by Mae Respicio
“How, exactly?”
“Let me show you.” She reaches for a deck of cards wider than her palm. “Tell me what you wish for. The one thing in life your heart desires most.”
I think about it.
There are so many things, like…a new skateboard, or for my parents to let me watch R-rated movies, or to be taller.
The woman shakes her head, slams her palms onto the table, and says, as if she’s read my mind, “No, no, no. If you cannot consider my question more deeply then I cannot help you.”
“May I please try again?” I ask, but she shoos me away like a fly.
“No freebies here!”
The woman restacks the cards. Frederick yawns.
Shoot. I should have thought of something better.
A pack of people begins to form around Psychic Cat and the lady starts her act again. I wedge my way through and make my way home.
A busy airport makes me happy because it feels like a place where Very Important Things happen.
My parents and I wait downstairs in baggage claim.
“What about him?” Dad asks, pointing to a guy in a suit sprinting across the floor, his tie flapping.
“He’s been away on business but his wife just had the baby. Heading straight for the hospital,” I say.
“Nice one,” Dad says.
I made up this waiting game of trying to figure out peoples’ stories. The airport’s a great place to play.
Tatang’s flight has landed. Somewhere, he’s taxiing on the tarmac, probably telling his seatmates corny jokes. Around us, drivers hold up signs with passengers’ last names. I have my own sign. It has a big hole cut out for me to stick my face through and on top I wrote Who’s Excited Tatang’s Back? Red arrows all around the circle point at me.
I poke my head in to practice. “What do you think?”
“You’re hard to miss,” Dad says, beeping my nose.
Mom checks her phone. “He’s almost here.”
“What do you think I should do with Tatang first?” I ask.
Mom says, “I don’t know, but I’ll bet he has something fun up his sleeve too. He was like that when I was a kid.”
Tatang is Mom’s grandfather. Lolo and Lola, my grandparents—Mom’s parents—passed away when I was younger. Luckily I still have Lolo and Lola on my dad’s side.
The escalators start to fill with people riding down. First I see their feet, then their legs, and last, their faces. No glimpses of him. I keep searching.
Then—I see a pair of fresh green sneakers, followed by cargo shorts, followed by a bright shirt with an electric-guitar print, topped by a brown wrinkled smiling face and a straw fedora.
At last!
I stick my head through the sign and he spots me.
Tatang points, throws his head back, and laughs. It’s one of my favorite sounds because he uses his entire face, body, and soul, and it makes everyone else laugh, too, like a domino effect. Mom calls it pure happiness.
He touches down and we grab him.
“Why were you the last person off?” Mom asks. As if he could have controlled that.
“I needed my grand entrance, of course,” he says, hugging my parents. “Thank you, Joy and Edwin, for picking me up. And you, Miss Kaia. Come here.”
I hand the sign to Mom and let my great-grandpa give me the perfect embrace.
“I’ll get your bags, Tatang,” Dad says.
“How was it?” Mom asks him a ton of questions in a combination of English and Ilocano, her family’s dialect, while we wait at the baggage carousel.
“There’s mine.” He points to a small black suitcase and Dad pulls it off the belt.
“That’s all you brought for two weeks in Hawaii?” Dad asks.
“A pair of sneakers and flip-flops is all I need.” Tatang raises his eyebrows a few times at me. “Okay, family, let’s go. I’m tired.”
“You want to sit down first?” Mom asks, but he rubs her arm.
“You didn’t let me finish, my dear Joy. Since when have you known me to be tired? I surfed North Shore every day….Look!” He flexes. “I’m tired of airports.”
My family’s Filipino friends say Tatang’s a little different from the other manongs, older males of his generation, they know. He’s not as traditional. We think he’s more of an original.
Tatang charges toward the exit, and he reminds me of Toby in how fast he moves. The lines that cup the corners of Tatang’s eyes when he smiles are the only way to tell his age. They mean he’s lived a lot.
As we leave, some guy taps Tatang on the shoulder and says, “Nice chatting with you, Celestino!”
My great-grandpa makes friends everywhere he goes.
Large glass doors slide open for us as I take Tatang’s hand and we swing. I feel good things ahead.
* * *
At home, Dad quietly opens the front door. It’s way past Toby’s bedtime, but my little brother bursts out of nowhere and runs straight into Tatang’s arms.
“We! Got! Cookiiiiiiies!” Toby shouts. Tatang swoops him up and the room fills with giggles.
“Of course you did,” Mom says, rolling her eyes at Uncle Roy, who shrugs.
“Nice tan, Big T,” Uncle says to Tatang, and they hug. “See you tomorrow. Gotta jet—I’m teaching an early yoga class.”
“Okay, Little T. Bedtime,” Mom says to Toby. “Maybe you should get some rest too, Tatang.”
“Nonsense. What’s the fun of going away if I don’t get to give my great-grandchildren their presents?” Wherever he goes, he always brings us souvenirs. Lainey does that, too.
Tatang wheels his suitcase into the middle of the room, opens it, and starts digging out shopping bags. Toby and I find little glass containers of real shark teeth, tins of macadamia nuts, jars of pretty miniature seashells, and bright T-shirts that say Aloha with shaka hand signs on them.
“Bought this for Elena,” Tatang says. He lifts out a sleek digital clock with a touch screen.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“You know how Elena likes to sleep in. I don’t want her to be late for her morning classes when she starts college. I’m told this clock is state-of-the-art and voice-activated. Very special, right?”
It doesn’t seem fair she gets something so cool just because she wants to be a doctor.
Tatang reaches into the suitcase again and this time pulls out a grass skirt that looks Toby-sized. I slip it onto my brother and he runs around the room flapping his arms.
“Actually, anak, the hula skirt’s for you,” Tatang says.
I make a face. “But that’s for little kids.”
“Kaia!” Mom gives me her “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” look. “How about a ‘thank you,’ young lady?”
Mom’s right; that was kind of rude. “Sorry, Tatang. Thanks for the presents—I’m glad you’re home. That’s the best gift.” I scoop up some souvenirs to put away, including Lainey’s new clock.
He cups my face. “Samesies,” he says, which makes me laugh. “I’m so happy to finally spend a bit more time with my Kaia.”
“A bit? We have the whole summer! Come on, I have something for you.”
Tatang follows me into the kitchen and I show him the chalkboard wall.
“What’s this?”
“Everything we’re doing together, just the two of us! Like when you make your lists.” If Lainey gets to do a bunch of fun things with him in the Philippines, it’s only fair that he and I do that here.
He reads every line, nodding. “Not bad, not bad.” For the briefest moment, I catch his worried face. Tatang rubs his neck.
Would he rather be hanging out with Lainey? Or doing something else?
“I like what you’ve put down here, my Kaia. But you know it doesn’t matter
how we spend our time together. I love any day with you.”
Maybe he’s tired and jet-lagged. I give him a hug. At least I’ll have him all to myself this summer.
* * *
Upstairs, the door to Lainey’s room is open, tricking me into thinking she’s home. I stick my head in but the bed’s made, with the sheets tucked in. Lainey’s always kept a neat room. Not like mine, where Mom gets mad at the piles on my floor or the sketch pads scattered around. I shove them under my bed whenever she asks me to clean up.
I check my phone. Zero texts from Lainey. Her teachers made a rule of no screen time, which sounds awful. They only get to call once a week, and in between, their teachers email pictures and updates. I wish I could hear her voice right now.
The numbers on Lainey’s new clock glow green as I plug it in and set it on her nightstand, next to the framed photo I gave her as a graduation gift—from the first time I tried makeup art. We’d decided that Filipina mermaids had shimmery turquoise cheeks and flowy black curls woven with seaweed ribbons, but I gave us rainbow globs on our faces and knots in our hair. We couldn’t stop laughing.
When Lainey finishes college she wants to stay in New York for medical school.
“Won’t you get homesick?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Home’s not where you are, Kai-Kai; it’s who you are.”
I didn’t really get what she meant. How do I tell who I am or who I want to be? Some kids, like Trey and Abby, just know. Trey wants to become a famous actor. Abby’s going to direct romantic comedies. Lainey’s always wanted to be a doctor. Supposedly, the thing you wish to be when you’re twelve is the thing of your heart, and your whole life you’ll want to grow up to be that one thing, even if you get off track. When I told Uncle Roy I’m into effects makeup, he said it means I’m someone who can help transform people. I like that.
I smooth Lainey’s quilt and lie down. Our lola on Dad’s side sewed it with blue at the top for sky, tan at the bottom for sand, and a surfboard sticking straight up.
The quiet’s not bad, although Lainey’s room is going to look and sound even emptier when she starts college. I wonder how that will feel.
Toby runs in and throws himself onto the bed. He pulls me up and we jump as high as we can, trying to touch the ceiling. So much for the silence.
“Higher, Kaia, higher!” he shouts, and we reach up like we’re grabbing for stars.
“I thought I heard a ruckus in here,” a voice says. Mom stands in the doorway with a big grin. “Is it tickle time?”
“Yep!” Toby says, and now she’s on the bed too, arms and legs and laughter all piled up.
“Cooookiiiiies!” Toby says, and he climbs down and skitters out.
“I blame your uncle,” Mom says.
We lie on our backs. I sigh.
“What’s that for?” she asks.
“I’m never going to see Lainey again, am I?”
“What are you talking about, silly?”
“She’s having so much fun on her own, I bet she’ll never want to come home now.”
Mom sits up, slips a rectangle out of her shirt pocket, and hands it to me. “Will this make you feel better?”
A postcard. The front says Philippines with a map of the islands and a background of crystal-clear blue-green ocean.
I flip it over.
Dear Kaia,
It's so different here, but I love it!!!! I'm having the best time. The other kids are really cool. I wish I could stay longer, but I can't keep New York waiting! I also wish you could see the country where Tatang grew up, but one day we'll come back and have sister adventures.
Hey, how's camp? Miss ya.
XOXO,
Lainey
I should feel happy to hear from her, but my eyes sting. It’s like Lainey’s senior year all over again, when she was so busy with school that I barely saw her.
“You know, Kaia, when Lainey’s done with college it’ll be your turn to go. Then I’ll be the sad one.”
Mom’s frowning now. We stare back up.
“At least Tatang’s home,” I say.
That cheers me up, until I remember he’ll be leaving again to join Lainey. My parents almost didn’t let her go—they thought it was too far for her to travel without them for a whole summer—but Tatang convinced them by saying he’d meet Lainey and they’d fly home together. She’ll get to see his old village and the bamboo-and-cement house where he was born and raised, and they’ll do a daily stroll through green fields that lead them to the ocean.
I’ve never visited the Philippines. My parents say it’s too expensive to travel there right now—plus all of our immediate family’s here—but that one day we’ll go.
Tatang has lived in California for more than sixty years and says it’s his home, but he still calls the Philippines his home too. I’ve heard his childhood stories enough that his memories have become mine. I can imagine how warm the sea feels and can picture wonders like the terraced rice paddies that climb thousands of feet up mountainsides, and hills that look like chocolate. “We carry a place with us,” he likes to say. I think that means your roots stay planted somewhere deep inside you no matter where you live.
Mom checks the time on Lainey’s new clock. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. Do me a favor, please, honey, and help Toby brush his teeth while I clean up downstairs?”
I nod and get up to search for my brother.
* * *
Toby and Tatang sit in the backyard under sparkly twinkle lights that hang over the patio. Their faces glow.
“Look, it’s your Manang Kaia! Just in time for a tale,” Tatang says.
I pull up a chair. Toby runs over and cuddles in my lap.
“We’ve missed hearing your stories, right, Tobes?”
“Good, because here’s a new one. It takes place in the times when the sky lay close to the ground,” Tatang says. “There was once a Filipina woman who wore beautiful beads around her neck and the prettiest comb in her hair. One day the woman went outside to pound rice with her mortar and pestle, so she took off her necklace and comb and hung them from the sky. Each time she lifted her pestle, it would strike the sky above. At one point she raised it as high at it would go. It struck the sky so hard that it caused the sky to rise up and up and up until the woman lost all of her ornaments. And that’s when the comb became the moon and the beads scattered and became the stars.”
Toby peers at our great-grandfather in awe—I’ve had that feeling more times than I can count.
“How do you know so many stories, Tatang?” I’ve never asked him this before.
“Some I learned from my family. And some…I made up.” He winks at me. “You know, long ago, hunter-gatherers used their stories to pass down news about weather or food or about the sun and the stars. So storytelling has always been a way of life. They help us understand our world and appreciate each other better.”
I think I know what he means. I never met Nanang Cora, but when Tatang tells us memories of her struggle to raise their family in a new country, I feel like I know her.
“Okay, Toby, say good night,” I tell him.
“Not so fast. I want you both to do something for me first.” Tatang points above. “Look up. What do you see?”
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of him asking this question.
We tilt our heads back and take in the glittery view.
“I see stars!” yells Toby.
“An ocean of stars!” I shout.
“Now, there’s something I want you each to remember. No matter where we are, we all exist under this same sky. Even when we’re apart we’re still with each other.” He looks at me. “Right, anak?”
I crane my neck and take it all in. Seeing how the sky stretches above makes me feel a part of something bigger than myself.
When most kids think of summer camp, they probably imagine kayaks and majestic mountains and kids cannonballing into lakes. I picture palm trees instead of pine trees and computer screens instead of fishing rods.
Welcome to Camp Art Attack.
Camp happens at the high school near our house, and I’ve gone every summer since first grade with Trey and Abby. It’s the kind of place where kids can paint and sing and make things, and no one gets mad if we get messy. Right now we’re in a classroom having Morning Meeting. That’s when we sit in a circle on squishy beanbag chairs with our teacher, Eliza, and talk about how to Get Stuff Done.
Each kid can choose a different focus, like music, art, or Digital Expressions. This year my friends and I decided on Film Fun. We’re in a group of thirty or so soon-to-be seventh graders who like to brainstorm lists of the Top 100 Movies of All Eternity or who can sing every song in every animated Disney film ever made. We get the whole summer to play around with fancy camera equipment and watch movies while eating kettle corn. Regular school should be more like this.
“Okay, Art Attackers, housekeeping time,” Eliza says.
Everybody calls our camp teacher Eliza instead of Ms. Rodriguez. She thinks “Ms. Rodriguez” sounds too much like her mom.
Eliza’s twenty-three, would like to have a serious boyfriend, and has a master’s in film theory. I know all this because she likes to talk about herself. Uncle Roy says that’s a very LA trait. She teaches here during summers and the rest of the year works the lowliest job in the movie business—production assistant—making copies of script notes and taking latte and lunch orders. She says sometimes she wishes she could skip that part and jump ahead to producer, but that if you have a big vision you have to work hard for it. I like her style.
Eliza picks up a guitar at her feet, looks wistfully out the window, and strums some chords. She also writes heart-wrenchy songs and plays them at a coffeehouse down the street.