by Jay E. Tria
“Since you’re the only one who cares enough,” Nino put in.
“It’s about his songs, isn’t it?” Son waved his beer bottle in the air, a pendulum swinging back and forth. “I told him so. A little less Ed Sheeran, a little more Alex Turner.”
Kim heaved his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Sure.” He grabbed two fresh bottles from the bar behind him, then he too, disappeared.
For a whole verse, a chorus, and a guitar fade, Bon Iver’s ‘Holocene’ was the only sound moving across their suddenly half-empty table. They were jolted back to earth when the speakers blared out a familiar sharp riff, followed by Kim’s raspy voice belting out the first words to their newest song, ‘Bright Side’.
Son jumped up from his seat and reached over, pinching Jill’s idle arm. “Go on, you crazy lovebirds. Scram. Your lyrics are a lot less depressing now, but Mars could still come looking for you.”
“Firstly, ow! But Son’s right.” Jill turned to Shinta as she got to her feet. “We should go.”
Shinta nodded, knotting her fingers with his as they said their goodbyes to Son and Nino. He had completely forgotten about Picture Girl until she showed up in front of them, blocking the exit.
“Oh it’s you!” Shinta raised his hand in a wave, mouth forming a sheepish grin. “Konnichiwa! I—”
“Jill.” The girl cut through Shinta’s speech, stepping forward until her face was inches from hers. “Hi, Jill. Hello.” She spoke with shallow breaths, blood rushing so violently to her cheeks that Shinta could see it under the throbbing lights. “I’m a huge fan. I love you. Can I take a picture with you?”
A short nod from Jill and the girl thrust her phone into Shinta’s hands, shooting him a pointed look as if doubting his ability to work the camera. Jill sidled in beside the girl, one arm hanging over her shoulder, lips fixed in a shy smile.
Shinta tried several times, but the best he could do was an assortment of hazy pictures as his fingers quivered from his laughter.
September 15, Friday, three years ago
The air was sticky with the smell of rain. And the people were shrill.
Tens of thoughts had circuited through Shinta’s brain since he started his vigil outside Arrivals at Manila’s airport. But they all came back to those two things. The busy driveway in front of him was stone dry, baked from an entire day under the sun. The clouds overhead looked heavy with rain, the thick scent filling Shinta’s nose with the same force the joyous sounds from the reunions around him attacked his eardrums.
“How could you do this to me, Mother?” This was not the first thing he’d muttered to himself today.
Granted, he knew he was not supposed to visit her in September. His visits to his expatriate mother were reserved for December, in time for the lengthy school holiday, the Christmas lights and Christmas sales, and cooler Metro Manila weather. But his father booked him full with TV appearances and shoots for that month, requiring him to reschedule their annual mother-son bonding.
Shinta glared at his mother’s message on his phone, like a fool hoping the contents would change. Got caught up in a faculty meeting at the university. Sent a friend to pick you up.
Shinta scrunched his nose. It had been over a decade since his parents’ divorce, since his mother had started teaching in a Philippine state university, and had thus been calling the country home. That was more than enough time for her to accumulate a collection of eccentric friends. There was the fire-breathing, dragon boat enthusiast (two separate hobbies), the blue-haired lady who made her own skirts, and the man who refused to wear shoes.
He hoped she’d sent him the blue-haired lady. At least she was fun to talk to.
“Good, you don’t have luggage. Kim forgot to remove his amp and pedal board from the trunk, and he has this weird thing against people moving his stuff. Laser eyes and smoke through nostrils. You don’t wanna know. Anyway…hi.”
She stood there, talking to him with no preamble, superimposed against the wall of people loitering in the waiting bays. She was dressed in a muscle tee one size too big and cuffed shorts two inches shorter than what Shinta was ready for. Her dark eyes darted from his face to the backpack tucked between his legs, and back to his face, settling there.
Shinta felt a sharp rush of memories—fresh, raw, and very much welcome. A gritty four-song set that got him sneaking backstage to meet the band. Takoyaki and lukewarm beer in plastic cups, and sunburned shoulders and a flamingo sunset. He knew those eyes. He knew her. She was the vocalist of that band Trainman, the one he helped get a slot for a music festival in Tokyo last month, on a peculiar request from his mother.
Panic polluted her eyes as his silence extended. “Oh God, did I get the wrong guy? Aren’t you Shinta Mori?”
“Yes, yes, I am!” Shinta said hastily, lest someone else claimed the honor. He stepped toward her. “Hello.”
“I’m Jill,” she said, front teeth troubling her bottom lip. “We met last month in Tokyo. Your celebrity connections got us a slot at a music festival.” Her periods came out sounding like questions marks. “We hung out after our set. Our bassist Son threw up over your car’s back tire.”
“I didn’t forget. Hello, Jill.” He smiled, liking the way his tongue wrapped around her name.
Jill’s eyebrows met, her eyes narrow slits. “Um, so Professor Mori asked me to pick you up and drive you home. You’re all set? Let’s go?”
“Sure.” What was wrong? He was giving her his best fabric conditioner commercial smile. Didn’t that work in this time zone?
Jill led him across the driveway past three rows of parked cars, braking in front of a dated, moss green Honda. She patted the chipped paint of the car’s trunk as if it were a missed friend before heading for the door. “Meet Virginia, Kim’s old reliable.”
This might have been the first time he was meeting Virginia, but Shinta remembered Kim, the boyfriend. That piece of trivia was stamped in his brain, together with a vivid reel of proof that he saw with his own eyes. Still true, or now false?
“Your boyfriend names his stuff?”
“And mine too, sometimes.”
Ah, still true then. Shinta thought he heard a chip come off his stout, confident heart, coupled with the spark of a flame inside his belly.
He slid inside the car, after her. Once they’d both slammed the doors shut, the smell of baked concrete and impending rain was replaced by the crisp scent of car freshener, worn leather, and the lingering notes of citrus and summer. Shinta inched closer toward Jill, finding the source of the faintest scent, his eyes closing of their own accord as he breathed in the curious flavor that clung to her shirt and skin.
The rumble of Virginia the Honda coming to life made him jump back and strap on his seatbelt before she could notice his breach of her personal space.
“I heard you cancelled your mother’s Christmas,” Jill said as she drove out of the airport’s parking lot, commencing their journey.
Shinta stayed put in his seat, his eyes on her. “Is that what she’s been telling people?”
“Yeah, you made her sad. She said she’s boycotting glazed ham and quezo de bola this year and will just have two slices of white bread for Noche Buena.”
“Thrifty.” Shinta laughed, shaking his head. He knew he inherited his appetite for theatrics from one of his parents. “My mother is not a fan of this acting thing, loving nerd that she is.”
“I don’t suppose a college professor would be very thrilled with her son skipping college.” Jill threw him an all-knowing look.
“Exactly.” Shinta chuckled. “She wants me to go back to school.”
“Well, at least finish it before you run headlong into this ‘madness,’ as she calls it.”
“You agree with her, of course?”
Jill took a while, as if deciding if he merited an honest answer, but her admission came out anyway. “I like school, okay? I’ve decided to keep doing this music thing after I graduate. But I’d like to do that knowing I can do other things too.” She
spared him a short look. “Now I know you don’t know me, and you must be judging me over there for being a nerd—”
“Not at all. You’re right. I think I’d like to go back to school someday.”
That came out easily, blurted out as something meant to impress her. But as Shinta turned the thought over in his head, he knew it wasn’t a lie. It was fun as an idea at first, skipping his academics for the celebrity life. But seeing his friends choose their paths and go through the normal final rites of passage made him feel like he was missing out. He didn’t exactly choose this acting thing. Corny as it was, it kind of chose him.
“But you like it? Your life, I mean.” Jill didn’t turn towards him this time, her eyes focused on the road under Virginia’s stride. But she released her question with an honest sort of curiosity. One that was thoughtful, and kind.
“It’s a fun gig,” Shinta said after a pause he used to rummage through his thoughts. “I get to put on nice clothes, play pretend. Get paid well for being pretty, throwing fake punches, and crying on cue.”
“Are you lonely?” was her frank follow up. “Actors in romance movies and books are always lonely.”
“No.” Shinta was sure of this. “I have friends. And I meet a lot of new ones all the time. Like you.” He flashed her another smile, but Jill was too busy minding the traffic and keeping silent to bother looking at him. Shinta cleared his throat, pushed to go on. “My father and I disagree on a lot of things. I drive him crazy, and that’s always fun. I see my mother once a year.”
“She misses you. It drives her crazy.”
“I know. Of course I miss her. We disagree on a lot of things too, so she’s also fun.” Yuki Mori, his mother the academic. The unyielding, the wise, and the loving. “But I hoped she’d be happier for me now that my career is picking up.”
“So mean of you, cancelling her Christmas,” Jill teased. “You’re the hot celebrity Grinch.”
“You think I’m hot?”
“Wow.” Jill let out a low whistle, this time sparing him a glare before zoning back on the road. “Your mother’s right. You are full of yourself. I think I like last month’s Shinta Mori better. Sweaty and tipsy but less of an inflated head.”
Each word she said felt like an extra second’s permission to study her, to take in one new detail after the other. A tiny mole at the base of her neck, punctured by the tip of a small cross she wore as a pendant. There were three piercings on her right earlobe, each decorated by a differently-shaped silver stud—star, skull, and bone. And then there was her mouth—full lips and thoughtful tongue—that spoke with no brakes, once she got her bearings.
“Call me Shinta, please. My friends call me Shinta.” The traffic light ambled from yellow to red to green, and still he was met with silence from her end. “You don’t think we’re friends, do you?”
“Not at all,” she said in grave tones.
He leaned back in his seat, taking more notes. “Mother was right about you too. You have a thing against people.”
“Only new people,” was her easy reply. “I’ve already gone beyond my usual word quota for strangers. But Professor Mori talks about you so much, even in class. Especially outside of class.”
“You feel like you know me?”
“I feel like I’m forced to.”
Shinta laughed as Jill glared straight ahead. He felt it was safe to do so when he saw one corner of her lip quiver and turn up.
“You should tell your mother it’s weird for her to like her students this much,” she grumbled. “The other kids are starting to notice. Kim and Miki write good lyrics, sure, but we aren’t that good in Creative Writing.”
A pair of legs that didn’t seem to end. A small, dark patch on her knee that he couldn’t quite fathom. Was it a spot of grease from this rundown car, or a faint birthmark? Shinta itched to touch it and find out.
“I can’t believe she even invited us to your welcome-back party tonight,” Jill was saying as they trundled through traffic, her arm battling with the stick shift.
He brought his eyes back to her face. “I’m having a party tonight?”
Jill’s mouth dropped open. “Shit. A surprise party.”
“Did she rent a karaoke machine?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, Nino and Son were thrilled. They’re going to make Kim sing ‘Copacabana’.” Jill knocked her fist against her forehead. “The professor is going to murder me.”
“Don’t worry,” Shinta said with a grim smile, thumping his fist against his chest. “I act for a living. I can act surprised.”
“Okay. I’m counting on you. The semester isn’t over and Professor Mori hasn’t graded me yet.”
“Hates people, enjoys learning, and is grade conscious.” Shinta nodded once, ticking his fingers as he voiced out more observations.
Jill flicked her narrowed eyes in his direction. “Actors,” she heaved out. “Subtlety is lost on you.”
Shinta let out a boom of laughter. When she joined in on the happy sound, he felt like he’d won something, a small victory from what was looking to be a long, drawn-out standoff. After the next turn on the road, Jill switched on the radio and fiddled with the music player on her phone. Soon the jagged opening riff of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s ‘Maps’ filled the car’s Aruba Wave and Neroli-scented air.
After about an hour or so more of pitiless traffic, Jill rolled the car to a stop in front of a towering black metal grid gate, deep within the university’s teacher’s village. She was peering through the spaces in the grid, craning her neck, so it was easy for Shinta to grab her phone.
“What the—hey!” Jill cried.
A swipe up on the screen and a few expert clicks on her social media apps and his work was done. “There,” Shinta said as he handed back her phone, a smug smile his steady response to her pursed lips. “Now we’re officially friends on at least three social media accounts. I promise you won’t regret it.”
He hopped off the car before she could protest, taking care to not slam the door this time, knowing that Virginia the Honda had suffered for them on the road. He’d barely gotten his lean frame and bulky backpack through the gap in the gate when Yuki Mori came running toward him from the front door, pummeling him in a welcome embrace.
“Professor Mori,” he said when she had let go, with a bow of his head and a kiss on her cheek.
“Mr. Hotshot Celebrity,” his mother fired back, her small hands squeezing his shoulders.
“Jill told me about the ham-and-cheese-ball boycott,” Shinta began as mother and son made their way to the house. He turned his head to find Jill still standing outside, hip against the car door.
“You have yourself, your father, and your ambitions to blame,” Yuki said, voice flat.
“Don’t call it off. You know that’s my favorite Christmas combo.”
“It’s not like you’ll be here with me to enjoy it.” Yuki planted both hands on her waist, rising on tiptoes so she could level their gazes. “Will you?”
They were standing at the threshold, so it was with a clear view that Shinta caught Jill shifting her weight where she stood, left sneaker, right sneaker then left again. Her eyes were locked on her professor as if waiting for a signal, the next instruction. When her gaze drifted to Shinta, he smiled. Not his fabric conditioner commercial smile. His this-is-going-to-be-a-mighty-long-fall smile. He hadn’t counted on ever having the need for it.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll be here come December,” he told his mother, and he hoped Jill had heard it too. “I will see you then.”
September 8, Tuesday, morning
His mother was awake. One look at her house told him that. White light spilled out of the living room window, its brightness filtered by the houndstooth-patterned curtains, and obscured by a shadow flitting across the small space. Up, down, up, down the hall, Yuki’s shadow danced. Shinta chuckled. His mother was pacing.
He checked his watch. Its steel hands read one o’clock, confirming that Yuki’s impatience was entirely his fault.
They had been in the same country, breathing the same stifling, hot air for three hours now, and he hadn’t even had the decency to call her.
He missed her. He did. The curse of a child of divorce was that you were always missing one parent. One clean chunk of you was always nestled in some place you couldn’t be.
But his sneakers held him in place, rubber soles glued to the path fronting the door, the same spot he’d been rooted to since Jill dropped him off. He looked up at the small terrace, at the square light that was his bedroom window. He was going to sleep in his room, in his mother’s house, tonight and the next few nights. That was certain. But his thoughts were roaming to a different room, a different bed.
“One more hour,” he whispered in apology to Yuki’s waiting figure. “Maybe two.” He fished his phone from his pocket and typed a message. Landed safe and sound. With Jill now. Please don’t wait up?
He hit send, spun on his heel, and slipped through the gap in the towering gate. He fled, off to turn his text into truth.
Rocks and pebbles. They were primal tools for a reason.
Shinta was on his fifth throw when he finally saw her through the glass panes. He thought he saw more horror than surprise on her face at the sight of him, standing there outside her house under the blanket of a barely-there morning. Jill’s second-floor window slid open, her voice spilling through the gap.
“Are you serious?” she choked out.
“I come bearing no boom box, nor an acoustic guitar,” Shinta vowed, cupping his mouth with a hand, the better for her to hear. He grinned at the dismay marring her face. “Not even a reference to Romeo and Juliet.”
“What are you doing?” Jill hissed. “Didn’t I deliver you to your mother? Oh no. She doesn’t know you’re here, does she? Yuki is going to kill me.”
“Your parents won’t be so forgiving either, so please try not to make too much noise.”