by C. P. Santi
“Karl?”
I didn't answer. I didn’t think I had the energy to raise my head from my tear-soaked pillow.
Why did she have to come?
Duh. Of course I knew why Kit was in my bedroom—she was my best friend.
Part of me rejoiced at her presence. After all, no one could cheer me up like Kit could. She was one of those people whose presence exuded sunshine and rainbows. Being with her was always the bright point of my day. Heck, Kit was the shining star of my life.
But part of me didn't want her here.
I didn't want her to see me like this. I hadn’t showered in two days and I must stink to high heaven. My usually spotless room was a mess. I’d lost my glasses somewhere in the junk, and my vision was reduced to a blur.
Now that Kit was here, however, all I wanted to do was start crying again. Not a very manly thing to do, but Kit would understand. After all, she’d been with me almost every step of the way these past few weeks.
And it had been a really shitty couple of weeks.
It all started when Lola Pacing—my indomitable grandmother—had crumpled in an unconscious heap at my feet. The fruitcake boxes I’d been holding—the ones she’d been instructing me to deliver to her amigas—all tumbled to the floor as I kneeled beside her, my heart in my throat.
Countless hours had been spent at the hospital . . . running tests, signing papers, paying bills . . . waiting . . . always waiting. Waiting for results of innumerable tests. Waiting to talk to the doctors. Waiting for Lola to wake up and smile . . . to tell me everything would be okay.
But she never did.
Childishly, I’d hoped that this was all temporary. But Lola Pacing passed away—silently, without issue—so unlike the robust, forceful woman she’d been.
Kit had been there when it happened. One minute we were discussing strategies for Counterstrike, and then suddenly, everything had been a blur of bleeps and shouts.
I hadn’t even been able to say goodbye properly.
And that was the crux—the suddenness of it all. Sure, Lola had been old, but she’d been so strong. I’d thought we’d have years still. But now . . . she was gone.
After the funeral, I’d wanted to lock myself in my room to wallow in my grief. But Kit hadn’t let me. She’d been in and out of the house, making sure I was taking care of myself, badgering me to eat the meals that Manang Bebot, our helper, had prepared.
I’d been slowly adjusting to my loss, but today had been difficult.
It was the night before Christmas.
Lola Pacing would have turned eighty-five today.
Lola had been big on Christmas (and birthday) traditions. First we’d have lunch at her favorite Chinese restaurant. Then we’d pick up bilaos of pancit palabok and puto for the household staff and neighbors. In the evening, we’d attend mass then have a small snack before opening presents. Christmas Day was spent at home, waiting for relatives and friends to drop by to exchange presents and greetings.
But now, I had no one to do all of those things with.
I held my breath, trying to keep the grief at bay.
I heard Kit take off her shoes. She slipped under the blankets beside me, and hugged me from behind. “I’m here, Karl.”
And just like that, racking sobs consumed my entire body. Kit wrapped her arms around me, making soothing noises all the while.
After what seemed an eternity, my sobs quieted. I felt drained and spent. Only Kit and her warmth were holding me together.
“Don't you have to go back?” I asked, my voice hoarse. It was Christmas Eve after all, and Kit’s family always spent the holidays together.
Mrs. Contreras, Kit’s mom, had invited me to spend Christmas with them, but I’d declined. Somehow, it didn't feel right—like I was erasing all my memories of Lola Pacing in one go. I’d wanted to uphold the traditions she held dear.
But instead of doing things, I’d stayed in bed the whole day. I hadn’t even gone to mass because I was afraid I might start bawling in the middle of the celebration.
So much for tradition.
Kit shook her head. “They know that you need me more tonight.”
I did. And I was grateful that Kit knew it without my having to tell her.
“Guess what? I’ve a surprise for you!” Smiling, she bounced on the bed as she got up. “Give me five minutes then come downstairs.” Her hand on the doorknob, she stopped and wrinkled her nose. “Karl? Shower.”
I bit back a laugh. Seriously, Marikit Contreras was the best thing that ever happened to me.
+ + +
Five years ago
“Hi! I’m Kit Contreras.”
The girl smiled as she pulled out the chair at my table. Flipping long, shampoo-commercial-worthy hair behind her shoulder, she adjusted the pleats on her skirt before she sat down. Hands folded on her lap, friendly brown eyes twinkled at me as she waited for me to introduce myself.
“K-Karl Olivares.” Hating the stammer in my voice, I pushed my glasses up my nose and resisted the urge to start mopping my brow.
This is a nightmare.
Interact soirees were a requirement at the all-boys high school I attended. Every quarter, we had an activity with a neighboring all-girls school. It was supposed to be fun. But for a socially awkward introvert like myself, it was pure torture.
I’d been in the same school since kindergarten, so I didn’t have any female friends. And I guess that was the purpose of these soirees—to ease us into interactions with the opposite sex. After all, there weren’t any all-boys universities. We would have to deal with girls sooner or later and soirees were supposed to help.
During junior year, I’d endured hours of stilted conversation with the partners I’d been assigned. Dutifully, we plowed through the ice-breaker questions the nuns had provided as a guide. The disinterest and boredom on my partners’ faces had been enough to scar me for life.
I knew I’d have to endure it again this year. And over summer vacation, I’d steeled myself to deal with a girl—a regular girl.
But this was no ordinary girl.
Frankly, her model-perfect face and bright, confident air terrified me. Around me, I could see my classmates eyeing her with interest and I knew they’d all pester me for details later.
“So . . .” she smiled encouragingly.
“Uh. So.” In a panic, I scrambled for something to talk about. As seconds ticked by in silence, I grabbed the sheet of questions that Sister Alona had handed out earlier.
Kit glanced down. “Hey, isn’t that . . .”
Before I could stop her, she took the notebook I’d hidden underneath the sheet of paper. I felt my face flush as, lips pursed and head tilted, she squinted at the various doodles I’d drawn. The lines in pencil and ink weren’t cutesy drawings. They were dark and vivid. Blood dripped off the broadsword of one character, another had a dagger raised, poised to spring into action.
I wanted to groan. This was perfect.
Hi, I’m Karl and I like gory gothic stuff. You?
I’d be lucky if she didn't run screaming from the room.
“This is amazing!”
I blinked. Oookay. Wasn't expecting that.
She raised shining eyes toward me. “xxxHolic, right?”
“You know this?” Surprise was evident in my voice. I knew more people watched anime these days, but the characters I’d drawn were from an obscure manga that hadn’t transitioned into local pop culture yet. There were only a handful of guys I knew who were into it.
“Of course! It’s great stuff!” She laughed in delight.
Huh.
“Have you read The Reservoir Chronicles too?”
I pushed my glasses up again, but I didn't feel as nervous as I did a few minutes ago. “Sure. It’s a crossover, right? Features almost the same characters.”
She nodded. “Do you read it online? Which site do you use?”
We talked about websites and how much was lost in anime and live-action adaptations. She agreed th
at it would be interesting to learn Japanese just to read the comics in its original format. I showed her other doodles I had done and we commented on the various animes we’d seen.
So it was a surprise when Sister Alona clapped her hands to get everybody’s attention. “Alright, boys and girls, thank your partners. It’s time to wrap this up.”
Glancing at my watch, I realized that an hour had already passed. We’d been so caught up in our discussion that we’d hardly noticed the time.
Kit beamed at me. “That was fun! It was great to meet you, Karl.” She stood, slung a bag over her shoulder, and waved. “Hope we get to talk again soon!”
Of course I’d thought it was a one-time thing—she’d been polite and tried to make the most of a situation we’d been both been forced into. But when she spotted me at the birthday party of a common friend, she was . . . happy.
“Karl! I’m so glad you’re here!” Her eyes had been friendly and welcoming. She’d introduced me to her friends then dragged me to the buffet table.
I almost hadn’t come. Parties these days included girls and I wasn't entirely comfortable around them yet. At least at soirees we had assigned partners, but mixers like these were . . . uncomfortable. Cliques kept to themselves, while others awkwardly circled around, looking for someone to hang with. The music was usually too loud and the laughter was either forced or out of control.
In the midst of it all, Kit and I were an aberration.
Moving away from the din in the family room, we sat on wrought iron chairs on the lanai and talked. The pizza grew cold and our punch grew warm, but we scarcely noticed.
I’d wanted to pinch myself, but figured that if this was a dream, I didn't want it to end just yet..
Even in her demure school uniform, she’d looked amazing. In a sundress and sandals, she was drop-dead gorgeous. Normally, I’d be awkward and antsy, but there was something about her that put me at ease. Perhaps it was the way she listened, really listened to what I was saying. Perhaps it was the funny little snort when she laughed. Perhaps it was her enthusiasm for stuff people thought nerdy.
And believe me, Kit was anything but a nerd.
“What are you doing next weekend?”
“Oh. Um, I was planning to go to ToyCon . . .”
“Me too!” She grabbed my arm and squealed. “Let’s go together!”
I smiled and nodded. I knew it wasn't a real date, but I wasn't an idiot—I jumped at the chance to see her again.
When Kit discovered I lived only a couple of streets away from her, we started hanging out. Our weekends became a mix of anime marathons, university entrance exam reviews, video games, building and painting anime figures, and pigging out on a mix of cheese and caramel popcorn (caramel for Kit, cheese for me).
Lola Pacing—old-fashioned and conservative—hadn’t been happy at first. “Young people these days,”—she harrumphed—“girls visiting boys’ houses by themselves. What is the world coming to?”
But Kit had soon won her over. And all it had taken was a serving of ampalaya.
Kit stayed over for dinner one night because we’d been doing practice tests for our university entrance exams. Lola Pacing had grudgingly invited her to stay for dinner.
That night, we had pork chops and ginisang ampalaya for dinner. I hated ampalaya. Its crunchy bitterness made me gag. I always tried to avoid it if I could escape Lola’s notice. But that night, after spooning some onto her plate, Kit had handed me the serving bowl. When I made a face, she frowned.
She frowned. “Vegetables are good for you.”
Reluctantly, I spooned some onto my plate. “I eat vegetables. I just don’t like ampalaya much.”
“You’ve got to take the bitter with the sweet. Suck it up, Karl. Besides, your grandmother made this for you.”
I’d eaten my ampalaya and the second serving she had heaped on my plate without another word.
After that, Lola Pacing’s attitude toward Kit thawed. She’d become even friendlier after Kit volunteered to help bake dozens of brandy-laden Christmas fruitcakes. Soon Kit was calling my grandmother Lola P and had a standing invitation to visit the house.
Girls.
+ + +
“Kaaarl! Five minutes, not five days!”
“Coming!” I bellowed as toweled my hair dry. I pulled on pants and a shirt and ran downstairs.
At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and looked around in wonder. Lights twinkled from the tree I hadn’t bothered to set up. It stood in its usual place in the corner, Lola’s heirloom ornaments adorning its branches. Star-shaped parols and red Chinese lanterns were strung around the living and dining room, exactly where Lola hung them every Christmas. Food was laid out on the dining table. The air smelled sweetly of hot tsokolate, bibingka, and puto bumbong, just the way it always had. There was even a small bilao of Lola’s favorite pancit palabok. Beaming, Kit stood beside the household staff, funny Santa hats perched on their heads.
“Merry Christmas!” they chorused.
I smiled. Everything was the same. Different, yet the same.
After we’d eaten, Kit dragged me to the tree to distribute presents. I’d forgotten to buy presents for the staff, but there were gifts with cards in Kit’s handwriting.
When the leftovers were packed away and the maids had gone to their rooms, Kit and I sat on the sofa, looking at the tree.
Turning my head, I looked at the beautiful girl who’d made Christmas happen for me this year. “Kit, I . . .”
A tinny rendition of Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas” shattered the moment. Laughing, Kit held up a finger as she answered her phone. “Hey babe, Merry Christmas! . . . Nah, I’m celebrating with Karl tonight . . . Okay, bye!” She made kissy noises then cut the line. “That was Jason.”
“Figured that out.” I mumbled, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
Hadn’t Jason been jealous that his girlfriend was at another guy’s house for the night? He obviously wasn't. And why would he be? He was soccer team captain or student council president or rowing club founder . . . whatever. It was all the same and he was sure to be one or the other. Kit’s boyfriends had always been part of the ‘in’ crowd at school, just as she was.
But still . . . there had been more than a couple of Jasons in the past few years. They came and they went. I stayed.
I cleared my throat. “So what did Jason get you for Christmas?”
She snorted before turning away to root under the tree. “A coupon. To straighten my hair.”
I bit back a laugh. Kit’s hair was straight as a pin. She’d tried curling her hair several times, but the curls disappeared after a few days. Her hair was beautiful, but yeah, it was the kind of hair people refused to believe was natural.
“Merry Christmas, Karl.” Kit handed me a present. “Open it!”
With a pang, I realized I hadn’t gotten her anything. “Kit, I’m sorry I—”
“Don’t worry, you’re getting me the latest Tokyo Ghoul manga and a DVD of Detroit Metal City. I can wait.”
I smirked. “Can’t I just get you a coupon for a beauty salon?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha. You just try it.”
I tore the wrapper and opened the box. Frowning, I lifted up a square volume wrapped in tissue. “This doesn't look like manga.”
Kit hit me on the shoulder. “Open it!”
It was a photo book. In amazement, I flipped through the pages. Kit had compiled dozens of pictures of Lola and me through the years. Shots of a chubby baby, face smeared with chocolate, laughing as his grandmother bounced him on his lap. A sturdy toddler dressed in a cowboy costume while his grandmother coaxed him to smile. They were all there—vacation, graduation, and party photos, as well as artistic shots Kit had taken in the past few years.
On the pages of the book, Lola Pacing was laughing, frowning, eating, making silly faces, shooing us away as she played mahjong with her amigas . . . she was alive.
“This way, you’ll never forget.” Kit
snuggled into my shoulder as we looked at the photographs together.
“Kit . . .”—I cleared my throat—“thank you.” I felt her smile against my chest. I put an arm around her shoulders and rested my cheek on her shining head.
This girl.
She got me. She truly got me.
“Merry Christmas, Karl.”
“Merry Christmas, Kit.”
“You know I’m here, right?”
“I know.”
Kit wrapped her arms around my middle and hugged me tight. “I love you, Karl.”
I caught her in my arms and kissed her forehead. “I love you too, Kit.” And I did. I loved this beautiful, special girl who I’d always thought would never be mine.
But it was Christmas. And the promise of a new year was looming.
Perhaps this was going to be the year . . . the year that everything changed.
There was hope. And love.
And sometimes, that’s all that really matters.
(Not) THE END
Glossary
Anime (アニメー) : (noun) cartoon, animation
Ano (あの) : (interjection) say, well, err . . .
Arigatou (ありがとう): (interjection) Thank you, Thanks
Baka (バカ) : (noun) fool, idiot
~chan (~ちゃん) : (honorific) usually used for small children, but in this case used as an endearment
Chotto matte (ちょっと待って) : (interjection) Please wait
Chikusho (ちくしょう) : (interjection) shit, damn it
Conbini (コンビニ) : convenience store
Conpe / Compe (コンペ) : competition
Cosplay (コスプレ) : costume play; dressing up in elaborate costumes, usually anime characters
Daijoubu (大丈夫) : (adjective) Good state / condition; could also be used as a question (daijoubu desu ka? / daijoubu?) are you alright?
Dame (ダメ) : (noun) no good, not acceptable
Deshou (でしょう) : (interjection) Right?
Dozo (どぞ) : (interjection) Go ahead, used when offering something to someone