pull up the next slide: a painting I found online of a Spanish guy in a uniform and red sash. “In 1849, the Spanish governor, Narciso Clavería, sent out an order that all families were to be given a last name from a list of Spanish names in order to create a more organized system of keeping track of people.” I switch to the next slide: a picture of the Philippine flag. “At the end of the Spanish-American War,�
� I go on, “Spain gave up the Philippines to the United States. The Philippine islands were granted their independence by the U.S. in 1946, after World War II.”
Oh, God. How lame is this presentation? I feel like I’m letting my whole Filipino side of the family down with these simple facts. I think about the things that actually matter to me. How my grandparents took me and my sister to the Philippines when I was five. I was entranced by the brightly colored jeepneys carting us through the bustling streets of Manila, and the tiny sari-sari store on the corner near Tita May’s house. That’s where my papa bought me my first halo-halo—a delicious shaved ice and condensed milk concoction. I think about how my grandparents were so proud of their first grandchildren and how everyone welcomed us so warmly into their homes. Family is everything to them—even a family that lives thousands of miles away in the United States.
I don’t really want to share all that personal stuff with my classmates now. But I can still try to liven up this presentation. What would Sienna do? I wonder. I bet she would hold people’s attention better than I can.
“Today, there are more than one hundred eighty languages and dialects spoken in the Philippines, but Filipino and English are the official languages,” I say. “Tagalog is a dialect that forms the basis of Filipino.” I look out at the zoned-out classroom again, and I remember the advice I got online when I was creating Sienna. Make a connection. That’s what Sienna did. And I have an idea.
“Magandang umaga means good morning in Tagalog,” I say. I pull up the next slide, which shows this phrase typed out in bold letters. “Why, um, why don’t you turn to your neighbor and—and say good morning? Even though it’s afternoon.”
There is a pause, and I’m worried no one will do it. But then Owen turns to Grace and haltingly speaks the phrase. Grace giggles and says it back. Dezirea looks around to see everyone’s reaction, but then gives it a try with Camila. Slowly, everyone else joins in, laughing at their accents and the feel of new sounds on their tongues.
They’re actually doing it! I nod compulsively at each attempt. They listened to me! The feeling of power is like a jolt of caffeine.
My brain races. I need to keep the connections going, or I will lose them. “Of course, we all remember the excellent job Camila did in her presentation on Mexico and Li Na did on China, but did you know …” I flip to the next slide—a bar graph—and clear my throat. “Nearly four million Filipinos live in the United States, making them the fourth-largest immigrant group after Mexico, India, and China?”
Camila smiles, looking flattered, and Li Na nods up at me. The tightness in my stomach loosens. This isn’t so bad at all. I’m really doing this.
I go to the next slide: a photo of a Catholic church. “Is anyone here Catholic?” I ask, and four students raise their hands, including Dezirea, who gives me a slight smile. “So you already have something in common with many Filipinos,” I say. “Over eighty-six percent of the country is Catholic.”
The final slide is a photograph of a bowl of chicken adobo, which is probably my favorite food. “The national dish of the Philippines is adobo,“ I explain. “A stew of cooked pork or chicken with soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and peppercorns.” I take a deep breath, then add, “Of course, if I were as thoughtful as Graham I would have brought some for all of you to taste.” Graham looks up from playing Candy Crush on his phone to chuckle.
And that’s the end. I did it.
“Are there any questions?” I ask. My legs feel wobbly, but I wait for the minimum number of seconds. No one ever asks anyone questions after the presentations. It’s like an unspoken rule. But then I see Owen’s hand go up and my heart sinks.
Not now, Owen.
“Can you tell me about the international tribunal ruling about the Scarborough Shoal reef off the coast of the Philippines?”
“Yes,” I say abruptly. “China wanted it for the gas and oil revenue, but they didn’t get it.”
End of discussion.
It’s over.
I pick up my laptop and head back to my seat. I see Mrs. White looking at me, clearly surprised in a good way. I am, too. I sort of … kind of … actually enjoyed speaking in front of the class for the first time ever. And I owe all of it to Sienna—my secret identity.
The announcement comes just before the final dismissal bell. All the exciting homecoming events will be shared tomorrow morning in a special first-period assembly in the auditorium. So Grace was right.
“And best of all,” Mrs. Buckton, the principal, says, pausing slightly for dramatic effect. “We will have a special guest joining us onstage. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
After school, the buzz in the hallway is immediate and intense. Possible celebrity names are everywhere. Whispered reverently. Yelled boisterously. Discussed intently. With every step, my anxiety increases.
Is Lexi Singh actually coming back to Fort Collins? Or is it that star football player who graduated a few years ago? Am I getting my hopes up for nothing?
That night, I head upstairs right after dinner. I pull out my phone and do a search to see if there is any mention of Lexi Singh making a special appearance back in her hometown. Nothing.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door and my mom sticks her head inside. She taught a late class tonight at the university and still has on her professor clothes—a silk blouse, black pants, and leopard-print flats.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
“Your dad said you were awfully quiet at dinner tonight.”
“Just thinking about some new ideas for my strip.”
Mom steps inside the room and comes over to sit on the edge of my bed. The expression on her face is thoughtful and intense, maybe even a little sad. “You sure?” she asks, unconvinced.
My mom worries about me. But she also worries about climate change, gun control, women’s rights, unrest in the Middle East, and our neighbor’s dog who barks all the time.
“I’m sure,” I say, taking a breath and putting my charcoal pencil down beside my sketchbook. For a minute, I want to spill my guts: about becoming Jesse Santos’s lab partner and creating Sienna and dreaming about meeting Lexi Singh. It’s all there in my mind, waiting to pour out of my mouth, but I don’t even know where to start. Veronica would ask a million questions until I finally gave in and blabbed. But V is not here and I don’t want Mom to worry about my lack of social life. Or about some dream of mine that is a big long shot and will probably end in a crushing disappointment. Or the fact that I’ve created this fake ChitChat account.
“Any drawings you want to share?” Mom asks, her smile warm and familiar.
I close the sketchbook, shutting her out. “Not yet.”
She looks hurt but changes the subject. “I talked to Veronica today. She got into the math class she wanted.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“She said to call her later.”
Of course! I feel a rush of relief. I’ll tell V everything. The thought of letting this pent-up balloon of feelings escape is so appealing.
Mom pats my leg and stands up. “Let me know when I can take a peek at your new creations.”
I nod. I open up the sketchbook and pretend to be totally absorbed in its contents.
“Good night, sweetie.” I hear the bedroom door click behind her.
As soon as Mom is gone, I call my sister.
“Hello?” she answers sleepily.
“Did I wake you?”
“I was just taking a nap.” I hear her yawn. “Pulled an all-nighter last night studying for a philosophy exam.”
“Oh, I should let you go, then …” My voice trails off. I shouldn’t burden V with my problems. She has enough on her mind trying to make a success of her freshman year in college.
“No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
I hesitate. Now is my chance. But how do I explain that I created a fake person online to get back at Jesse Santos?
And I realize: Veronica is thousands of miles and a new exciting life away from me. I can’t tell her or anyone else about Sienna. Veronica would think Sienna was a horrible idea. My sister would never pretend to be someone she’s not. She’s all about physical, touchable, and real. Once she told me that my boundary between real and not-real has never been that defined. She says it’s because I spend so much time making the images in my brain come to life on paper that I don’t know the difference. Maybe she’s right. But I do know I like the way I create people a lot better than the way they are.
There is no way to untangle Sienna from everything. Her short little life is now a part of me and I can’t stand the thought of mixing all my feelings of missing Veronica into whatever it is I’m doing with Sienna.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I finally lie. “Just wondered how you’re doing.”
“Good. Busy,” she mumbles. “Trying to keep my head above water with all this studying.”
“Yeah, it sounds like you’re exhausted. Go back to sleep, V.”
“Thanks, M. I’ll text you later. Love you.”
“Love you,” I say, then hang up before I can change my mind. I sit for a long time staring down at my phone like it’s going to come to life with text messages and ChitChats from all my friends.
Surprise. It doesn’t.
My finger hovers above the screen, and then I give in and log in to ChitChat. I did some quick research during lunch today and found out that Trombone Shorty is a jazz artist from New Orleans with a cult following. The touring schedule told me he’ll be in Denver next summer, information I quickly put to use with Jesse. I learned some more stuff, too.
My heart flips over. I log in to Sienna’s account, start a new message to Jesse.
CHITCHAT DIRECT MESSAGE
SIENNA: HEY YOU. WHAT’S UP?
JESSE: NOT MUCH. JUST STILL FEELING JEALOUS OF YOU.
SIENNA: WHY?
JESSE: YOU’RE GONNA SEE TROMBONE SHORTY! REMEMBER?
SIENNA: HA! YEP. DID YOU SEE HIM AT WASHINGTON’S LAST YEAR?