Any Day with You

by Mae Respicio

  “Love is good…love is bad…love is blind…,” she croons suddenly in the saddest, raspiest voice. Abby and I catch each other’s eyes and we don’t know whether to clap or cry. Mom says women in their twenties usually go through a bad-songwriting phase.

  She puts the guitar down and swaps it for a clipboard. Her eyes brighten.

  “Ready for some super-exciting news, film buffs?”

  Trey leans into his beanbag so he deliberately makes a fart noise with it, and kids snicker. He thinks if he didn’t act, he’d try stand-up comedy. I whack him on the shoulder.

  Eliza flips to a sheet of paper, clears her throat, and reads:

  “ ‘To the students of Camp Art Attack, it is my pleasure to invite you to enter this year’s youth competition of the annual Santa Monica Beach Season Film Festival. We want you to submit all of your beach-themed flicks! This year we’ve added a bonus category: solar eclipse. In celebration of this once-in-a-lifetime event where the sun goes down in LA, we invite you to share all of your entries having anything to do with summertime sunshine—or the lack of it. We will announce five winning youth films to be premiered at the Beach Season Summer-End Gala. The team for each winning film will receive ten thousand dollars, donated to its arts program; individual participants will receive complimentary enrollment in any of our Fall Youth in Film Conference workshops.’ ”

  “No way!” Trey yells, and a buzz travels the room.

  “Hold on, there’s more,” Eliza says. “ ‘We will accept entries in the youth category with a run time of five minutes or less. The submission deadline is July twenty-ninth. Winners will be announced in early August,’ et cetera, et cetera….Okay, I think that covers it.” She looks up from her clipboard. “Who’d like to enter?”

  Every arm shoots up—mine first.

  I’ve never won a contest. Maybe now’s my chance.

  That’s it!

  If I get the grand prize I’ll have something for my family to fuss over for sure, especially Tatang. My head pings with thoughts.

  “Who thinks they have a good idea for what kind of film to submit?” Eliza asks.

  More arms in the air. She calls on people.

  Callie Schilling thinks we should do some sort of flash mob dance on the pier (not bad!).

  Aditya Jones would love to direct an action dramedy that involves surfers who turn into giant whales every ninety-nine years under the solar eclipse.

  Dave Conway says, “I heard that there’s a red carpet and winners ride to the premiere in a stretch limo!” This gets everyone jabbering.

  Eliza laughs. “I’m glad you’re all on board. Okay, then, Art Attackers, form your groups…and get to it!”

  * * *

  During lunch, Trey, Abby, and I find our favorite shady spot in the courtyard. We’ve brought all of our favorites: sandwiches, strawberries, popcorn, Spam musubi, gummy bears, chips, pink donuts (with sprinkles, of course), and avocado sushi. We share everything.

  The three of us have always gone to the same school, so we’ve known each other for more than half of our lives. Supposedly, if a friendship lasts for seven years, it’ll last a lifetime. We’re connected forever now.

  I met Abby and Trey on our first day of preschool. After my parents left, I wouldn’t stop crying, so Abby and Trey took my hands and led me to the puppet show corner. Even then Abby directed us and Trey did most of the voices, like they’ve always known what they’re destined for.

  Trey rips into a bag of chips. “We’re entering this thing as group, right?”

  “Duh. Team Win!” Abby says, popping a berry into her mouth.

  “What should our movie be about?” I ask.

  “Sci-fi,” Abby says. “A dystopian end-of-the-world kind of blockbuster would get us to the top for sure.”

  “No, I was thinking something more realistic and dramatic and gut-wrenching,” says Trey. “I want to do some good ugly-crying on camera.”

  Oh boy. Here comes the tough part. When it comes to making things together, we can never agree on an idea—at first. In third grade we decided to start our own lemonade stand (we were going to make trillions!). Abby wanted to sell lemonade slushies, Trey wanted to sell actual lemons with googly eyes glued on, and I wanted to sell an experience, which involved a plan to build a Rube Goldberg machine that squeezed the lemon juice into a cup. Our business never happened.

  Mom says it’s a little like how families work: not everyone has the same opinion, but what matters is how we get to the result.

  Abby and Trey start bouncing ideas around. At least we all love this part.

  “I’ve got it,” I say. “How about something with a super-scary monster with tons of blood and guts that I can design?”

  “Oh yeah, like Creature from the Black Lagoon but maybe with…with a jellyfish…and an earthquake,” Trey says. “Jell-quake!” This cracks us up, but Abby’s not amused.

  “You’re forgetting about the contest rules. There’s no sunshine in that idea. What we should do is research first and figure out what does well in the marketplace,” Abby says. She knows all the Hollywood lingo.

  For once I don’t agree with her seriousness—we have to start now.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t overthink it, Abbs,” I say.

  “You’re right,” she says, but by the end of lunch we still haven’t come up with anything spectacular.

  The bell chimes and it makes me think of fairies whispering. They’ve thought of everything here.

  Kids in clusters march across the quad chanting “Red carpet! Red carpet!” and my stomach does a flip. So much competition.

  One steely-eyed girl says to me: “My group’s ready to win this thing.”

  * * *

  After camp I cut through the backyard to find Dad in The Cave. That’s what we call our little transformed garage, one part Dad’s office and the other part Kaia’s Artistic Lair. We each have a wall lined with a long narrow desk holding all our stuff. Dad’s side has computer screens and laptops, and mine has caddies of pens and pencils sorted by color, stacks of sketch pads, four mirrors (one of them lighted), jugs of special powder for making prosthetic molds, and makeup containers galore. We also managed to squeeze in a couch, and maybe one day we’ll install a dessert bar, but for now that’s just a good solid idea.

  The Cave’s entrance is a large glass door that folds into itself like an accordion, and on bright days we open it wide to let the sunshine in. Mom has an office on campus, so we’re the only ones who ever come in here.

  Right now the movie Dad’s working on has aliens and spaceships, and his crew’s in “crunch time,” which means they all work a ton of hours, including on weekends. Dad doesn’t seem to mind because he loves fantastical creatures as much as I do. He grew up hearing Filipino folktales from his parents and grandparents, just like I did.

  I walk up behind him quietly so I don’t disturb his concentration.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he says without looking my way.

  I rest my chin on his shoulder and peek at the monitor. There’s a black-and-green 3-D grid on the screen.

  It’s fun watching Dad turn nothing into something, the way he can suddenly fill a blank space with objects that look weighty and real. My favorite effect he’s ever done was when he transformed an old home movie of me and Lainey: we were bouncing on her bed and he made the carpet beneath us suddenly melt into a fiery mass of hot lava. I think I get my love for making things from him. Whenever we feel a little down he’ll say, “Let’s create something! Anything!” And when we do, I feel better almost every time.

  “Whatcha building?” I ask.

  “Nothing yet, just testing out my new stylus.” He holds up a fancy computer pen.

  “I think you should make the Aswang!”

  “Oh yeah? Remind me again which one that is.”

  “A Filipino
shape-shifter who can be a vampire, a ghoul, or a werebeast. I think Mom was going to put that one in her book.”

  I creep around the room making scary faces as if I’m the shape-shifter.

  Mom’s writing about Philippine myths and folklore. A lot of kids I know have never heard of different Filipino mythical creatures because they’re not in many books, but Mom will change that.

  Dad turns around in his chair. “How was your day, kiddo?”

  “I’m going to win a bunch of money for our camp,” I say, and his eyes get wide. “Maybe.” I tell him all about the film contest. “Cool, huh?”

  “Very. What will your movie be about?”

  “Ding, ding, ding! That’s the question of the day.” I plop onto the couch. “Do you ever get stuck when you’re brainstorming, Dad?”

  “All the time.”

  He stretches and goes out to the pool, and I follow. When I look over I see our faces reflected on the turquoise water.

  “So what do you do when you can’t come up with a good idea?”

  “The best thing is to just go for it. Take a paintbrush without thinking too hard and start slapping on the effects makeup and see where it leads, how it might inspire you.”

  “Daaaad,” I say. “It’s not that easy.”

  “It could be if you jumped right in. Literally.”

  He rushes at me and I shriek. I know what he’s up to—trying to throw me into the pool. Dad’s done this to me, my mom, and my sister a million times.

  We circle and I dash to the diving board. We close our eyes, take a leap, and jump right in, our clothes still on.

  I make a giant splash and land in the deep end, water and bubbles rising around me, sun cutting the surface, water filling the light. That first chilly moment between only me and the water feels perfect.

  Underneath, Dad and I wave to each other.

  The pool perks me up and the water shimmers with possibilities. That’s all I needed.

  I swim to the surface and float.

  Finally it’s the weekend. I open my bedroom window and little dust wispies flit and dance. I blow and watch as they settle.

  It’s my first full Saturday with Tatang back, and I hope he got some rest so we can get to Doing Things.

  First up: Ocean Gardens.

  I bolt downstairs to shove breakfast into my mouth—a pandesal roll that Tatang warmed up for me and a glass of milk. Coffee and bread is his go-to meal most mornings. It reminds him of his childhood in the Philippines, when the sun would rise and the village baker would walk past his house with baskets of freshly baked rolls to sell. They’re a little bit salty, a little bit sweet.

  I barely get a chance to eat because Tatang’s waiting by the front door, jangling his keys.

  “Ready?”

  “Yep!”

  I slip into my flip-flops, and on our way out the door Dad shouts, “Say hello to Harold!” I flash him a thumbs-up.

  Tatang still drives. He passed a test to renew his license not too long ago and got a perfect score. It takes us only a few minutes to get to the Ocean Gardens Community for Healthy Living where some of his pals live, and we park.

  “I don’t think they know I’m back yet,” he says.

  “Then this’ll be the best surprise.”

  Tatang came to live with us when I was little, not long after Nanang Cora passed away. I don’t remember Nanang, but in pictures she looks like Mom, with smooth black hair and warm eyes.

  I’ve never known anything but having a great-grandpa at home. A few kids at school have grandparents who live with them, mainly other Asian kids like me.

  Tatang thought about moving to Ocean Gardens once. Mom didn’t think he should and, somehow, she and Uncle Roy changed his mind. He didn’t want to burden us, which is so silly, because I can’t picture our house without him.

  Sometimes my family hears about lolos and lolas, grandfathers and grandmothers, who move back to the Philippines. Tatang says it’s because “roots grow deep.” They come to the United States to give a better life to their families but return to the place that’s most familiar. Maybe I’d feel the same. If I ever had to leave my home I’d miss it, because what would I do without my family and my friends and the place I know by heart?

  We enter the main building and check in at the front desk, where the staff greets us by our names. Sometimes Lainey and I volunteer here on the weekends.

  “They’re in the courtyard,” I say, spotting familiar faces outside, and they wave us over.

  “Alooooha!” Tatang says, and he puts a few boxes of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts on the table for everyone to share. His buddies crowd around.

  “He’s back!” some say, and, “Long time no see, Kaia!”

  Ocean Gardens looks a little bit like a resort and a little bit like a hospital. It has couches for relaxing and outdoor Parcheesi, but also nurses walking around holding clipboards.

  The first time we visited, seeing that most people were old and some were in wheelchairs scared me. But after I got to know everyone I realized it wasn’t a scary place. Although it’s not always cheery. Our friends get sick and some die, and I see that it can be painful to grow older. I know that’s how life works, but still. It’s hard to see your friends go through that.

  “Kaia, you made it just in time. We’re about to celebrate my big day,” says Harold, one of Tatang’s best friends.

  Harold and Tatang met when they realized they took the same walk: through the pier, down the beach, back up again to the bakery for coffee and a morning bun. Sometimes I join them and we get soft serves on the boardwalk, even before we’ve had lunch.

  “Happy birthday, Harold! How old are you now?” I ask.

  “Guess.”

  I don’t want to offend him by saying a number way past his age, but I’m not very good at this game. Uncle Roy says plastic surgery in LA has a way of faking everyone out, except I’m pretty sure Harold’s never had his cheekbones sculpted or anything.

  “Umm…seventy…four?” I say, and everyone hoots.

  “You’re officially still my favorite person,” he tells me.

  “No, he’s ninety-two. Can you believe it?” says Cynthia, another resident.

  “Harold’s so old that he remembers when emojis were called hieroglyphics!” Tatang says.

  “Celestino, you’re so old you can remember when water was free!” Harold says. We all laugh.

  Laughter keeps people healthy because it changes us; it physically transforms our bodies. Tatang has routines to keep himself young: hanging out playing cards, taking daily power walks, picking veggies from his garden to eat raw, and laughing—tons.

  “How was Hawaii?” Cynthia asks.

  “Sunny as ever,” Tatang says. He whips out his phone. “Want to see some amazing pictures? Not from my trip—I have some better ones.”

  He scrolls through Lainey at graduation, red hats being tossed into the air. Lainey and some of her new friends in the Philippines swimming in a crystal-clear ocean, walking through villages of bamboo houses on stilts, and hanging off the side of a colorful jeepney. These were sent to my parents from Lainey’s teachers.

  “Right now Elena and her group are somewhere in Ilocos Norte, not far from where I grew up.”

  “A future doctor. You must be over the moon, Celestino,” says one of the nurses.

  “I’m a very lucky great-grandpa indeed.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll be a doctor, too, Kaia!” Harold pats me on the arm.

  I try to smile politely, but secretly I’m annoyed. Why do people love saying that to me?

  Two nurses bring out a cake, all lit up.

  “Hey, the whole gang’s here!” one of the nurses says as she places the cake in front of Harold. Harold turns to me.

  “Help me blow?” he asks. “You can have the wish.
”

  First we belt out the “Happy Birthday” song. I close my eyes and wish for the chance to do something big this summer, something Tatang can brag about to all his friends.

  Harold and I aim and blow. I wave the smoke away and help pass out plates. Everyone digs in.

  “Kaia, honey, come see the new flowers I planted,” Cynthia says, and we walk to a nearby garden full of bright blooms. Tatang stays to chat with Harold but keeps glancing over at me, with the same look Uncle Roy has when he’s telling Mom something he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Weird.

  When we join our friends again Harold says to Tatang, “We’ll do plenty of walking before you go, Celestino.” Everyone wants some of my great-grandpa’s time, but I still get first dibs.

  * * *

  After Ocean Gardens, Tatang and I dive into the weekend things we love: feeding goats at the farmers market, froyo with all the toppings, and a visit to the surf shop to check out the big fish tank with the spiky blowfish. It’s going to be easy for us to get through my to-do list.

  After a full day we head home. During the drive, Tatang asks, “What do you think of Ocean Gardens, my Kaia?”

  “It’s nice there. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  He stays quiet and I can tell his mind’s off somewhere—it feels like he’s not with me, even though we’re sitting side by side. We reach a stoplight.

  “You remember how I’ve told you and Elena that I’ve dreamed of retiring to someplace less busy?”

  “Yeah, but if you did you wouldn’t see spectacular things like that.” I point to one of our favorite characters at the beach: a man wearing a glittery American flag top hat and shades shaped like stars, walking on stilts while holding a giant silver boom box on his shoulder. It thumps out beats.

  “Big T!” The guy points to Tatang as he wobbles across the street, and Tatang waves back.

  Tatang knows every character around here. He thinks people should introduce themselves to the neighborhood folks they see every day, like the gas station lady, the librarian, the coffee shop barista. It’s how he has so many friends.