This alone would have been enough for detention, but that wasn’t the end of it.
—and so I said, The girls challenge you to a fight then! At lunchtime! Vincent and some of the boys said uh-huh uh-huh yeah, you and who else? So I got Christine and Ria and Jocelyn to agree and even Charmaine joined in and then some of the other girls overheard and they don’t like Vincent or Mikey, either, so they joined in—
Mrs. Waverly told Pol that the fighters consisted of around seven boys, and around ten girls. All in all, the participants included more than half the class. Two other boys had lost baby teeth, one of the girls had smashed the glasses of another boy, one girl had lightly sprained her wrist. All of the children were covered in minor scrapes and bruises. They’d been fighting in a part of the yard farthest away from the recess monitors, behind a row of trees, but they would have still been visible to any adult paying close attention. Mrs. Waverley said that from what she could glean from the kids, the fighting had been going on for most of that week.
When Pol demanded why the fighting had missed the notice of so many adults for so long, Mrs. Waverly didn’t have an answer, only a tepid apology. Pol’s way of not accepting the apology was to refrain from saying Thank you, you’ve been very kind at the end of the conversation. Yes, all of the kids fighting were Pinoy, Roni confirmed, when Pol asked her.
Roni said that during detention, a new friend of hers, a girl named Charmaine Navarrete, had been let out early, after claiming that she hadn’t been involved in the fighting at all, and had only been trying to stop her fellow classmates.
Roni wasn’t part of it, either, Charmaine explained to their teacher. She’d just gotten caught up in it, because the boys were teasing her. Charmaine was a light-skinned, church-going Filipina, top of the class, whose parents regularly donated to the school, and who often helped the teachers clap the chalkboard erasers after class. In short, Charmaine was one of Mrs. Waverley’s more civilized wards—but Roni told Hero later that Charmaine had in fact been one of the most savage fighters, and when one of the shortest boys in the class had his jaw locked around Roni’s hand, teeth starting to break the flesh, the taller Charmaine had come up from behind to pick him up by his torso and toss him to the ground like a rag doll. Roni probably wouldn’t have been friends with Charmaine at all but for that suppressed capacity for violence beneath her polite, behaved veneer. Mrs Waverley believed Charmaine’s story, and because she’d vouched for Roni, was prepared to allow Roni to leave with her.
Come on, Roni, Charmaine singsonged from the doorway to the classroom. Let’s go home.
Roni said she remained in her chair. She was staring straight ahead at the whiteboard, where I WILL NOT FIGHT DURING RECESS was written in capital letters.
I was too part of it, Roni declared, ensuring her suspension. I started it.
* * *
They were parked in front of the restaurant, part of a large, multi-building strip mall that included Lion’s Supermarket. Hero had been there a few times, but she’d never noticed a Filipino restaurant in the complex. She looked up. BOY’S BBQ & GRILL in neon, the specials written on the window hand-painted in Gothic letters. The name alone should have given it away.
Hero turned the engine off, but kept her seat belt on. Putting it on was a habit now; Roni made sure of that. She turned her head and looked at the girl. Okay ka ba talaga?
Roni was still smiling. Yeah. Her head was lolling against the seat. After telling the story, she’d been quiet for the rest of the short drive, dazed and sensual from her battle.
Hero looked up at the restaurant, then back at Roni’s face. Are you really sure you still want to go to the appointment today? Your mom said they’re more flexible with their time than Auntie Melba.
Roni shook her head. No. I’m okay. Let’s go. The excitement had faded, leaving her unusually amenable, full of goodwill toward the world at large.
The restaurant was empty when they walked in, save for one young light-skinned man in his mid-twenties, who didn’t look Filipino, at least not at first glance. He was eating a plate of what looked like beef tapa with rice, using his hands. There was a television propped up on top of a VCR, both on a table in the corner of the restaurant. It was playing a cartoon Hero had never seen before. The young man was watching it as he ate.
Hero and Roni went up to the cash register, next to the counter display of different Filipino dishes, left in heated metal trays, illuminated from above with fluorescent lights. Nobody was working.
Hello? she called, toward the open door that seemed to lead to the kitchen. No answer. Roni’s attention had been caught by the cartoon; she drifted toward it.
Hello? Hero called again.
Who’re you looking for, the young man said, just as a very short moreno grandpa in a green Oakland A’s baseball cap came out from the back door that led to the kitchen.
Uh—Hero was stuck between answering the young man and readdressing the older one. Adela Cabugao?
The young man pulled a paper napkin out of the metal napkin dispenser and began wiping his hands. She’s next door at the hair salon. I’m about to go over, I’ll show you.
Uh—Hero turned back to the older man, who was smiling politely and retreating back into the kitchen. She could hear the sounds of a radio, narrating what sounded like a baseball game.
The young man stood, took his plate, and brought it past the counter, through the open door. There was a brief pause; it sounded like he was rinsing the dish himself. Then he reappeared, brushing his wet hands on the front of his trousers. Okay, let’s go.
Oh—you don’t have to go all the way—if you just tell us where it is—
It’s cool, I’m heading over there anyway.
Roni was still watching the television. She was laughing absently to herself; someone onscreen was falling down a cliff.
What show is this? she asked the young man.
It’s not a show. It’s a movie. The Castle of Cagliostro.
It’s funny.
Ask Rosalyn to borrow it, the young man said, opening the door to the restaurant and waiting for Hero and Roni to pass through it.
Thank you, Hero murmured, still feeling nervous. He was handsome in the way she sometimes liked, in men, soft and tough. And—mestizo, she admitted to herself after a long minute, her throat tight and uncomfortable. His eyes were down-turned at the corners, giving his entire face a sleepy look, with eyelid creases sheening softly with day-old sweat and lashes that were thicker and darker at the base than at the tips. He smelled profoundly of fried garlic.
Who’s Rosalyn? Roni was asking.
I’m taking you to her.
They walked down the strip mall, six or seven parking spaces away. The young man walked slightly ahead of them, in black uniform slacks and a white T-shirt that looked like it might have been the undershirt to something more formal. A security guard’s lanyard hung from his front pocket, gently hitting the side of his knee as he walked. There was a tattoo on his upper arm that was faintly visible through the white shirt.
They arrived at a glass door that said, in cursive script adorned with roses, MAI’S HAIR AND BEAUTY. The young man pushed open the door.
Hero was struck immediately by the heavy smell of shampoo and perming chemicals, the glaring, peach-white lights of the salon. Loud music was playing, not in English or Tagalog. She didn’t recognize it. There were other women cutting hair, but they didn’t exactly look Filipino either—Hero remembered what Paz had mentioned, that the salon was a Vietnamese hair salon.
Rosalyn! the young man boomed. People here to see your grandma.
A young woman at the far end of the salon, wearing a San Jose State University sweatshirt, turned around. Hero went still. The woman was standing in the hair-washing station, amidst a row of sinks. Her hands were covered in thick clouds of foam, knuckle deep in the black mane of a customer, who was covered in a nylo
n cape, head tilted back, eyes closed in bliss.
The young woman didn’t stop massaging the scalp in front of her, but smiled and nodded at the door where Hero and Roni stood, lifting her chin in greeting.
Hey. Take a seat. Be right with you.
Not waiting for Hero, Roni sat down in the waiting area, pushing aside some of the weathered beauty magazines that were piled there.
The young man was still at the door, his hand propping it open so it chimed, over and over.
I’m gonna go pick up Gani and Ruben, the young man yelled. We’ll be back tonight.
Okay, Rosalyn yelled back.
They both had to speak at that register to be heard over the music. They had the same type of American accent; Hero hadn’t heard enough accents to know if it was Californian or not, but it must have been. She looked down at Roni, who was absorbed in a fashion spread. She sat down, tried to breathe through her mouth. The scent of ammonia was making her dizzy.
Ten minutes later, a shadow fell over the magazine that Hero was pretending to read. She looked up. Rosalyn was standing there, smiling.
Hero took a startled breath through her nose. Rosalyn smelled heavily of shampoo, resinous and balsamic, like forest sap. Hero recognized the smell only because it was the same one Paz and Pol kept at home, which she’d had to start using herself, since it was the only brand they ever bought. Revlon Flex, some part of Hero’s distracted mind remembered. The smell of it was all over Rosalyn’s hands, her arms, wafting a wave of scent into Hero’s nose when she reached out first to shake Roni’s hand, then Hero’s. The gesture was oddly formal.
Are you Roni? the young woman asked.
Roni nodded silently.
Okay, I’m Rosalyn. That’s my grandma over there. Rosalyn pointed to a woman whose deep-black hair, curly either by nature or by perm, was in the process of being shaped and sheared by one of the Vietnamese women who worked at the salon. The two were chatting, like they knew each other well. Hero felt her own body gradually loosening in relief at the shift in attention.
She’s getting a haircut right now. But if you wait a bit she’ll be with you. Is that okay?
That’s okay, Roni said.
Whoa! Rosalyn saw the gap in Roni’s mouth for the first time. Cool, d’you lose a tooth?
Roni lit up, happy to be reminded of what had just occurred that day. She started grinning again. Yep! I got in a fight today.
Cool, cool. Rosalyn turned her gaze back to Hero, who stiffened again. Sorry, what’s your name—
Uh—Geronima. Roni’s cousin.
Hero, Roni interjected, pedantic.
She—ah, calls me Hero. People also call me Nimang. Tita Paz calls me Nimang—
Hero was fumbling her words, but there was no helping it. She added, Tita Paz is Roni’s mom—
I know Auntie Pacita, Rosalyn interrupted. What do you prefer?
What?
To be called.
No one had ever asked Hero that before. She didn’t know what to say; she didn’t even really know what the answer was. Uh—whatever’s fine.
Okay, Uh-whatever’s-fine. Rosalyn smirked, then looked down at Roni. Hey Roni, d’you want your hair washed?
Roni tilted her head, then cast a skeptical glance at the sinks. My hair? Right now?
Yep. I’ll do it for free while you’re waiting for my grandma.
The girl hesitated, then shook her head. No, that’s okay.
Are you sure? I said it’s free, right—
Roni’s face took on that telltale stubborn cast. No. I’m okay.
Okay, Rosalyn said, holding her hands up. She pointed to Hero. What about you?
The whole column of Hero’s neck, up until the skin under her eyes, was glowing with heat. No, I’m okay.
What? Come on.
Hero hadn’t gone to the hairdresser in—she couldn’t remember how many years. Washing her hair under the shower had become a brisk, perfunctory task. The toll it took on her hands to really massage her own scalp wasn’t worth it, she’d told herself to make do with a mild soaping of Flex. Most of her effort went into tying all of the hair up into a ponytail at the beginning of the day, which she only took out just before bed. When she’d been at Tita Soly’s house, Tita Soly cut her hair for her, just trimming bluntly at the ends to keep it manageable. She’d cut Hero’s fingernails and toenails, too, washed her face and underarms, even helped her kaw-kaw, a brisk hand pulling back her vaginal folds, pouring warm water from a tabo over the tender skin.
Rosalyn saw the opening and took it. Yeah, okay. Let’s go, Uh-whatever’s-fine.
She turned around, walking toward the sinks, not looking back to make sure Hero was following.
Hero wasn’t following. She hesitated, still sitting next to Roni, who went back to flipping through the same magazine. You don’t want to go? she asked, not looking up. It’s free.
It’s not that.
It’s free! Roni repeated. It’s FUH-REE.
You said that already, Hero muttered, and got up.
She made her way over to Rosalyn, who was theatrically tapping the seat in front of one of the sinks. Hero sat down in the chair. Rosalyn whipped out one of the black nylon capes Hero had seen earlier.
So your clothes don’t get wet, she explained, even though Hero could have guessed the reason. The cape held together with Velcro at the back of Hero’s neck; she tried not to shiver as Rosalyn fastened it.
Lean back, Rosalyn said.
Hero complied. She heard a snort from behind her.
I’m not gonna wash your hair in midair. Lean all the way back, like you’re lying down.
Hero did so, slowly, feeling dizzy as she did. There was a hand at the back of her skull; Rosalyn was easing her head down into the basin of the sink. Hero’s breath was coming out shaky. She inhaled, then exhaled. That didn’t help.
The jet of water hit her head suddenly, the pressure direct and warm, the sound of it loud enough to distract her from her thoughts. The growing heaviness of her wet hair was drugging-good, heavy, liquefying. Hero tried to let go into it, couldn’t. The tendons of her neck were strained as she tried to keep her head lifted in the sink, uncertain of how far back she could really lean on it, if the neck rest would really support her skull’s dead weight. She tried to close her eyes, but found they wouldn’t remain shut; they kept fluttering open, twitching and blinking.
Rosalyn’s face appeared above her. She was threading one hand through Hero’s sopping hair, feeling along the scalp. The other hand was controlling the spray. Hero’s breath stuttered.
Relax, ate, Rosalyn said, almost too soft to be heard over the water. I’ll be gentle.
* * *
Hero had never been a romantic. She’d never been someone who fantasized about dream lovers, marriage, dramatic heartbreak. Often, people—men, mostly—interpreted her diffidence for coquetry, told themselves there was a smoldering sexuality beneath all that silence. They were mistaken. She neither smoldered nor was coy; she wanted to fuck and be fucked, that was it. She liked silence, it wasn’t a pose; she was never good at small talk. Sex, she understood; that hunger had been in her from the beginning, from the very first self-administered orgasm. It was part of the feeling she always had, of standing outside of everything. But that wasn’t all that bad, either; the way sex exacerbated how she already felt was grounding. It hooked her in place, let her know where she was, chased away all the muddled, murky feelings she had—about her desires, about whether or not she could really become a surgeon, about the life that Teresa was offering her in the NPA, about being a De Vera.
Hero had sex for the first time at fifteen, with a boy in her class; she’d sucked him off and he’d stuck his fingers into her, dry, without ceremony, nails too long. He came, she didn’t. That didn’t deter her. The next time she had sex, also with a boy, she discovered she couldn’t come
just with his dick inside her, despite liking the way it made her feel. She showed him where her clit was, after he came. This second boy reacted like it was both a source of personal dishonor, then amusement, and then finally, his unbelievable good fortune, the way she was so straightforward about her desires and how to answer them. They kept having sex for over two years; people thought of him as her high school sweetheart. Francisco. It was the longest she’d ever been with one person.
She stopped having relationships entirely after Francisco, and stuck to sex. She had sex with a girl for the first time at college, in the UST dorms, a law student who had a fiancé. But he was studying abroad in America, and the girl was having doubts. It wasn’t cheating if it was a girl, went the law student’s logic. Hero liked eating the girl’s pussy—and would have liked having hers eaten in return, but the girl never offered—but that alone wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for. If anything, it made her realize that she wasn’t looking for an answer; that sex hadn’t been a question at all, but a sentence, lone and complete.
They’d broken both her thumbs, in the camp, right at the base, near the joints. That was where it was hardest to heal—thumb function made up around half of the entire function of the hand. It was a Rolando fracture, not a Bennett’s fracture; graver, the base of the metatarsal fractured in two places. Nerves fucked, only salvageable with surgery, which wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Maybe the guards had medical training and did it on purpose. She’d known the minute it happened. It helped, to know what kind of fracture it was, to think about the morning she’d learned about the term, what the lecture hall looked like, how attentively she’d written down the definitions in her notepad, how diligently she’d studied the pages later.
When she was younger, Pol said that hand trauma posed the most difficulty for an orthopedic surgeon; to return a hand to what it had been pre-injury was nearly impossible, considering the complexity of the hand, the network of tendons, nerves, bones, muscles, veins, soft tissues, the fine tiny movements and the intricate mechanics that made them possible. Hands were more complicated than the people attached to them. A broken heart, that’s easy to fix, Pol used to remark. Hearts heal. They even improve. Hands are never the same.
America Is Not the Heart Page 10