Of course Pepper gets the credit, she’s the pretty one. I’m too brown to be acknowledged for anything as long as she’s around.
“Not me.” Pepper pushes me forward. “I just helped Sab help her.”
Guilt washes over me. My friend isn’t like most people. She wouldn’t take credit for something she didn’t do. It’s just the way she is, and I love her for it.
“Well, Sab. You just saved this woman.” The doctor smiles at me. “If I were your mom, I’d be very proud of you.”
My sister starts clapping, and then Pepper. Then Kuya Jepoy, then the doctor. Soon, everyone around us is putting their hands together in a round of applause.
For me. They’re clapping for me.
“Way to go, Sab!” Pepper hoots. “My best friend’s a hero!”
Hero seems a bit much, but I do like the sound of that. I grin. Things might not go the way I expected them to, and this will probably be the first and the last time it’ll ever happen, but it sure feels good to be a hero for the day.
I’m Sabrina Florence Dulce, savior of dehydrated strangers.
With that, I take a bow, and the MRT passengers clap even louder.
IN MOMENTS LIKE THESE, I’M so glad I’m not allergic to peanuts.
This kare-kare must be life’s way of rewarding my heroism, bringing me to this carinderia. Because this canteen has the best kare-kare ever.
Swimming among the orange peanut sauce are beef chunks and pieces of ox tripe with melt-in-your-mouth texture. It also has a generous amount of soft eggplants, string beans, and pechay greens. The peanut sauce isn’t too thick, nor is it too thin. It’s the perfect sauce on a cup of steamed rice. Add a dash of their sweet-and-spicy shrimp paste, and you’ve got a saucy, savory, and slightly sweet combination that’s like heaven on earth.
I wolf down the last of my kare-kare and rice, licking the back of my spoon. The Butterfly’s prediction could come true at this very moment, and I wouldn’t mind.
“If you start licking your plate, I’m disowning you,” Ate Nadine quips. She’s far from being finished with her own food. Still, it seems like she’s had enough to improve her mood.
Cling! Cling! Cling! There’s a loud tinkling coming from the street.
“Ice cream!” Pepper pushes her empty plate away and bounces off the stool. She turns her begging eyes across the table to Ate Nadine. “Let’s get some before an angry woman pelts us with skin whiteners again.”
Ate Nadine rolls her eyes, but nonetheless she brings out a small wad of cash. I reach for it, but she hands it to Kuya Jepoy instead. “Don’t let them have more than three small cones of dirty ice cream each. And stay away from the street. Sab’s too oblivious; she might get run over by a car.”
If Mom were here, she probably wouldn’t let me have dirty ice cream. When she was a kid, “dirty ice cream” really was dirty until children started getting sick. The government has created laws to ensure these treats are made in clean conditions, but the name has stuck. It’s still called dirty ice cream, even if it’s safe to eat.
Well, Mom’s not here now. She doesn’t have to know I had a cone. Or two.
“I am not oblivious.” I pout. I don’t really know what oblivious means, but it sounds eerily similar to that Harry Potter spell that erases someone’s memory. Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound like a compliment.
Anyway, it’s not my fault I don’t know how to cross a busy street. Mom doesn’t let me commute on my own, and cars in a gated subdivision like ours follow an unspoken rule to stop if they see kids on the street. It’s not as if I ever have to worry about getting run over or anything.
I follow Kuya Jepoy and Pepper out of the canteen, where an elderly man is pushing a wooden ice cream cart a few yards away. He’s about to round the corner when Kuya Jepoy lets out a piercing whistle, raising his hand. The vendor turns his cart and heads back our way.
“Thanks.” If not for Kuya Jepoy, Pepper and I would have had to call the dirty ice cream vendor the hard way—by chasing him down.
Kuya Jepoy just smiles. He’s not much of a talker, and that’s coming from someone who’s on the quiet side.
“Wow,” Pepper exclaims. “How did you do that? Every time I try to whistle, it comes out like this—” She puts her index and middle fingers in her mouth and blows. No piercing whistle comes out, except for a farting sound and a shower of spit that lands on my arm.
“Pepper!” I take a step back, rubbing my arm on my shirt. “Gross.”
Pepper sticks her tongue out at me.
“You’ll get it, eventually.” Kuya Jepoy chuckles. It’s surprisingly comforting—low, rumbling, and contagious.
The dirty ice cream vendor pulls up in front of us by the sidewalk. Pepper looks over his shoulder as he opens the metal canisters embedded in the wooden cart. “What flavors do you have in there, sir?”
“Ube, chocolate, and cheese,” the vendor answers, readying a small cone and his ice cream scooper. “Ten pesos per cone.”
“I’ll have a cone with both chocolate and ube.” Pepper grimaces. “No cheese, please.”
“Just cheese for me.” I love cheese ice cream. I don’t know why Pepper hates it. It’s sweet, creamy, and salty at the same time. I gave my tiny cone a lick. The scoops are no bigger than a golf ball, the perfect size for a quick dessert or afternoon snack. Hmm … Delicious.
Kuya Jepoy hands the vendor twenty pesos, just enough for two.
I frown. “You’re not getting any?”
He shakes his head. Kuya Jepoy brings out a wad of gum instead, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth.
“I’ve seen one of those.” Pepper licks her ice cream, blending the purple ube with the brown chocolate. “Papa uses it to quit smoking. You smoke?”
“Used to,” Kuya Jepoy says with a grimace. “It was really hard to quit.”
Pepper stops eating. She stares the older boy straight in the eye. “Papa also said smoking will destroy your lungs.”
“Yeah,” agrees Kuya Jepoy. “He’s not wrong.”
“Some of Ate Nadine’s classmates smoke at coffee shops,” I say, remembering what my sister told me. “She said it’s an icky way to deal with stress.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Kuya Jepoy shrugs. “I’ve never been to college.”
“Oh no. He’s getting away. I want another one!” Pepper pops the last of her cone into her mouth. She takes the money from Kuya Jepoy, who whistles again for the vendor to stop. He does, but this time, he doesn’t make an effort to turn back. Pepper rolls her eyes and jogs after him.
The ice cream vendor probably got bored hearing us talk.
“Wouldn’t you want to? Go to college, I mean?” I swallow the last of my cone, covering my mouth to quiet my burp. “Ate Nadine says San Jose Pignatelli offers scholarships. Like, you go to college but you don’t have to pay to attend the classes.”
“Yep. She told me the same thing,” Kuya Jepoy says with a kind smile. Up close, I notice he has a chipped tooth. “Your sister has a great heart. I should know. I have five sisters.”
“Oh, wow. Five?” I wince. Imagine, living with five duplicates of Ate Nadine. “Are they all your ates too?”
“I’m their kuya. Our youngest is almost as old as you.” He touches a bracelet on his wrist. It’s pretty, made out of wooden beads with little carvings on them. I’m sure Dad would like it if he saw it. “I miss them. They’re in the province with my lola. Farm life suits them better.”
“Is your mom here in Manila with you?” I hope he doesn’t think I’m being nosy.
Kuya Jepoy shakes his head. “My parents are with the Lord now. I live with my tito—well, I used to. I live alone now.”
“I’m sorry.” And I really am. It must be so hard to lose both parents. I’ll be very sad if something bad happens to my mom or any of my three dads. “Sorry about your tito too.”
“Oh, he’s still alive.”
“What do you mean?” It’s odd, the way he says it.
“My tito made this for me. It was
his ‘apology’ gift.” Kuya Jepoy studies his bracelet. “He made it while in prison.”
I gasp. “What?”
“Sorry, sometimes I forget my story can be a lot to take.” Kuya Jepoy laughs in a kind way. “I was sixteen when Lola and I decided I should find a job in Manila. We all thought my uncle was just a welder, as he said he was. But he was doing illegal things. Then a job went bad. He got caught, and it landed him in jail. It’s hard to be alone, but it’s okay. I learned to be independent.”
“What!”
“It’s all good. His neighbor took me in. Gave me a job at her internet café—she’s like a mother to me.” Kuya Jepoy ruffles my hair. “I’m not rich. I don’t have a college education. But I have a job, family, and friends. Not many people can say that. Most are too poor to eat.”
Well, whatever Dad did, I hope it’s not as terrible as what Kuya Jepoy’s uncle did to him. Which reminds me: “Is there another way to Makati that’s not the MRT?”
Kuya Jepoy nods. “We can take a jeepney, but that’ll take too long, and you might not last in the heat. I can get us a cab, if your sister is okay with it.”
“No, I’m not okay with that idea at all.” Ate Nadine appears between Kuya Jepoy and me, her hands on her hips. “It’s time to go home, Sab. We’ve had enough adventure today. Where’s Pepper?”
“Here!” My friend joins us with another cone of brown-and-purple ice cream. “Where are we off to next?”
Ate Nadine says “home” at the same time I utter “Makati.” Her eyes are like lasers zapping me to pieces, but I don’t flinch.
“Aww, come on. It’s not every day the girls get to go out like this.” Kuya Jepoy grins at my sister. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it on the MRT railway,” Ate Nadine hisses like an angry cat. “I just want to go home and take a long bath.”
“Please, Ate,” I beg, not bothering to widen my eyes like Pepper does. I’ll just look like a scared little owl anyway. From the corner of my eye, Kuya Jepoy flags down a taxi. “I really want to go to the museum. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen great art on display. I need the inspiration, Ate. Today’s the last day and—”
“Arghhh! I hate it when you do that. It’s so manipulative.” Ate Nadine holds up her hands in surrender. “Dad shouldn’t have taught you to be so obsessed with art. This museum better be worth it. Jepoy, can you—”
“Already done,” Kuya Jepoy says as he theatrically opens the door of a taxicab for my sister. “Step right in, ladies. We’re off to the amazing urban jungle that is Makati!”
Pepper and I do as we’re told without hesitation. Finally, we’ll figure out what happened between Dad and Ate Nadine. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll still have time to fix it—whatever it is.
I’VE BEEN TO MAKATI A few times with Mom—and even Dad and Wendell—but we always went around in our own car. All I can remember was the bumper-to-bumper traffic, limited parking areas, and the tall buildings.
The traffic’s still terrible, and the parked cars on the side of the roads make the streets seem like they’re more crowded than they really are. So Ate Nadine had us walk the remaining blocks to the museum from the waiting shed. “If that taxi meter goes any higher,” she said, “I’ll be so broke that we’ll have to walk all the way back to Quezon City.”
Thankfully, walking when it’s almost evening isn’t as terrible as it is in the morning or at noon. The tall structures protect us from the sun like giant umbrellas. The few rays that peek through turn the building walls and tinted glass windows red orange. There are a few trees and potted plants here and there, but it’s mostly concrete, glass, and steel.
Makati lives up to its reputation as Manila’s main business district—modern, professional, and fast-paced. It’s beautiful in its own way, but I’d still choose the safety and calm of our subdivision over this city.
We pass by a few banks, a convenience store, and a bunch of office lobbies where employees come and go. There’s even a specialty art shop. The gorgeous rows of oil pastel crayons tempt me to go in, but I resist. The museum is open until six o’clock—we only have an hour left before it closes. Romeo Gamelon’s interview was scheduled for four o’clock, so it’s possible he’s still around answering questions or something.
I hope.
“We’re here!” Pepper points to a two-story building. It’s like a dwarf compared to the tall structures around it. Up front, there’s a concrete sign and an announcement board.
Below the seal of Makati City, it says:
“Romeo Gamelon? How did you—” Ate Nadine glares at Pepper and me. “Who told you about Romeo Gamelon? Did Dad put you up to this? Or have you two been spying on me?”
I turn to Pepper, my heart hammering in my chest. There’s no getting out of this. We need to come clean. “Well—”
“Of course not,” Pepper says with a wave of her hand. “Why do you always think everything is about you?”
Ate Nadine’s eyes narrow dangerously, but Kuya Jepoy steps in and touches her elbow. “Nadine,” he says in a low voice, calming and rumbling. My pulse slows down before it reaches asthma levels. I can see Ate Nadine’s defenses melting away. Well, not so much. Maybe a little. “Let them explain.”
Pepper gives me a pointed look.
I sigh. I hate lying, but I need answers. This is my only chance to speak to Romeo Gamelon. I’ll deal with my guilt later. “We saw a poster about his exhibit on social media.” It’s true. The announcement graphic was posted on social media.
“Yeah. His exhibit sounded like a culturally enriching experience. We just had to go and see it!” says my friend, happily ushering us to the museum entrance. Ate Nadine looks like she’s having second thoughts. Then she rolls her eyes and follows Pepper and me. She pays for our entrance fee, and finally, we’re inside.
My heartbeat quickens again. Not with fear or stress this time, but excitement. Well, mostly excitement.
I wipe my clammy hands on my shorts. Hopefully, Ate Nadine’s godfather speaks the truth—Romeo Gamelon will have the answers we seek. He will know why Ate Nadine hates Dad so much.
The halls of the Makati Museum for Creative Arts remind me of the hallway in the main house of Lola Cordia’s resort. But bigger and longer. The walls on both my left and right are full of paintings and photographs from artists all over the Philippines.
Soon, a black sign with white text bearing THE STRUGGLE in cursive comes into view. It leads us to a room at the far end of the empty hallway. My heart sinks. The open forum with the artist definitely looks over now.
Even so, I take a step forward. Romeo Gamelon could still be here.
Then a man in a blue polo shirt and black slacks steps forward. “Miss, bawal bata dito.” He blocks our path, saying that children aren’t allowed here. “Over thirteen only.”
Pepper and I exchange looks. That wasn’t on the gallery poster. It never said we couldn’t see it!
“Oh well,” Ate Nadine says in a chirpy voice. I frown. She can at least pretend to be disappointed for me. “Time to go home, then!”
Pepper straightens her back, pointing to the sign. “It says here, ‘PG-13.’ That means ‘parental guidance,’ not restricted to kids below thirteen.”
“These two seem too young to be your parents.” The man smirks, flipping his long black hair. “Listen, white girl. I’ve been watching galleries for this museum before you were even born. I know what PG-13 means.”
I give Pepper a look. She doesn’t have to sound so bossy. While it’s okay most of the time, not everyone will let her get away with things just because she’s white. Colonial mentality (as Ate Nadine calls it) may be the case for most people, but there are folks like this man who won’t put up with it. For some weird reason, I’m glad he didn’t. I respect him for it.
My friend pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s obviously not used to getting a response like this. Ate Nadine simply shrugs—I know she’d be happy to turn away and go home. But Kuya
Jepoy gives me an encouraging nod.
It’s now up to me.
“My mom is in Singapore, and my dad is in Rizal,” I explain, staring at the man straight in the eyes without being disrespectful. “Ate Nadine is my guardian. She’s eighteen. Kuya Jepoy is—” I turn to the older boy.
“Twenty-one,” he answers, giving the man a small, disarming smile. “We’re both old enough to explain things to the girls if need be.”
The man adjusts his tie and clears his throat. “Well …”
“Sige na po, manong. Papasukin nyo na po kami.” I clasp my hands together like I’m praying. Unlike Pepper, I can’t do a “cute kitty look,” but maybe my pleas (or begging) will be convincing enough. “Please, sir. Please let us in. I’m an artist too, but I’ve been having difficulty getting inspired. Seeing great art will help me a lot to get over that funk.”
“Very well.” The man sighs so loudly it echoes in the gallery. “It’s not every day I see children interested in the arts as much as you are.”
“Thank you!” I squeal, giving the man a quick hug. “You are awesome.”
“Yes, yes.” The man steps back, straightening the crumples I made on his shirt. But I can see he’s pleased. “Go on in.”
We do, and the first photograph greets us. It’s entitled Life Will Go On. It sounds like a crappy love song, but the image featured in the photograph is far from being romantic.
A dead dog in the gutter, with cars and people passing by. Yup. Definitely not romantic.
“Oh, wow.” Pepper’s blue eyes widen. “That’s …”
“Horrible,” I say. Cruel. How can these people walk by with this poor little dog dead in the gutter?
Ate Nadine raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you were looking forward to this exhibit?”
“We were.” Pepper nods. “But we didn’t think it would be about … this.”
“Didn’t you read the gallery description?” Ate Nadine frowns. “You know what … Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, after all. Let’s just go home, Sab.”
Pepper and I read the small text inscription under the exhibit title.
My Fate According to the Butterfly Page 8