“No. Why do you ask?”
Without breaking a beat in my punch-kick combo, I nod at the luggage that I mistook as a bag brimming with toys. It peeks at us from the open cabinet like a shy third-wheeler. “Oh, that,” she says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Oh, that. “Sam, do you know how long it takes to walk to the garage, open the gate, start the car and drive away?”
“No. And here I thought I was breezing through college.”
“Two minutes, Sam. It takes two minutes. If I wanted to, I could grab this bag and be gone in two minutes. Never look back. I’d be free.”
“Why are you still here, then?”
“You’d think me pathetic.”
“I fainted on your porch. Nothing tops that.”
“Ha. A winning argument.” She wags a finger at me in concession.
“Every day, I wake up telling myself, ‘Clara, today is going to be different.’. My hope is simple, really. Someone ringing the bell bearing leftover dinner would be enough. When I go out for groceries or to pay the bills, I try to finish as quickly as I can because what if I miss the neighbor bearing leftover dinner? I wait. Dinner comes, but no one does. I sleep lightly because what if someone rings the bell and cares to ask how I am. I don’t want to sleep through that.”
See, suburbanites don’t just bring you leftover dinner out of the goodness of their heart, no. You have to make them want to bring you dinner. Leverage is the name of the game and the pony trick is having the best baked lasagna for amiga pot luck. If you can’t have that, then settle for best chicken pastel. Best cross-stitch decorations of Jesus surrounded by cherubs. Best original piano piece of a reluctant daughter pushed to the limit by her stage mother. In here, you’re nobody until you’re the best at something. You’re less than nobody by being the worst. We only meet and greet the people we want to know and be around with. And, nobody wants to be around nobodies.
“After a while, it gets tiring. I’m just being a fool, right?” She takes a passing glance at me. I don’t know if she’s waiting for an answer. “People don’t change. They believe what they want to believe, doesn’t matter if they’re lies or not. It gets old, the waiting, the sitting, the empty house. Just last Wednesday, I found myself with the bag on my left hand. I turned all the lights off. I was ready to leave.”
“What made you stay?”
She puts down the controller and falls silent. The only sounds are of cracking bones and riffs of the post-KO music, as I button-mashed my way to a one-sided victory. This is the kind of silence that floats around, waiting for the best way to push the truth out into the universe and make it real. She fights real hard to keep up appearances before giving up and foregoing the desire to impress. She looks right at me, eyes honest and naked, her mouth forming a slight smile.
“You rang the bell.”
I reach for my glass of Coke on the night stand. I guzzle it so fast my stomach could burst into gas. Here lie Sam’s guts. Flesh diffused into carbon dioxide. It’s all I could do to push back the smile threatening to rip my face from ear to ear. It’s all I could do to hide the pink creeping from my neck to my cheeks to my ears. I give in, though, to the sweet shivers down my spine. My mouth stammers like my heart when I try to change the conversation.
“You don’t happen to have “Just Dance” in there, do you?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Let me change into something comfortable.” Her demeanor changes in the space of a breath. She bounces off the bed and lets out an excited squeal, like a 10-year-old allowed to a slumber party for the first time. She comes out wearing plaid boxers and a white cut-off shirt. I approve of this.
We start slow and timid, two stone statues who realized they were actually people this whole damn time. But, when the bed gets dragged into the thick of things after an Ariana Grande medley, all inhibitions are thrown like paper planes into the night. Shades of the standoffish neighbor who puts all mothers and wives to shame have faded away. A pillow flies by like a big fat cloud and hits me in the face. Who would have ever thought Mrs. Alves could don a bedsheet cape and rock to Lady Gaga? Did anyone ever bother to see through the red-obsessed, almost-forty woman they see in church or the supermarket or behind the heavy tint of a Mercedes?
“Last song, Mrs. Alves. You pick.”
She cycles through all the songs before locking in on an upbeat mess of a song called “Macarena.” Mrs. Alves says I wasn’t even born yet when the Macarena got the whole world in such a dancing rage. Macarena was viral way before viral was even a word that didn’t refer to a cholera outbreak. The music comes to a halt, and the world shrinks to this tiny space. The only air is the space between us, what little of it we fight for as our lungs try hard to keep us alive and normal. My lungs ache from holding my breath. I have the tiniest lungs ever. I could only go half a minute, the loser in countless longest-breath party games. The only water is the sweat dripping down my jaw and her chin. The only earth beneath our feet is two square tiles. The night outside is outer space, black and silent and unending. If I stay in my square, I am safe. Don’t move, don’t move. I look down and see the floor littered with lines that must not be crossed but are just begging to.
“Clara…” There’s no make-up or five thousand peso dress to hide in. There’s no pair of earrings to serve as distraction while she retreats to her shell. Saying her name sounds right. It feels right.
What are you waiting for? Kiss her.
I’m scared.
Chicken.
Don’t call me that.
I hate being called chicken because the truth really hurts. Courage has never been my strong suit. I spook easy. Cockroaches. Ghosts. Swollen lymph nodes. So, I don’t know whose spirit possesses me when I take that first step towards her. I look up to discover that her eyes are grey-brown.
All the lines that got me all up in a dizzy have been blurred. I press my lips against hers, and the world shifts. I know it because my body splits in two from the sheer physical pain of wanting this kiss to never end. Why does wanting translate to physical pain? Why does it twist and turn and shake your insides out of place? Point me to the science that could explain what is happening to me right now.
Her hands fall to her side. It’s like kissing a wall. All I could think of is time. It takes two minutes from here to the driveway. It takes ten seconds from safety to abandon. I break away, and it only takes a second to recognize that I have been changed. I broke my promise. I committed a sin. My phone rings as a grave reminder to what I did here with Clara and in the past with Christina. It’s Mama.
“I’m…I…I have to go.” Two minutes from here to the driveway. That is all I could think about right now. I make it to the door as the memory of her lips flash flood my brain. I hear Clara calling at me from the stairs. I don’t dare look back. I’m too weak enough right now to resist going back for seconds. The seconds tick by. My phone keeps ringing in my pocket like Cinderella’s midnight bell.
The house is asleep when I get there. I reach under the potted fortune plant for the spare key. It takes forever to keep the door, creaky by nature, from announcing my presence. I train my ears to the rustle of Mama’s feet as I tiptoe to my room. Maybe she’s given up and decided to take this up with me in the morning. I close the door without a sound. Coast is clear.
I celebrated too soon.
“Where have you been, Samantha?”
I jump up in fright and knock my knee on an open drawer. I stub my toe from turning around too fast. “Jesus Christ, Mama! You scared me. What are you doing in my room?”
“Do not take the name of our Savior in vain, Samantha! I raised you better than that. Now, answer the question.” Even in the dark, her eyes glare at me. The moonlight has made them wolf-like. All hulked up and lips curved into a scowl, she could transform to Jacob Black any minute.
“I told you, I jogged. Tried a different trail this time.”
“Oh, did that trail lead to Mrs. Alves?”
“You followed me?”, I asked
, my tone accusing.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.” She stands up and orders me to face her. I am taller than her by half a foot. But, there’s something about Mama that just makes her bigger and taller than everyone else. “Mrs. Torres saw you and then called me. What are you doing, Samantha? Are you trying to get us killed?”
“Like gang murder killed, Ma?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t get smart with me.”
“Okay, okay, Ma. You got me.” I raise my arms in surrender. My mind is in a panic. It’s summer vacation, for St. Peter’s sake. My brain cells are in hibernation. I buy myself some time with generic, get-me-out-of-jail-free bail-out phrases. “I didn’t want to tell you because you’d freak out. And, I was right.”
Mama does not move an inch. At least, the nostrils have calmed down. The wolfish glare improves to a curious one. She waits for what I have to say for myself. Heck, even I’m waiting for what to say next. “I feel sorry for her, okay? We help people outside the neighborhood. But, who’s looking out for those inside? Call it a personal charity project or whatever you like. I thought, instead of going to some far-flung village which we do on the regular anyway, why can’t I help someone close to home? Mrs. Alves has no one, Mama. She has no one to teach her the ways of the Lord. Didn’t you teach me to show kindness to people who need it most?”
The words line up like railroad tracks. My mouth is on auto-pilot, making me wonder if what I just said was the truth. Mama turns on the light so she can look at my face and catch me in a lie. I look down and try my best to look forlorn, turn up those signature Sammy Puppy Dog Eyes.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? Oh, Samantha. You are finally growing into the Christian woman I knew and reared you to be! Look at you, showing compassion to those who don’t deserve it.” She claps her hands and gets all misty-eyed. Each word she says feels like a tiny cut to the heart. I don’t know which one was guilt and which one was defeat because Mama doesn’t see Clara the way I do.
“Just keep it low-key, honey. No forcing her back into society. Keep your visits hush-hush until we know where we’re at. I could play this into a positive for us, but I don’t know how yet. And, for the love of the Holy Trinity, don’t make a repeat of Christina.”
My eyes widen in shock. “You knew about Christina? All this time, you knew?”
“You were sad. You became sickly. You don’t ask me to drop you off at the Guzmans on Saturdays. Sam, I knelt for hours in the garden for God to save you. I prayed that you will see the wrong in what you’re feeling, how it made you sinful, made you filthy, removed from grace. God dealt with her and took her as far from you as possible.”
I have no snappy retort on hand. Not for this.
“So, be kind but be wary of the traps that the Devil lays. Until she humbles down and asks for grace, Mrs. Alves is cut from the same cloth as Christina,” she warns me. She tucks me in and turns off the light. Her figure cuts a silhouette by the door. She looks over her shoulder. I see a smirk, but my brain is too fried right now to know for sure. “You should know that by now.”
Chapter 5
“WHO’S YOUR FAVORITE princess?” Tell me this wasn’t the requisite first day high icebreaker in grade school. Little girls decided and formed their clique on this question. You can’t have the same princess in the same group. Two Cinderellas? No can do. I had no problems doubling up with anyone, which would have made me a perfect candidate for any kind of clique. You would think that I had an easy time making friends. But, the problem was my choice and I didn’t quite fit anywhere.
“Esther.”
“Esther? Who’s that?” I would tell them how Esther was not only beautiful, but also brave. Matter of fact, she was brave enough to save all the Jews in her kingdom. But, midway through the story, they always got bored and made friends with their other seatmate instead. They always expected me to blurt out some Disney princess. I always disappointed them by choosing Esther.
While most kids fell asleep to stories of apple-toting witches and princesses in towers, I was tucked into bed with adventures of prophets who lived inside whale bellies and parted seas. Jonas fascinated me. Moses was an inspiration. Samson and Delilah was the greatest love story of all time. Forget Sleeping Beauty or Prince Charming. These were the characters of my childhood.
Every summer, Mama would make me go to Sunday school. The parts of the Bible you learned about varied with age. I was seven when I started at Genesis. In our first year in the suburbs, Mama went on a warpath against empty sign-up sheets. She signed up for Cooking Club, Book Club, Green Thumb Club, Stuck-up Moms. As always, I was collateral damage. Her warpath meant I was signed up to the church choir, the volleyball team and Sunday school. It took me seven years to get to Revelations. By then, I knew the Bible like most teenagers know Taylor Swift songs. Recite any verse, and I’d parrot out the book, chapter and verse number. I led my first Sunday school session at fourteen. I didn’t want to because I hated crowds. I liked talking but wasn’t particularly good at speaking to an audience. Blank faces terrified me and I couldn’t deal with indifference.
“Mama, I don’t want to. Why can’t I be part of the class like everyone else?”
“Come on, Sammy. You’ll be fine.”
“Mama, I really can’t.”
“Please, Sammy. Won’t you do this for Mama? Imagine how many I could reach out to and transform if I were vice-president of the Moms Standing Up For Christ.”
“What’s that got to do with Sunday school?”
It turned out I was election fodder. My voluntary assignment boosted Mama’s ratings and improved her church cred. Mama talked non-stop about how I led a study session for adults at the young age of fourteen. She talked about me with so much pride and eagerness you would think I had just brought home the Nobel Peace Prize. Mama rode it all the way to a landslide nomination as the new VP of Stuck-up Moms. The others tried to sign their own sons and daughters to lead sessions, but had no such luck. They didn’t have Mama’s nostrils of rage and high frequency voice of persuasion. They didn’t have a daughter they could bully into submission. I’ve tried to reason with Mama to get me out of here. Mama’s lines varied each year, all boiling down to my ultimate weakness. Approval. I would lick a horse’s balls for parental approval.
“It’s good for you, Sammy.”
“I put in word of your work to my friends. Please don’t disappoint me now, Samantha.”
“Just one more year, Sam. I promise.”
“Would you dare disappoint your mother?”
Five years later, I am still here. Ted is the leader of our Sunday school group, just because he’s the only one who is here of his own accord. He has no overbearing parents to wrestle with. He has no ambitions to pull publicity stunts for. He just really, really likes God. The dude cycles through a thousand “I love Jesus” shirts. I don’t think he owns any other kind of shirt, to be honest. He’s wearing one right now.
“Okay. Please welcome our newest volunteer to Sunday School…” I cover my mouth and stifle a chuckle. Who in their right mind would volunteer to lead a Sunday school session? It’s like signing your own personal hell. Once you’re in, you never leave.
“…Mrs. Clara Alves.” I look back and see all the familiar shades of red that have come to define Clara. Everything is red. My red blood runs cold. A red siren keeps wailing in my head, Approach the exit approach the exit. She sidles up to the chair beside me as I was about to make an escape. Can hell, personal or public, swallow me now, please?
“For next week, we’ll hold off the regular bible study groups to teach to the children of Intsikan. As always, the children will be divided into groups like the ones we have here in the village.” Ted lays down the assignments. Through some cruel twist of divine intervention, I’m paired with Clara as her assistant. This is about as cruel a tantrum God could make since Jesus went berserk against sidewalk vendors in the temple.
“Which group, Ted?” I pray, please
not daycare, please not daycare, on repeat. My words take on a rhythm and it feels like I’m rapping the prayer ala Kanye West. Pray-rap. That could be a thing.
Daycare. Moms’ orders. ‘Moms’ orders’ means it came from Mrs. Bautista and Mama and their power-trip gang of mothers. For a moment, the idea of disobeying them floats in my mind. But, the fourth commandment keeps me in my seat. Honor your father and mother even when they don’t seem to honor you.
“It’s the best group, right? Kids and play. What could possibly go wrong?” Clara asks. I groan and scratch my head. I want to say words to her. But, I just keep thinking about that stupid thing I did. All ten years of elementary and secondary grammar dissolved into useless brain juice. The meeting adjourns and I hatch my exit strategy as Ted preoccupies Clara with first-timer reminders. I walk fast, hoping she didn’t notice me leave. Surely, my Chucks can overtake her sky-high pumps, right?
Wrong.
“Sam, wait up!”
She reaches me at the parking lot. I flinch as her fingers graze my shoulder. She feels it and withdraws, showing a split-second of hurt before giving me a sober look. “Why didn’t you answer my calls last night?”
Why, indeed. I was busy buried under sheets, shame and guilt to answer calls. Even if it were Jesus Christ himself who called me, I don’t think I would have been able to answer. I didn’t want to hear her struggle for words as she seeks to transmute “What lame excuse could you possibly have to justify kissing me?” into something nice and digestible.
“I’m so sorry for what I did, Clara. That was uncalled for. Not at all how my parents raised me. I’m not like that.”
Not like that.
Like what?
That.
Even my thoughts are hiding from themselves.
“Sam, it’s okay. I don’t understand why you…” Her voice trails into a whisper. “...kissed me. But, that won’t happen again, right?” Her eyes gleam with hope. Whether she’s hoping for a yes or a no, I couldn’t say. I close my eyes and pray for the right answer. I remember the kiss and how she just stood there like I just turned her to stone. Her arms fell limp to her side. She didn’t even kiss back, not even a little. What if she kissed back? No, Sam. Don’t even go there. It was a sin either way, and it can’t happen again. The right answer is yes, so I say it.
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