Chapter 3
Maybe Seph caught a cold from his exposed chest. It’s the only rational explanation for why he’s acting super suspicious today. First of all, he paid for my food.
As soon as we step outside the school grounds, we’re greeted by Mang Willie’s famous “Tahoooooooo!” Mang Willie is a staple across all batches for being the Saint Agnes and Saint Francis go-to taho vendor.
Ever since I was in kindergarten, he’d be outside the school gate every dismissal carrying two aluminum buckets filled with soybean custard.
As Mang Willie starts pouring the pearls and syrup into plastic cups, Seph hands him enough cash for two orders.
“Libre ko,” he says when I try paying him back. “Chaperone’s treat.”
The second red flag in Seph’s behavior is when he starts complimenting me.
“Did you get a haircut?”
“Uh yeah, by a few inches.” I hold on to the ends so it doesn’t look so short. “The hairdresser I usually go to isn’t free until the weekend, but Ma insisted I get my hair cut on Monday since Mondays symbolize ‘new beginnings.’”
Then he says, “It’s nice.”
I’m already brainstorming possible comebacks for his inevitable teasing, but Seph doesn’t say anything else.
“Like, nice for a Shih Tzu?”
“No.”
“A Chow Chow?”
“It’s nice for a girl … person.” Seph doesn’t take the bait and confuses me further. “Your hair looks nice.”
I study him and hold him off before he scoops another spoonful of his taho. “Why are you being weird?”
“I just complimented you.”
“Yeah,” I point out. “Weird.”
“Aren’t compliments supposed to be nice?”
“You being nice is weird,” I emphasize, and suddenly question the free food in my hand.
Seph avoids eye contact and fidgets with his plastic cup. “I figured you had a lot going on with … Sunday coming up,” he says, and my insides freeze. “Didn’t want to put you in a worse mood.”
“How do you know about Sunday?”
“Overheard Achi Jackie talking about your dad to my mom.”
This Sunday is the fifth anniversary of Pa’s death, but no one in my family has spoken about it. I always thought my sister never liked talking about our dad. I guess she just never wanted to talk about him with me.
My brain has already tuned out Seph when I realize he’s asking me a question.
“So … how are you … doing?” The boy’s looking at me like I’m a bomb about to detonate.
“Please, stop,” I tell him. “This is painful.”
“Me being thoughtful isn’t lifting up your mood?”
“Sadly, I think my mood’s better when you’re being the usual annoying Moseph.”
He scoffs. “You know you’re the only person in the world who calls me Moseph, Ilagan.”
“And you’re the only person who calls me Ilagan,” I say, and repeat, “Annoying.”
His nose scrunches at my comment. “That means I put you in a good mood then.”
Seph laughs when I mime throwing my taho cup at his face.
“By the way,” he adds. “You definitely give off Chihuahua energy.”
“I identify as a Shiba Inu.”
He shakes his head. “You’re four feet tall. How in the world are you a Shiba Inu?”
“Excuse you, the doctor said I was five one during my last checkup.”
“Exactly the height for a human Chihuahua.”
Seph goes on to roast me about being my chaperone and I reply that he reminds me of Kayla’s Pomeranian that humps everything in sight. It unfortunately doesn’t stop thoughts about Sunday and Pa roaring in my head.
The bakery is way more chaotic, so I’m pretty sure Dr. Derrick decided to “volunteer” again. When Paolo, the regular barista, called in sick earlier this week, Dr. Derrick said he could take some time off his clinic hours to help out.
When he offered, Ma looked like she had a female boner and Achi kept saying it was very “thoughtful” of him. Thoughtful?! Come on. It’s another way Dr. Derrick is sucking up to Ma. Like, we get it already! She already said yes to marrying you! God.
Knowing he’s a dentist, too, I see his ulterior motive. He wants to give people more coffee so their teeth get stained, coincidentally, giving him more patients. It’s a despicable, deceitful plan.
“Sir!” A customer waves at Dr. Derrick from the pickup queue. “Matagal pa? I ordered my latte an hour ago.”
“Almost done, ma’am!” Dr. Derrick yells back. From the way he’s inspecting the milk he’s pouring, he’s obviously more focused on his latte art than the urgency of the situation.
Another thing I learned about Dr. Derrick against my will: He’s probably the world’s slowest barista.
More people from the line start complaining while Dr. Derrick is still perfecting the one latte order.
“Should we help him?” Seph asks me.
“We’re not miracle workers, Moseph.” I sigh and tell Seph that he can go and I promise him I’ll tell Ma I survived the deadly walk from school. As much as I would enjoy seeing Dr. Derrick crash and burn, this is Ma’s business on the line.
I start checking out food orders at the register to placate the hungry clients who have been waiting in the queue.
But not even shouldering Dr. Derrick’s customers can dampen the thrill I get when walking into the Buns by Beth store.
The bakery always has the same warm wonderful greeting, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread and an overwhelming display of pastries.
You’re offered a tray and tongs at the entrance, then you can pick from rows of pastries enclosed in their own plastic casing.
But the Buns by Beth treasure, the one that has propelled the bakery to be one of Manila’s must-try pastry shops, is the nationwide famous siopao.
It’s the dish that started Ma’s whole career.
Growing up, I always had Ma’s steamed buns filled with pork asado for merienda.
During Pa’s wake, she went overboard and made probably a hundred siopaos—which made people inquire who our caterer was.
Ma used to sell her siopaos in bazaars back in her high school and college days but didn’t pursue it when she started a family.
So when people still kept asking Ma about her siopao supplier after the wake, Ma started a business where she’d bake from home and Achi would help arrange the deliveries.
Two years later, Ma decided to convert one of the warehouses Pa used to manage into her own bakery. She started trying new recipes, baking all kinds of pastries and desserts.
If you check the Buns by Beth menu, Ma’s siopaos come in different flavors, from the classic asado and bola-bola to her salted egg twists.
Buns by Beth would be even bigger if Ma wasn’t so paranoid about social media. The country’s biggest supermarket chain approached her about a partnership, but Ma freaked out when she saw their proposed marketing plan. She said being featured that much “around the internet” is a huge security risk.
Once the line finally dwindles down, Dr. Derrick makes another attempt at small talk.
“Your mom and sister are in a meeting, but they’ll be here soon.”
Aside from her job as a counselor at Saint Agnes, my sister also somehow finds time to help Ma manage Buns by Beth. She was already gone to check on today’s kitchen prep when I woke up this morning.
Dr. Derrick then offers me a Flat White. “Your favorite, right?” It even has the most symmetrical-looking heart at the center. This must have taken him hours to make.
I accept the mug and place it on the side, still avoiding eye contact with Dr. Derrick. Maybe he can buy Ma and Achi with his fake selfless barista volunteering, but I know better. My willpower is stronger than simply being tempted by coffee.
Although …
It’s so tempting.
Dr. Derrick goes to refill some of the pastry displays and has his back turned. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if there’s slightly, very minuscule, less drink in the mug.
I pour a little in a separate cup and take a sip.
Shit, it’s good.
The smooth feel of the drink and its perfect amount of sweetness makes me close my eyes so I can savor every taste. My self-respect goes down a notch with each sip.
But the Flat White suddenly turns sour in my mouth when I see Ma walk in and greet Dr. Derrick. He pecks her on the cheek, rubbing their relationship further in my face.
“Thanks for taking over this afternoon,” Ma says.
“You should thank Nika.” Dr. Derrick gestures in my direction and smooths his striped purple tie that hurts my eyes. “She saved the day.”
Ugh. Suck-up.
Ma’s eyes widen. “You and Nika worked together?”
“He should get barista training before you leave him alone.”
Before they inflict me with more of their PDA, I excuse myself and tell Ma that I left something in the kitchen.
With the pork asado and chopped egg slices laid out on the counter, I can tell Ma is preparing puto pao again.
The soft and fluffy rice cake filled with savory pork filling was my dad’s favorite snack.
Ma always makes puto pao leading up to Pa’s anniversary, insisting on some superstition that preparing food for my dad would help sustain him in life after death.
As if death doesn’t cancel out the whole being alive thing.
Ma’s superstitiousness went to a whole other level when Pa died.
She keeps a little red notebook where she jots down superstitions, pamahiins, and some other practices that originate from who knows where.
Our condominium used to have a small staircase with four steps leading from our living room to the bedrooms. Since the number four in Mandarin also sounds like the word for death, Ma chopped off a step.
When she heard a Filipino superstition that having staircases divisible by three also meant attracting death, she shaved off another one.
These days, I have to risk a pulled hamstring every time I have to leap through our botched staircase.
Seeing that my mom is prepping way more puto paos this year gets me thinking. If Ma is readying this whole feast, could Achi be preparing something too? She did go to Auntie Baby … Does Pa’s fifth anniversary mean our family is going to talk about Pa for once?