Dante! That was Maricris, giggling. Then, a tense silence. Maricris went on, Oh, come on, Lea.
What? I didn’t say anything.
Just—
What, I don’t even give a shit about him anymore. Hey Hero, Lea said, shifting the angle of the conversation unsubtly. Do you want kids?
Could you guys shut. up. for two. seconds, Rosalyn bit out. You’re distracting me and she’s gonna come out lookin’ like the fuckin’ Bride of Frankenstein.
She turned back to Hero, and gently swept a stick of waxy lip balm across the center of Hero’s mouth. Press your lips together for me, she said.
Hero obliged. Rosalyn went back in with a cotton swab, cleaning up the edges. Hero stared at her ear, the long grown-out side bangs tucked behind them.
Hero didn’t end up looking like the Bride of Frankenstein—though if she had, she wouldn’t have minded, if the movie she had in her head was the one Rosalyn was thinking about, too. She looked the way Janelle had looked, the first time Hero and Roni saw Rosalyn doing makeup: ancient and remote, possibly even beautiful. Her eyelids and lips were a similar shade of nut brown, the lips sharp, the eyes diffused around the edges. Rosalyn leaned back, examining her work.
You have that little fold, she said obscurely.
What, Hero opened her mouth to ask, knowing her voice would be hoarse, but Janelle was already coming over.
What little fold, she asked. Lemme see. Ooh, it looks good!
That little fold, look, the one above the lashline. You know hella people get surgery for that little fold?
Do I have it? Janelle leaned into the mirror.
You don’t have it. I kind of have it. Lea has it, look. And Hero has it.
Hero had never even thought of her eyelids as having—qualities, really. They were eyelids. But some part of her was warmed by Rosalyn’s comment; she looked in the mirror, at the line that Rosalyn had pointed out, so new to Hero’s eye that Rosalyn may as well have drawn it on herself.
Jaime came to pick them up, not in the Supra he’d been driving the night of the Christmas party, but in a minivan that belonged to his mom, which all of the girls teased him about, from Milpitas to San Francisco, all up along 237 and 101. Rosalyn sat in the front passenger seat, and Hero sat all the way in the back, next to Janelle and Rochelle. Before starting the long drive, Jaime had called out to the van: Arms, legs, tails, everything in?
Hero found herself, absurdly, giving relationship advice to Rochelle. She’d never given relationship advice to anyone before, but now she was saying something about being firm and open about her needs. Rochelle nodded, face serious, like she was taking Hero seriously, like she genuinely thought Hero’s opinion was meaningful, and not blatant improvising from one half-baked truism to another. Hero felt like someone else was talking with her voice; like she was being possessed and she just had to stand aside and let this particularly helpful dwende have its playtime.
She couldn’t hear what Jaime and Rosalyn were saying, only that every now and then, Rosalyn would smack Jaime across the upper arm, laughing. When they passed San Bruno, South San Francisco, Brisbane, Hero turned her head and saw, to her surprise, the ocean.
Is that the Pacific? she asked, her voice cracking more than she’d expected. A wild thought occurred to her, terror-struck and tender—if that was the ocean, then the Philippines was just on the other side. If she jumped in and swam, if she could swim that far, she’d reach it, clamber onto shore and everyone, everyone would still. be there.
Janelle looked out the window. Nah. That’s the Bay.
* * *
The party was boring. New Year’s Eve parties were boring, Hero thought—all that anticipation, for nothing. The house in the Excelsior was small, and yet there were more people stuffed in its garage, spilling out into the streets, hanging out of the windows smoking, than had been at Rosalyn’s Christmas party. The minute they arrived, Rosalyn turned to Hero with murder in her eyes, saying, See what I mean about spinning Planet Rock with their dicks? Hero didn’t, in fact, see what she meant; she didn’t know what Planet Rock was.
Rosalyn handed Jaime and Hero each a Coors Light. The girls had dispersed, Lea and Rochelle to find Ruben and Isagani, Maricris to find the other members of her girl group, Janelle tagging along. Young men kept coming up to both Jaime and Rosalyn, bumping fists, asking how were things, what was good. Sometimes people took note of Hero, said hello, but most of the time, they didn’t. When Hero told people her name, they asked, looking confused, like they must have heard her wrong: What? Like superhero?
Rosalyn started pointing out people to Hero, with Jaime adding commentary where he saw fit: DJs who were getting famous but still stuck around to play at parties and stuff, DJs whose friends had gotten famous and left the Bay for L.A. or New York, a couple of dudes who did graffiti—Rosalyn pointed at Jaime and said, He used to do dumbass shit like that, to which Jaime said, Watch it—and a group of dudes who were in their own singing group, one of whom was dating someone from Maricris’s singing group.
Hero had the feeling that Rosalyn was talking not because she wanted Hero to really know who the people were, but because she found it reassuring to catalogue the people she saw, to make sure she remembered who everyone was and where they were from and how she knew them. Some people Rosalyn didn’t know, and she said so, pointing without even trying to be subtle about it. Hero met the eye of one of the men who’d noticed himself being pointed out. He pointed at himself, confused, as if to ask, Me? and Hero shook her head, looked away.
Someone flopped down next to Hero; two someones, no, three. Janelle, Rochelle, and Isagani. They were holding plastic cups. Isagani smelled heavily of marijuana. Where’d you get the cups, Jaime asked. Rochelle pointed inside the house. They got a whole bunch of liquor. Good stuff.
A’right. I’m gonna get something, Jaime said, standing up, leaving his beer behind, putting out the cigarette he’d been smoking. He pointed to Hero and Rosalyn. What you guys want.
Rosalyn stood. I’ll come. I wanna see what they got myself.
Jaime was still looking at Hero. Rum and Coke?
Hero shrugged, Sure.
Janelle, who looked half drunk, brought her knees up to her chest, and lay her cheek on her knees, taking care to keep her made-up eyes from smudging. She watched Jaime and Rosalyn leave.
Those two should just get married already, she said. They’re so good together. They were so in love. It’s hella obvious they still want each other.
Hero didn’t blink. She took a long swig from her beer; watery, saliva-stale. When did they break up?
Few years ago, Janelle said. They went out all through high school. I only met them then, but I think they were together even before that. Right?
Since fifth grade, Isagani supplied, stroking at Rochelle’s hair. Like since they were ten or so.
And then they broke up like dumbasses in college, Janelle muttered. And now look at them. Look at Jaime. Just fuckin’ around with hos from all over the place.
Fucking chill, damn, Isagani said.
I’m just saying. You only have one life. What if, I don’t know, what if one of them got hit by lightning or got in a bad car accident or something. I don’t know why they’re playing like they’re not meant for each other.
Maybe they’re not ready, Rochelle said, sipping from her cup. She turned to Isagani. Smokes? Isagani handed her his pack of Marlboros.
You’re not DJ-ing tonight? Hero asked him, not even realizing she was changing the subject until she was doing it.
Nah, Isagani said. They got bigger DJs than me here tonight. I’m just ringing in the New Year with my baby. He tugged at Rochelle’s hair as she lit her cigarette and looked away.
Janelle waved a clumsy arm. See. Look at you guys. How come Jaime and Rosalyn can’t get their shit together like you guys, huh. And have a bunch of cute-ass babies.
&nb
sp; Not everyone wants babies, Rochelle said.
Girls do.
Hero said she doesn’t want kids.
Janelle shook her head. Everyone says that at first, but when you meet the right guy, it’s different.
Rochelle’s face hardened. She put the cigarette to her lips, took a drag from it without looking at anyone. Isagani’s hand around her knee tightened. Hero took another long pull from her beer, finishing it in one go.
She stood up. I’m gonna find the bathroom.
* * *
Hero wasn’t stupid. She knew, not deep down, but skin-shallow, shimmering at the surface of her body like a damaged nerve, that Rosalyn probably had some kind of a crush on her. An older woman, a shady background, a slight remove: Hero had spent her teen years and even college years nursing crushes, sometimes platonic, sometimes romantic, on older people, especially older women like that. Teresa was a case in point. Though what she’d felt for Teresa was something much less and much more than a crush—what Hero felt for Teresa was something she didn’t have a name for. Not then, not now, not ever. She preferred it that way. A feeling with Teresa’s face on it, and no words.
Rosalyn had probably never even slept with a woman before. She liked stories where girls—thieves, vampires, witches, aristocratic revolutionaries—fell in love at fourteen and stayed with that person, that boy, forever, after overcoming countless obstacles. She probably didn’t realize she was flirting with Hero, that her behavior might be misconstrued, that someone more serious and less scrupulous might actually take her up on the signals she was unwittingly putting out.
What Rosalyn aimed at Hero, the teasing, puppylike interest, excited at the appearance of a strange knight, was something that had only formed after seeing Hero’s thumbs, after knowing Hero didn’t have any other friends, after hearing words like New People’s Army. Hero didn’t need to know the details of what was really between Rosalyn and Jaime to understand that whatever history was there was real, and heavy, and long. Long was the crucial part. Hero didn’t know anything about long, heavy, real loves, but she knew what they had in common with a crush. Absolutely fucking nothing.
* * *
Hero didn’t really have to pee, but she joined the line of girls for the bathroom anyway, just to have something to do. There must have been another DJ inside the house, because the music was even louder inside than it was in the garage, the beat so loud, so penetrating, she had the feeling her own heartbeat was altering to keep time with it. She looked around the party for Jaime or Rosalyn, but didn’t see them. Someone passed her, then stopped, looked down. It was the man from earlier, the one who’d pointed at himself when Rosalyn had waved a dismissive hand in his direction.
He leaned forward and shouted into her ear, You were talking about me. Earlier, with your friends. What’d you say?
Hero leaned back, shook her head, then leaned forward. My friend was pointing out people she knew. She didn’t know who you were.
Okay, the guy shouted. I’m Peter. What’s your name?
Hero, she shouted back.
Hero, he repeated, brow cut together in the center. Hero, like—
Superhero, she finished, getting it over with. He started laughing. Okay, that’s cool. You have a cute accent, too. Perplexed, Hero said, Thank you.
Peter gestured at the line. You’re gonna be waiting here forever, you want a drink? Hero lifted her empty bottle of Coors Light, showing him.
Peter laughed. Okay, you want a real drink? He handed her the cup he’d been sipping from, which looked like it was full of Coke. What is it, she asked. Coke and Jim Beam, he shouted in her ear, the dense lavender cloud of his cologne flooding her nostrils.
She didn’t pull away. Took the cup and drank from it it. She and Francisco used to make Coke and bourbons before they fucked, and then again right after. It’s good, she said.
Hero found out that Peter was in San Francisco for law school, that he’d lived in Glen Park first but just moved to the Excelsior. He was originally from Los Angeles, and he missed it, the Bay didn’t compare, sorry. He’d been to a couple parties in the Bay by way of his roommates and liked them, but wasn’t all that into the music. Hero told Peter—very little, really: that she’d just come to the Bay so there was no need to apologize (though something had twitched in her, defensively, at his critique); that she worked in a restaurant; that she didn’t have any particular feelings, positive or negative, about the music.
By the time Jaime found them, they’d wandered away from the bathroom line and had tucked themselves into a couch near the back of the house. Hero didn’t know how long he’d been standing there before she registered his presence, looking down at Hero in disbelief, cigarette tucked behind his ear.
The hell? Rosalyn and Rochelle have been looking all over for you. Rochelle said you went to the bathroom like over an hour ago, Jaime said. We’re outside in the driveway.
Okay, Hero said. She was halfway into her third Coke and bourbon, still not feeling even remotely drunk. The time she got drunk and Lulay was waiting outside of her bedroom, she must have had something more like ten, possibly along with a Valium that Francisco had gotten from a friend. Three of these watered-down drinks, more Coke than bourbon, was nothing. She wasn’t like Janelle, two-shots soppy, all over the place.
Jaime waited. Then turned and walked away. Then he stopped, spun around, came back, knelt down next to Hero, shouted into her ear: If you go home with him but want a pickup, page me. 911. You got my number, right?
Hero pulled back. Jaime didn’t wear any cologne; smelled of detergent, cigarette smoke, rum, metallic-y sweat. He repeated, You got it, right?
Hero nodded. Jaime got back up. Okay. We’re in the driveway, he said again.
I heard you.
That’s not your boyfriend, right, Peter said-shouted when he left. I don’t wanna get jumped by any boyfriends or dads or brothers tonight—
No boyfriend. No brother, Hero said-shouted.
Hero opened her mouth to start another conversational thread, but found abruptly that she was at the end of the line, no more talk in her, big or small, no more interest in knowing anything else about him. There was nothing left in her but the gnawing, swollen, thought-obliterating need to fuck. She leaned in and shouted into his ear, You want to take me to your place?
Peter, stopped, startled, jostling his just refilled cup of Coke and bourbon so it spilled over his fingers. Hero stared back at him, expectant. He made a shape with his mouth, a whistle Hero couldn’t hear. Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.
He stood, and Hero followed him, something edgeless and frantic in her finally settling. They went out the front door, which led them down a winding path, bypassing the driveway, partially hidden by a hedge. Over the top of it, Hero could see Rosalyn and Jaime sitting on the ground, talking to Rochelle and Isagani. Hero didn’t even know if it was close to midnight yet. She knew if she stayed looking at them, Rosalyn would turn around, notice.
Hero didn’t stay, didn’t look. Peter said-shouted, You coming, and she didn’t have to shout back; she didn’t even have to answer. She was.
Ang Dalagang Pilipina
The next morning, Hero thought about calling the house in Milpitas, asking Paz or Pol to pick her up, sliding into Paz’s Civic or Pol’s Corona with her crusted underwear crumpled into her jacket pocket; thought about the questions they would think but not ask, thought about sitting in the passenger seat, hearing those silent questions and not answering. Instead she left Peter sleeping naked, put her own clothes back on, went to the small galley kitchen in the apartment, and paged Jaime 4379. HELP.
Hero understood that the code was perhaps slightly too dramatic for the situation and sent another page that said 015. OK.
The emotional jerkaround must have been too much for Jaime, because when he called back a few minutes later, sounding like he’d dragged himself out of bed, his first words were: If yo
u’ve been ax-murdered and this is a ghost, I lose ten dollars to Janelle, so do me a solid and still be alive.
Once Hero made it clear that she was fine, Jaime said he’d pick her up at the Fremont BART station. I don’t know where that is, Hero said. Ask your man, Jaime countered. I’ll figure it out myself, Hero said just to hear Jaime laugh.
It was her first time on the BART, her first time really seeing the cities of the Bay, from north to south. There were several stations after Glen Park, which had been the station closest to Peter’s apartment. Only when they reached Civic Center did Hero realize they were going through the city itself.
After the train left Embarcadero station, the view outside the windows went pitch-black, and then they were going faster, faster, like they’d been gripped by a giant hand and were being dragged through a tunnel, the noise of the train screeching, reaching a volume that didn’t just deafen Hero but deadbolted her, trapped her in the cupped palm of its sound so she couldn’t get out and she knew she just had to wait there for the lifetime it would take to end, her eyes closed, grappling at any thought to hang from and praying her grip would catch, thinking of, of, of. Thinking of Teresa taking her to the gakit festival in Agandan, where the Gaddang people, who often used the gakit rafts to cross the Cagayan River, would build a ceremonial bamboo raft in an elaborate yearly ritual, and Hero, then a first-year cadre, confused about the meaning of the ritual, confused about how to impress Teresa, not yet aware that trying to impress her was the surest way of ensuring she would never be impressed, watched in dumb silence until Teresa held up her own arm, next to Hero’s, and used her free hand to clasp them both together, blood-warm and firm, locked at the wrists, strong enough to carry a man on, a life on, and said: That’s why people need a raft, donya.
It was only when the train surfaced again at West Oakland, the walls of the tunnel coming into sight, then disappearing as they climbed above them, that Hero realized, trying to catch and catch at breath that wouldn’t come, that they’d been underground—that they’d been underwater—that they’d just crossed the bay.
America Is Not the Heart Page 22