by Mae Respicio
Mom plucks at grass and stares off somewhere. “Want to hear something?”
She shares a piece of my history I never knew—that Lolo and Lola didn’t want her and Dad to get married. They thought she was too young and she should finish college first. They said Mom didn’t need some white guy she just met to help raise me.
But somehow Lola and Lolo changed their minds, realized that’s not what families do. Families support. They carry houses on their shoulders during floods, no matter how heavy or hard. So even though Dad’s family seemed different, the three grandparents agreed they had to help out in every way.
“That’s how the Bulosans and the Nelsons got to know each other.” Mom smiles. “And that’s why you and I moved in with Grandpa Ted and why we live with Lola now. I complain sometimes, but her home is ours. Wherever we end up, it always will be.”
“Do you think Dad really would have built us a house?” I ask.
“No question.”
I love it when she talks about him.
Mom hooks my hair behind my ear. I ask her what I can’t get out of my head: “What if the tax people say no?”
“I’ve been working out a settlement plan to propose, and Auntie Gemma helped me with the numbers. That’s basically a down payment to buy us some time while I come up with the rest. It’s going to work.”
“Where are you getting the money?”
“I’ve been saving—even Lola’s helping. I sold the car. The person who’s buying it still has to come pick it up.”
“What? Oh my gosh, Mom, why?”
“It’s okay, we never use it. Listen, don’t worry about any of this—that’s my job.”
I remember the empty box in her filing cabinet. “Did you sell your ring?”
“How did you know about that?” Before I can explain, she pulls a necklace out from under her shirt, a golden circle dangling at its end. “I almost did, but…I couldn’t.”
Lolo used to tell us stories of the manongs, thousands of men who came from the Philippines to California way before Mom and I were ever born. They left everything they knew to take hard jobs in factories and farms for ten cents an hour, ten hours a day, even though signs around town greeted them with three words: No Filipinos Allowed. “They sent money home. Every hardship they endured was for their families,” Lolo would say.
Sometimes I complain about my family, too, but I know they’d do anything for each other. My mom’s amazing. She’s doing this all for me.
We rise and stretch and a few others walk through the cemetery, some bringing flowers. Mom gently places her warm hands on my cheeks. “One day you’ll finish your tiny house.”
One day.
I wish it could be now, but Mom’s already brought home empty packing boxes and has started looking for a place to rent in Washington. She says by the time I start eighth grade I’ll have my own room, but that’s the last thing I want now.
“I almost forgot!” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small white envelope with Lucinda written on it in happy, shouty colors.
“It’s your birthday gift from Lola and me, a little early.”
I open it. Inside sits a thick piece of cardstock, a gift certificate that says One-Day Workshop in the Art of the Tiny House.
I’ve heard about this class at the community college. I’ve always wanted to do it, but I never asked because I thought she’d say no or that we didn’t have the money.
“I’m working that day, but Annie said she’d love to take you. I hope that’s okay.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hold her tightly.
My dance group sits onstage, decked out in full Barrio Fiesta gear like a rainbow. We’ve had a long morning of practice, and everyone’s ready to go home.
How strange to think that by the end of summer, “home” won’t mean Lola’s. Not being able to visit my land or work on my house means that now I can think only of leaving. Annie said we could store my trailer bed on her lot. Even if I get to keep my land, I still have to say goodbye.
“Dancers, this is it, last dress rehearsal! Next weekend, this will be for real! Tell me what that means,” Miss Jovy says. Arwin shoots his hand up and she points to him.
“Don’t fart onstage once it gets quiet for our number?”
The kids hoot and holler.
“Yes, definitely what Arwin said. But it also means that I need every one of you to give this your best effort. If you mess up, just keep going,” she says, looking straight at me. “Let’s go, places, please! And put on those performance faces!”
The pole holders line their thick bamboo reeds flat on the floor, and we plaster on big smiles. Cue the music.
I hop in and manage a few steps—hooray!—until my ankle catches on a reed. Everyone keeps dancing around me.
I wait for a beat to leap back in but I can’t seem to find it. The others jump and twirl into and out of the poles while I stand off to the side. Soon the song’s finished. I haven’t even left California yet, and already they’ve moved on without me.
* * *
—
Mom and I get home from practice. Lola’s fluttering about the garage—shifting, opening, plucking things from boxes. She holds up a can of Spam and reads the date. “Expired two years ago. It’s probably still good!” She laughs her crazy laugh and tosses it into a box. “I’m getting some balikbayan boxes ready to send home.”
“Who’s going this time?” Mom asks, and as she walks into the house, Lola shouts: “Your uncle AJ’s wife’s third cousin’s hairdresser. You remember him?”
Whenever my family talks about “going home,” they mean the Philippines.
“Can I help, Lola?” I ask.
“You know what to do!” She slides over a huge box and hands me a tape gun.
My whole life I’ve watched Lola pack these. A balikbayan means someone who doesn’t live in the Philippines. A balikbayan box is what gets sent to family who still live there. The boxes travel with someone flying home.
Lola includes all kinds of things: big coffee tins, mass quantities of toothpaste, shoes, clothes, and lipstick in pretty shades for all the aunties there.
I shut the flaps and stretch a long piece of tape over the seam before patting it down.
Mom peeks into the garage and says, “Lou, I got a voice mail from Mr. K. He had something important to tell us. Do you know what that’s about?”
“Nope.”
She sits on the doorstep and dials.
“Hi, Peter, it’s Minda. Got your message.” She listens. “No problem, you’re on speaker.” She holds the phone up and says, “Lou and Celina are here, too.”
“Helloooo, ladies! Can you hear me?” he asks.
“Loud and clear, Peety!” Lola shouts.
“I have some fantastic news, so brace yourselves!”
“We’re listening!” I say.
“Okay, because you, Ms. Lucinda Bulosan-Nelson, were nominated for Channel Forty’s Student of the Year Award by me, your favorite teacher of all time, Mr. Peter Keller.”
What’s he talking about?
“And you won!” he says.
“What? What did we win?” Lola asks.
“The chance to be on TV! Bay Area Channel Forty. Do you ladies watch them in the morning? They have a yearly contest. No student I’ve ever nominated has been chosen…until now. We won! Isn’t that tremendous? I get to be on the telly with you!”
“Ay susmaryosep!” Lola says. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She says that when she’s surprised. Mom and I turn to each other and laugh, as giddy as Mr. K.
“Do you think I should go for a three-piece suit on camera, or perhaps my denim overalls to show off my rugged style?” he asks.
“Peter, gosh! You’re one of a kind. Thank you so much! This is thrilling!” Mom says, hugging me. “But…denim?”
I nod to Mom.
Lola hooks her arm with mine and we spin, tape guns in the air, around our homebound boxes.
* * *
—
I sit in my closet and phone the girls to share the news. Alexa says, “I can’t wait to choose your outfit!”
I laugh. “Okay,” I say, and we end our call. One more to make.
Hearing from Mr. Keller reminded me of something Jack said. I stare at my phone, trying not to stop myself since what I’m about to do might cause lifelong embarrassment. I clamp my eyes shut, hold my breath…and dial.
The phone barely rings when he says, “Hey.”
“Hi, Jack. I mean, hey. It’s me…um, Lou.” A long pause until finally I blurt out, “Did you have something to do with Mr. K and a news station contest?”
“Did you win?”
“Yes! Actually, it’s more like Mr. Keller won. He was super excited,” I say, and we both laugh.
“Nubby asked me if he could use some of the footage I filmed.”
Bingo. Now I know. “So your video was the secret weapon, huh?” I feel myself getting a little embarrassed. “Thanks for doing that.”
There’s a pause, and I’m glad I can’t see his face. Then he says, “Hey, guess what? I figured out the movie for my film-camp application. It’s a mini-documentary. I call it: ‘Frank’s Diner…Burgers, Donuts, Kimchi Breakfast Burritos, and More!’ Catchy, huh?”
“That sounds awesome.”
“But I’m already screwed.”
“Why?”
“Frank’s letting me interview him tomorrow, but Carver Jamison just bailed. He was my assistant director!”
“Typical.”
“My dad said I should film on my own because that’s what ‘auteur directors’ do, but I don’t really want to. I’ll need more help.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I was kind of thinking about when we were out on your land and everything….” Jack pauses. “And I was wondering if you’d want to be on my crew?”
“Me?”
“It’s okay, forget it.”
“No, hold on, I’ll help. That’s what friends are for, right?” He doesn’t answer. Shoot. Did I just make things weird? “Then we can call it even,” I add.
“You’re on.”
* * *
—
Alexa’s mom drops us off in Sausalito at Frank’s Diner, a little mom-and-pop hole-in-the-wall with red vinyl barstools and a sweet view of the bay. I recruited Alexa because awkward conversations feel better with a buddy. There’s something about Jack where sometimes I feel like me around him, but other times I get panicky, like I’m saying all the wrong things.
We walk in and Jack’s setting up lights and fancy camera equipment. “Hey, you showed up.”
“Of course…because we’re here!” I say.
Facepalm.
Alexa gives me a grin. The long counter is stacked with plates of juicy hamburgers, old-fashioned milk shakes, and seven-layer cakes under glass domes.
“Whoa, those look yummy,” I say.
Jack jumps in front of the food. “Step away from the props.”
“So am I gonna be in this movie or not?” Alexa asks, pulling out a mirror and smearing on lip gloss with her pinky.
“Nope. You’re the gaffer,” he says, handing her a light on a tall pole. He opens and shuts a black-and-white clapper board and hands it to me. “Know how to use one of these? Not as fancy as a circular saw.”
“I can probably figure it out.”
* * *
—
My first time making a movie is fun. Jack interviews Frank and films customers eating while I follow him around with a microphone. Sometimes I bump into him and shout out “Sorry!” so that he has to yell “Cut!” It makes us laugh.
“We need more action shots,” Jack says. “Any ideas?”
“Ummm…milk-shake race?” I say, pointing to the food on the counter.
“Good one!” Jack says. “You and Alexa can stand behind the bar.”
“I was more thinking of you doing the race…and me filming,” I say.
“Okay, but don’t mess up,” he says, handing over the camera. Jack shows me how to zoom in and out before we recruit a couple of customers to join him and Alexa.
I count them down, “Three, two, one…go!” and they all sip as fast as they can until Jack drains his glass first.
“We have a winner!” I shout, running over to him and pulling up his arm.
“You’re supposed to be filming,” he says, laughing. “But I can still use that.”
By the end of the afternoon, I’m not so nervous around him anymore. Until he waves me over. “Want to see?” he asks.
Jack’s sitting on one of the tall stools and I hop up beside him. He presses Play on his computer and we crack up at all the outtakes, like me crossing my eyes while clapping the clapper board.
“You’re pretty good at this,” I say, sitting close to him so I can see the screen. Our shoulders touch. He doesn’t move away.
It’s early morning as Lola and I drive with Mr. Keller to the TV station for our special day. They chitchat for the whole ride. My knee bounces up and down, I can’t get it to stop. I wish Mom could have come, but she’s working. Right after her shift, she heads to her meeting at the county tax office.
Last night I had the worst nightmare: I was on live TV with Mr. Keller but suddenly the station turned into a stage. Bamboo poles morphed into snakes, slithering up my ankles, with thousands of people in the audience pointing at me. Then Mr. Keller shape-shifted into Mr. Rodrigo, who pounded an auction gavel, and the dream ended with Mom and me skydiving into Washington State.
Yikes!
“You ready, Lucinda?” Mr. Keller asks as we pull into the parking lot.
I pull at a thread on my skirt. Alexa’s skirt, actually. The girls came over early and helped me get ready. I didn’t want to dress so frilly, but I didn’t have time to change before Mr. Keller picked us up.
We get out of the car. Mr. Keller’s wearing a sharp suit, plus a tie with hammers on it.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“Snazzy!” I straighten his lapel and try not to pay attention to my prickly nerves as we head inside.
* * *
—
This is the coolest.
I’m sitting on a set that looks like someone’s living room. The studio has tall cameras with people standing behind them and lots of other people with clipboards and earpieces running around like there’s an emergency. I’m surprised at how small the studio is—it looks bigger on TV. Jack will want to hear all about this.
Lola and the other kids’ parents stand across the way where the camera can’t see them; she gives me a little wave and a smile.
A blond lady sits in a leather chair on a platform with potted green plants and a coffee table complete with a coffee mug. She sips and looks at notes on white index cards.
When we got here, she said, “I’m Morina, the Good Day, Bay! host,” and she vigorously shook all the teachers’ hands and gave us kids perky high fives.
Morina is wearing a lime-green suit topped with a baubly necklace. She has the most perfect helmet hair and the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. She almost doesn’t look real.
“We’ll be starting soon, kids,” she whispers excitedly. She picks her teeth with her pinky. “Any arugula stuck in there, or am I in the clear?”
I give her a thumbs-up. “You’re good.”
There are three winners. We sit across from the anchor, our teachers standing behind
us. A woman holding a clipboard and wearing a headset shouts, “In three…two…one…We’re rolling, people!”
The entire set is quiet. Morina repeats her blinding smile for the camera.
“And we’re back with my favorite news story of the year! We ask teachers all over Northern California to nominate the student they believe exemplifies a leader of tomorrow, and I am thrilled to be sitting here with three of our local best and brightest…our winners!”
Morina shouts “Wooooooooo!” as the behind-the-scenes people clap.
I can’t believe I’m up here. My smile is huge.
“I am so happy to welcome you to the show.”
“And we’re so happy to be here, Morina!” Mr. Keller says, beating everyone else to speaking first. This is his moment and I’m happy for him.
Morina introduces us.
The first winner is an eighth-grade boy with a pink Mohawk who gives haircuts to homeless people. The other winner is a girl in fourth grade who teaches advanced calculus to college kids. Holy guacamole.
Morina chats with the boy, then the girl. The screen behind her shows clips of each kid in action. I’m in a daze where I can’t hear what she’s saying or how the other winners respond, even though I can see their mouths moving.
Morina turns to me.
“Lucinda Bulosan-Nelson. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
I manage to say “Yup.”
“May I call you Lou?” I nod. “You were nominated by your seventh-grade Industrial Arts and Technology teacher from Rizal Middle School, Peter Keller.”
Mr. Keller waves to the camera with his good hand. “I’ve nominated a student every year for thirty years, and you’ve finally made the right choice. You’re lucky I stuck with you people for so long.” Morina laughs.
“Lou, your goal here is most intriguing….I understand you’re building…a tiny house?”
“Yup.” It’s all I can muster with a room of big cameras and bright lights staring at me. It’s not like when Jack films.
“This is such a coincidence, because I am completely addicted to the home and design channels and I’ve heard about these itty-bitty homes. Although where do you go to the bathroom?” she says, cackling. “Let’s take a quick look at what Lou’s been up to.”