Any Day with You

by Mae Respicio

  I know now I can’t be a real live mermaid, but it turns out I can transform anyone into a fanciful creature with a pop of color and my imagination.

  Dad works as a digital effects artist at a movie studio, and there’s a whole department there for special-effects makeup. That’s a job I want one day. I’ve been using different characters from Tatang’s old tales to practice.

  I apply the final dusting of glitter with a fat brush. Sunshine pours in and makes my cheeks shimmer.

  Not bad.

  “Kaia! Kaia Santos!” a voice shouts from outside. I run to the window. Trey leans on his bike, grinning and waving. “Kaaaaiiiiiaaaaaa Santooooooos!”

  “Want to come up?” I yell back. “I’m mermaiding!”

  Trey looks both ways and jets across the street. Then, his usual entrance: the doorbell ringing twice, a quick hi to Mom, his footsteps galloping up the stairs to my door, which flies open.

  “Let me see.” Trey throws himself onto the bed and I jump up next to him. He flashes the biggest smile. “Awesome.”

  “Glad you like it, because you’re up next.”

  Trey lets me test out different looks on him. He doesn’t normally wear makeup, but he’s used to wearing it for theater productions, and maybe he’ll put on the occasional guy-liner for fancy occasions. He wants to act one day. Both of his parents are pharmacists, and at first they didn’t want Trey to love acting so much—they wanted him to be into their hobbies—but now it’s his dad who starts every standing ovation at Trey’s plays. Sometimes Trey gets to skip classes to go on auditions, which happens a lot at our middle school since everyone in LA wants to be famous (even our plumber, says Dad). Trey’s a natural. He can cry on cue without eye drops.

  I pull up a chair and throw him a leg from a bright blue fishnet stocking I’ve cut up. He yanks it over his head so that it covers his face. The holes act like a stencil, and they make a crisscross pattern against Trey’s dark skin. He looks like some kind of weird performance art.

  “Name your look: Glitter Dots, Magical Merman, or Merman Zombie?” I say.

  “Hmmm…Hint of Merman.”

  I give him the jar of brushes to hold while I work my magic. When I’m done I peel the stocking off and admire the result: a soft pattern of diamonds blending into his cheek like they’re part of him.

  “Reveal time!” I reach for Dad’s old Polaroid camera and point it to face us, and we give our best mermaid grins.

  Click!

  The camera spits out a square. Trey grabs it and waves it around to air-dry.

  “Gimme!” I yank it away and we hunch over the image.

  Us, only shinier.

  I search my wall for an open space in the growing mass of practice photos. My gaze lands on one of Mom and Lainey made up as mystical engkantos, Philippine nature spirits who live in seas and rivers and forests and can bring good or bad luck. We did this one right before Lainey left. I really miss her. Lainey gets me. Trey and our other best friend, Abby, wish they had a big sister like mine.

  Trey glances at his phone. “Hey, Abby’s at the Promenade. Want to go find her?”

  “But we’ve never gone out in public like this.”

  “So? We’ll be the coolest merpeople on land!”

  He’s right. If I’m going to become famous at this I need to start showing more people my art.

  “Sure, let’s go ask my mom.”

  Trey holds up the picture. I tear off some tape and pat it into place on my wall, trying to make it stick.

  * * *

  Downstairs we find one of my favorite people.

  “Uncle Roy!” I shout.

  “Kaia de la playa!” he shouts back.

  Kaia of the beach.

  My uncle has lots of nicknames for me, and that’s my favorite.

  Kaia is a Hawaiian word for “sea.” My parents honeymooned in Hawaii. Elena, my sister’s name, means “shining light” or “bright one.” We’re their sun and their sea. They tried to name Toby something oceany too, but they couldn’t agree on something they liked.

  I run up to hug Uncle and he pretends to fall down. “Ugh! You’re like a linebacker now!” he says. “Trey! My favorite thespian!” They fist bump.

  “We didn’t hear you come in,” I say.

  Uncle Roy studies my face. “Ooh…nice colors!”

  I have my list of things I want to be when I grow up; Uncle Roy’s still working on his. He goes to culinary school while teaching yoga and selling condos. Sometimes people think he’s an actor because of his striking face, strong biceps, and huge brown eyes.

  Uncle likes to take me to new restaurants, and he says to the waiters, “Bring the dessert first, please.” We always order dessert first.

  He’s Mom’s little brother, a bachelor with no kids. Dad’s family lives up in Sacramento, a six-hour drive away, so I don’t see them as much as Mom’s side.

  Of all my family, maybe except Tatang, Uncle Roy is the most relaxed. He’s so patient that last Christmas, when one of the aunties poked his belly and said, “Maybe it’s time to start laying off the bibingka cakes, Roy?” instead of getting offended he said, “I think my cute pooch makes me pretty guapo.” Handsome. Then he stood up and made his stomach protrude like he’d swallowed a bowling ball. My cousins and I burst into giggles and he whispered to me: “Gratitude is my attitude.”

  It’s also why sometimes he goes to Palm Springs with his friends for the holidays.

  Tonight Uncle’s babysitting Toby because Mom, Dad, and I are picking Tatang up from the airport. I’m sure Tatang will come back with a new Hawaiian shirt—he owns one for every occasion.

  “You ready for Big T’s return?” Uncle asks.

  I point to our chalkboard wall. “I present to you the Epic To-Do List of All Phenomenal Things! It’s everything Tatang and I are going to do this summer.” Hopefully he likes tandem biking, movies at theaters with luxury recliners, and viewing the eclipse.

  A trail of teeny-tiny black ants creeps up the chalkboard wall. I place my finger near one and it crawls onto my nail. I study its frantic movement, then gently set it down. Most people would clean them up, but not my family. Ants parading around in your home bring good luck, so I know Mom is letting them be for Tatang’s return.

  Right now she’s puttering about and sweeping the floor with her walis tambo, a broom with long, wispy bristles fanned out. Mom wipes her brow. “Okay, guys, I think the house is all set for a prosperous arrival.”

  “Mrs. Santos, would you like any help?” Trey asks.

  Uh-oh. If we don’t make our escape now, we’ll get stuck here and I won’t have any time to see Abby.

  “Why, I’d love some help, sweetie, thank you,” Mom says.

  “Should I open all the windows?” he asks.

  I do a facepalm. “Mom, may we please go to the Promenade?”

  I’m too late.

  “Trey,” Mom says, “opening windows is for New Year’s, so we can let in all the good luck.” She hands Trey a bowl. “Go into the kitchen and load this with ten of the shiniest round fruits you can find. That’ll help fill the house with prosperity.”

  “You got it!” He marches out and Mom follows.

  My family does things that a lot of other families don’t—Filipino things.

  Mom never cleans the floor with her walis at night because she doesn’t want to sweep away any wealth. On New Year’s Eve we turn on all the lights to make sure the coming year is bright. And Lainey always eats only the top of the rice, so she can be at the top of her class. Mom and Dad say their parents made them do all of these same rituals, so it’s one way to honor them. I like that.

  Trey and Mom return with the bowl full of waxy red apples.

  “You kids hungry? I’ll make you a snack,” Mom says.

  “Mom? Promenade?” I say.

&nb
sp; “Please?” Trey says.

  “Pretty please?” Uncle Roy says, batting his lashes in an exaggerated way, and Trey and I do the same until she has no choice.

  “You have two hours, young lady. I don’t want to hit traffic on our way to the airport.”

  “Thanks!” Trey and I shout as we dash for the door.

  Outside, we snap on our helmets, I slap my skateboard onto the pavement, and we roll.

  Summer greets us everywhere we turn and the sun warms me like a hug. Joggers and walkers pass, then people on scooters and bikes. Everyone is wearing sunglasses and flip-flops, sipping smoothies and looking like one big health food ad.

  Everyone’s heading west—to the beach.

  When I was little, I learned directions by remembering that west means water. The “two Ws.” It’s hard for me to get lost in LA because I always know that home means near the ocean.

  Dad likes to gloat that we’ve made everyone’s weekend thing our everyday thing. The perfect weather forces people outdoors to do beachy stuff, even in winter.

  We live in Santa Monica, a part of LA, but I have uncles and aunties and cousins and lolos and lolas all over Southern California. Mom’s parents are from the Philippines, and she was born here. Dad’s parents are from the Philippines, but he was born there and came here as a baby. Mom taught me that a lot of Filipinos immigrated to California in the 1960s, like Tatang and Nanang Cora, my great-grandma, because of a law that brought in nurses like Nanang. During those days a movie ticket cost a buck and a chocolate bar was five cents—what a deal.

  My great-grandparents had a hard life at first, but now we have a good one because of them. Tatang and Nanang had one dream: to put their children through college. They worked three jobs each, and it sure wasn’t easy. When they arrived no one in their new country would hire Tatang as a teacher, even though he had a degree and had taught in the Philippines.

  He says, “I guess they didn’t know what to make of me.”

  He took the only job he could get, as a janitor at a high school, where the kids called him mean names. It made him question why he left behind everything he knew. But Tatang stayed positive. The principal helped him get a job teaching middle school. When he finally retired, the school threw him a huge celebration, because he was the most inspiring teacher they’d ever had. Everyone loved him.

  “It was never luck, only hard work,” he likes to say.

  Trey rides ahead of me. “Wait up!” I shout, and we race to a stoplight across from the Third Street Promenade. It’s a long, closed-off street three blocks from the ocean lined with shops and cafés. You see every kind of person there: old and young, local and tourist.

  Beside us, people carry surfboards on their heads. As the light turns green we cross in a pack.

  Trey finds a bike rack and locks up. Some tough-looking guys in black leather jackets nod our way and say, “Cool scales.”

  “See?” Trey says to me. “They love us.”

  We walk into the stream of people and street performers until we spot Abby.

  “Gabby Abby!” Trey shouts, but she doesn’t hear us. She’s pointing a camera at a man and a woman belting out songs while people throw money into a guitar case.

  We’ve called our friend Gabby Abby since kindergarten because Abby knows how to talk. She says if she’s ever going to be taken seriously as a female film director she needs a big voice that people will listen to. It works for her. Even when Abby blabbers on about things she’s clueless about, she does it in a way that makes people think the opposite. Lainey calls this confidence—I could use more of that. We’re the best trio, because whenever one of us starts talking, the others’ brains fill up with ideas until we’re all bursting to do something.

  Abby’s our own personal friend-ographer. She gets her good eye from her mom, who’s also a photographer. I have no idea what her dad does, and neither does Abby, since they’ve never met.

  Abby points her lens at us and we make cornball faces.

  “Aww, you guys mermaided without me?” she says.

  “Jealous?” Trey teases.

  Abby reminds me a little of a mermaid right now in her teal and silver sequined skirt. She loves girlie things.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Practicing the rule of thirds.” She shows us the singers on her camera screen—they appear way off to the right. “It’s more interesting if the thing you’re shooting isn’t smack dab in the middle of the frame. What do you think?”

  “Weird,” Trey says, but I nod.

  “I like it.”

  One of the singers makes eye contact with me, but I look the other way. I’ve seen their act before—inviting people up to sing. I’m a horrible singer and would rather stay behind the scenes, thank you very much. But Trey takes the bait and jumps up to the mic. Strangers clap along as he croons “I Can See Clearly Now.”

  “Gonna be a briiight…briiight…sunshiny daaaaaay…,” Trey belts out, and Abby snaps away. Neither of them cares who’s watching. They never get nervous performing in front of strangers the way I do.

  My friends are super talented. Last summer Trey played Peter Pan in a community theater production, and Abby won a photography contest—for adults!—at our neighborhood library. She entered the wrong category by mistake and when the library found out she was only eleven, they still gave her first place.

  In school plays, I get cast in snoozer roles like “tree stump” or “rock.” I always lose the spelling bee on my first word, and I’m not into sports, so I don’t have any trophies. And sure, last year in sixth grade our teacher gave me the Perfect Attendance Queen award, but everyone knows that doesn’t count.

  If I want to be good at something too, then Lainey was right—I need to practice more. If I keep going and find some inspiration to help me get better, I’ll finally stand out.

  “Earth to Kaia…Earth to Kaia…” Trey pops up by my side.

  He stretches his arms and flings them around me. Abby throws hers around his, and soon we’re locked and squeezing so tight that we almost topple. We laugh so hard.

  “Let’s hear it for our special guest,” the street performers say, and Trey runs back for a quick bow. Abby and I clap along with the crowd.

  “You guys want to come over for dinner?” Abby asks as we cut through the Promenade. Usually dinnertime at Abby’s means walking from their apartment to a pizza place on Montana Avenue where she and her mom take pictures of their food before digging in.

  “Sure,” Trey says.

  I shake my head. “Sorry, can’t be late to pick up Tatang.” I made a really good welcome sign to greet him at the airport.

  “Oh, I forgot. I can’t wait to hang out with him!” Abby says.

  “Let’s go. I’m starved,” Trey says to Abby.

  “See you at camp!” they shout before heading back into the crowd.

  It’s a clear day, perfect for skateboarding near the water—and finding my spark. I squint at my watch; there’s still time.

  * * *

  With a whap I throw my skateboard to the sidewalk and push onto it, weaving in and out of people in a smooth zigzag. To my right stretches miles of sparkly ocean. As a little kid I thought engkantos, the environmental spirits, lived beneath the waves and were what caused the glittery light. Sometimes I still like to believe that.

  The ocean is my daily dose of what Uncle Roy calls “mental tranquility.” Water calms the soul. That’s why people like taking beachside walks and trips to lakes.

  I peek up at bright clouds filling the horizon. One day the water in them will turn to rain and flow into rivers and seas until the sun warms it up and the cycle starts again. Tatang likes to say that water’s always changing but it still has a beginning and an end.

  I skateboard along until the street turns into a steep, narrow lane, so I tuck my board unde
r my arm and walk across the wooden pier.

  The entrance has more street performers and people selling stuff, plus rides and games. A super-scary roller coaster looms above.

  I spot a table where I see a cat, a lady, and a huge sign:

  CHANGE YOUR LIFE WITH PSYCHIC CAT!

  The lady is older and wears a purple turban with a matching velvet cape. She seems bored sitting there, filing her nails with a grim expression on her face. No one’s stopping to watch her act.

  I squeeze between a steady stream of people and read the sign more closely:

  Psychic Cat Will Help You:

  Face Change!

  Focus on the Positive!

  Live in the Moment!

  Be Happy!

  ETC.!!!!!­!!!!!­

  The woman peers up at me. In front of her sits a stack of tarot cards and a curled-up white cat, napping in a sunny spot, wearing its own turban with a fancy feather popping out like an exclamation point.

  This cat does not look like a life-changer.

  “Is this Psychic Cat?” I ask.

  “In the flesh. Meet Frederick.”

  “May I pet him?”

  She shrugs. “If he’ll let you.”

  Frederick’s fur feels warm under my touch; he opens his eyes—barely.

  “How does Psychic Cat work?”

  “Want to know a secret?” She motions me to come closer, then whispers: “He doesn’t.”

  The woman cackles a nutty laugh and claps her hands together.

  “So you mean…this is false advertising?” I smile, but I’m not really joking. Tatang says always speak your mind.

  She taps her head. “You’re a smart cookie, I can tell. What I mean is that Frederick, Psychic Cat, does not aid in the way one might expect. But he is certainly an impetus for wonderful, magical things. Psychic Cat gets the ball rolling.” She circles her pointer fingers around each other.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “People who meet him are able to manifest happiness because they just need a cute kitty as a jump start. But really…it is they who help themselves.”