Chapter 13
Upon further reflection, I think some higher being was guiding me in picking which classes to skip. God guided me to skip those other nine chemistry classes since he knew that attending the tenth would provide me with crucial information.
While Ms. Abad passes out worksheets for conducting our investigative project, she gives a refresher on the scientific method.
“Throughout history, the scientific method has helped the greatest minds answer life’s biggest questions,” she lectures. “Ever wondered why something is the way that it is? Why does something work a certain way?”
I look down at the worksheet on my desk.
BIG QUESTION:
Can I get my father’s ghost to stay?
“Once you have your question, what else do you need?” Ms. Abad asks.
Dani’s hand shoots up. “A hypothesis?”
“Yes! And to form your hypothesis, you must gather observations and data. What have you noticed that can inform your attempt in answering your big question?”
Under the Observations column, I start listing what’s been happening with Pa.
He has trouble entering places he hasn’t been before.
No one else sees or hears him.
His feet never touch the ground.
His skin is devoid of any color.
Ms. Abad sends us to research in the library, which is unfortunately also in the senior high building.
Instead of panicking more about why Pa can’t come in, I decide to be productive.
I take Ms. Abad’s assignment to heart and start researching like I’ve never researched before.
But no matter how deep my dive through the internet goes, not one article or paper can tell me anything about what to do when your dead father shows up in your home.
This includes me sorting through hundreds of blogs that recommend therapy and preach things like Your dead loved one will always be a part of you.
All of it is as useless as meditation.
I go through books and binders of scientific papers shelved at the high school library. Saint Agnes really needs to restock their resources on spirits and ghosts. The most relevant information I find is about some doctor who tried reviving dead cells in pigs.
By the time the bell rings, I’ve already run out of options.
I’ve gotten so desperate that I’ve resorted to the Bible.
They make such a big deal about Jesus’s resurrection, but not one chapter, verse, or proverb explicitly states the logistics of how it happened.
Considering how thick the book is, you’d think they’d have room for an instruction manual.
I’m skimming the New Testament when Kayla joins me in the library. She does a low whistle when she takes a seat at my table. “Wow, you look like shit.”
She immediately apologizes after the (I’ll admit) very accurate observation. Getting little sleep over the weekend plus reuniting with your dead dad’s ghost really accentuates one’s eye bags.
“Sorry, I went to orientation for Honesty Club and they require new members to be extra honest.”
That momentarily distracts me from the Bible. “We have an Honesty Club?”
Kayla shows me the button pinned to her uniform that says: I serve hones-tea. “I talked to Dani about which clubs needed more members and she said I’d be perfect for Honesty Club!”
I have a theory that all of Dani’s student council campaigning through the years has infected Kayla’s mind. Every time Dani gives her a compliment, Kayla’s face lights up like the sky has split open.
Right on cue, I see Ms. Class President doing her rounds and greeting everyone around the library.
I’ve been in the same class with Dani since kindergarten, and her life’s mission has always been becoming student council president.
We were asked to perform our favorite song during our third-grade Christmas party and Dani recited the Saint Agnes student handbook.
By the time we were freshmen, she volunteered to head the school tours for incoming high schoolers, brainwashing her future voters as soon as possible.
When our principal announced that the whole high school would be voting for which senior gets awarded the Gold Leadership Award at graduation, Dani immediately kickstarted yet another campaign.
Dani’s wearing her shiny student council president smile as she moves from table to table. “Don’t you think it’s impressive that Dani works this hard?” Kayla swoons again.
“She’s just doing all that so she gets the leadership award.”
Kayla shoots me a look and I point at her button with my pen. “Sorry, just serving hones-tea.”
Dani inches closer to our table and I bow my head down in my arms in case she spots us. Every time Dani corners me, she goes on and on about ways I can “participate” more.
“Kayla! Nika!”
Ugh. Too late.
“Miss President,” I deadpan with a slight bow.
Dani beams even more when she sees Kayla wearing the hones-tea button. “How did you like your first meeting? I’m so excited that we’re only eight members away from our goal of ten members at Honesty Club!”
“… So you have two members?” I clarify.
Her head bobs along. “Only eight away!”
Makes sense. You probably have to be a bit delusional to be a politician.
“Have fun,” I mutter, going back to my Bible research. For some reason, Dani interprets this as Please interrupt me and join our table.
She pulls out the student handbook and puts it on top of my Bible—which I’m pretty sure is frowned upon in many religions. “I’m actually here for non-Honesty-Club-related business.”
“Dani, whatever it is, I’m not joining.”
“I’m just asking for your opinion.” Dani flips through the handbook to a section bookmarked with a prom tab.
I gawk at the page. “There’s really a whole chapter for prom?”
“As student council president…,” Dani starts, and I let out a groan. She always introduces herself as student council president whenever she’s pitching something.
“In recent years, worldwide research has shown that teenagers have been exhibiting elevated levels of stress,” Dani continues her spiel. “And one possible cause? Prom!”
There are probably a million researchers worldwide clamoring to dispute this claim.
“It’s bad enough that we have to think of paying for dinner, getting a dress, but then we have to think about the stress of finding a date—at an all-girls school!
” she declares. “So to make this a smooth transition for everyone, we, your friends at the Saint Agnes Student Council, have made it a mandate to encourage the smooth search for appropriate prom companions.”
I wonder how long Dani can ramble on for without noticing I’ve completely zoned out.
Each time she mentions prom, I think about another dreadful thing I’d rather do than show up on prom night.
Eat the expired Buns by Beth pastries we usually throw out, sit through one of Achi’s long rants about meditation, join Kayla for the next Honesty Club meeting.
Then Dani says, “That’s why I appointed Nika as head of the committee.”
Now, that got my attention.
Kayla and I burst out laughing. “Out of all the jokes you try inserting in your speeches, this is by far your funniest one,” I say.
Dani keeps pushing the joke. “I really think you’d be an exemplary leader.”
“Exemplary leader?” Kayla and I echo, then laugh even harder. “Ky, did I ever tell you it was my dream to be prom committee head?”
“I’m still processing the breaking news that you’re an exemplary leader,” Kayla teases back.
Dani beams at us. “Super love the enthusiasm!”
Our laughs die down and Dani is still very convincing … a little too convincing.
“You’re not serious,” I tell her.
“Why would I ask if I wasn’t serious?” She reads out another bullet point in the handbook. “As student council president, the elected representative must encourage participation from all members of Saint Agnes.”
“Then please discourage my participation,” I say. “There are a dozen other girls who’d want to be prom committee head.”
Dani chuckles. “I’m not making you head of the whole committee, Nika! That’s a responsibility that needs years of experience. You’re head of the PCS.”
I stare blankly at Dani and she explains, “Prom-Companion Subcommittee. You’re in charge of finding people dates.
“Consider it a feminist movement,” Dani says.
One of my biggest icks about Dani: her new vocabulary. Ever since we covered social justice in class, Dani has been obsessed with inserting the terminology in every sentence.
When the juniors and seniors agreed to a tie during our volleyball intrams, Dani made a speech about how we “trumped classism.” When the dance troupe members started calling one another sis, Dani called them out and said, “We shouldn’t be cisgendering people.”
Time and again, Dani proves she doesn’t know what any of these “big words” actually mean.
“Forcing people into dates isn’t a movement, Dani. If anything, it’s moving back feminism,” I state in bewildered horror.
“That’s why I picked you. I know you’ll be able to steer the committee in the right direction,” she says with so much sincerity, as if we’re joining forces to solve global warming.
I’m not buying it.
“What’s the real reason, Dani?”
I stare her down and block her from reciting another passage from the student handbook. She turns to Kayla for help, but Kayla only pats her hones-tea button in response.
“Fine,” Dani says, dropping the act. “During our meetings with the parents’ association, Auntie Baby keeps asking me to get you involved.”
I blink at her. “You were gonna give me a prom comm position … because of Auntie Baby?”
“The alumni also get a big say on the leadership awards.”
“Well, well, well,” I say, twirling my fingers. “As student council president, I thought you’d know better than to give in to nepotism.”
Dani stiffens. “I never give favoritism to my nephews.”
I’m about to explain that nepotism isn’t just limited to nephews, but I decide to use my energy elsewhere.
“Not interested,” I tell Dani firmly, annoyed at how long this conversation has gone on for.
“You lose a lot of things when you shut people out, Nika,” Dani says as she gets up from our table and hands me a flyer with text that looks like it was typed in 90-size font: 39 DAYS UNTIL PROM!
After emphasizing to Dani that I’m very comfortable with losing things, she finally gets the hint and I can finally return to my research.
Except Kayla keeps watching me.
Then she carefully asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, folding the ridiculous prom countdown flyer and highlighting another Bible verse that mentions spirits.
“It’s just … you’re reading.”
“I know how to read.”
“But you’re reading the Bible,” Kayla says. “That makes a best friend worry.”
My heart always feels a little fuller whenever Kayla calls me her best friend. I mean, she’s definitely my best friend, but I always wonder how I qualify as hers.
In grade school, Kayla was once given an award for compassion. Like, our teachers felt the need to award her for being a good person. When we had a fifth-grade viewing of The Lion King, Kayla stepped out in tears because her heart was breaking over the animated lions.
Can you blame me for questioning why someone that nice gets me for a best friend?
I’ve never even talked to Kayla about what happened to Pa.
As the daughter of Auntie Grace, one of the founding members of the Marie-tres, I’m pretty sure she’s already heard plenty of stories.
Still, during Father’s Day last year, I remember Kayla bought me Potato Corner fries out of nowhere.
She never explained and I never asked why.
Talking to Dani made me lose so many brain cells, but she might be onto something about me shutting people out.
So I ask my best friend, “You believe in things you can’t see, right?”
“Nika, that’s the literal definition of faith.”
That’s when the words spill out of me. I tell her everything from not following Ma’s pagpag rule to seeing Pa in the bathroom and him being invisible to everyone else.
I ramble on about all my theories, every random fact I picked up online, even about the scientist who experimented on dead pigs.
Panicking over how I have absolutely no idea how much time I have left with Pa.
As I’m verbalizing all these thoughts that have been whirling around in my head, everything suddenly sounds … ridiculous. Absurd, preposterous, like some batshit headline you’d see in a Facebook post that gets spread by aunties and uncles. What am I doing telling this to another person?
And Kayla is patient enough to listen through my whole speech! By the time I’m done, her gaze is still fixed on me and I’m half expecting her to report me to the clinic.
Then a smile crawls across her lips. “This is what happened in Kathryn Bernardo’s hit horror movie, Pagpag: Nine Lives.”