Chapter 17
It turns out, I’m a natural at managing my emotions.
I woke up this morning pissed at a lot of people. My sister climbed to the top of my list after she rudely woke me up by ripping the blanket off me again.
How this would usually play out in the past: I’ll yell at her for grabbing my blanket, she’ll yell back that I’m just pissed at her for hiding Ma’s dress fittings from me, I’ll yell again because now I’m doubly pissed, and so on and so forth.
This morning, though, I chose peace.
Scratch that. I chose maturity.
As I was lying on my bed, still adjusting from being blanket-less against my will, I stood up and greeted Achi, “Morning.” No yelling, no insults, no anger. Even Pa was speechless from my perfect display of control.
Achi, on the other hand, moved on to being straight-up disruptive. As I was minding my business and getting things ready for school, she opened every single drawer and cabinet in the bedroom. The worst part? She didn’t close any of them!
“I think she’s trying to get your attention,” Pa told me.
But she won’t get it. I was resolved with this whole new level of unbothered maturity.
After she was done with all the drawers, she moved on to opening and closing the door repeatedly.
My patience started to run out around the twentieth time.
Instead of snapping at Achi and asking if she planned to stop being annoying anytime soon, I said, “Thanks for giving me a ride to school again.”
I can tell my gratitude threw her off the whole morning.
It was so satisfying that even when Pa told me he’d meet me after school, I didn’t linger on the fact he has thirty-eight days left. I waited until I was in class before I spiraled.
When we reviewed our investigative project pitches during chemistry, I kept staring at the big question on my worksheet.
Can I get my father’s ghost to stay?
My throat starts to constrict when I see everyone else in class listening to Ms. Abad like our investigative project is some life-or-death situation.
So many of my classmates, kids all over the world, get 365 days a year with their dad, and I’m supposed to settle for forty days?
I know Pa said that line about accepting things we can’t change, but what if I don’t want to accept this?
Speaking of things that are hard to accept, we’re forced to stay a few minutes after class because Dani has to deliver yet another prom announcement.
“Saint Agnes Class of 2015 set the record for most attendees to their prom,” Dani declares from the front of the room.
“As your class president, I’m determined that we become the new record breakers, the trailblazers.
Remember that all the proceeds from prom go to our scholarship fund.
Let’s not crumble to the Class of 2015. Let’s not be victims of classism! ”
Dani’s very passionate delivery actually gets a few people in class to nod along to her call against “classism.” The worst of them all is Kayla, who even claps for this mess.
“It’s for a good cause,” Kayla protests when I shoot her a side-eye.
Dani flashes a prom teaser video in front of the room that ends in a countdown with a bigger font than the flyer: 38 DAYS UNTIL PROM. The countdown even has fireworks and Barbie animations on the side cheering.
Great. It’s like Barbie is cheering for my dad’s impending second death.
Even when the dismissal bell finally rings, I still can’t get rid of Dani. I try taking the most complicated route out and I still hear the heels of her loafers pattering behind me. She continues to hound me the whole way to the exit gate.
“Nika?” she asks when she catches up to my pace. “Were you in front of me this whole time?”
This type of acting is how stalkers get away with their crimes.
My indifference makes her drop the BS. “You know, there are many perks to heading the Prom-Companion Subcommittee,” Dani mentions.
“Is there a bigger perk than not joining the committee?”
“You can organize pre-prom events with the boys’ schools,” Dani offers, continuing her pitch. “Don’t you want to be the first one to flirt with potential prom dates?”
I’ve decided that this suggestion doesn’t warrant a response.
“It’s why I told Auntie Baby you would help plan a soiree at her place.”
“You did what?”
The only thing cringier than prom is the concept of a soiree.
Leading up to prom every year, students at Saint Agnes organize these weird modern-day mating rituals.
Since all-boys schools and all-girls schools have limited interaction, some decide to organize meetups where one class from the all-girls school hangs out with one class from the all-boys school.
“During our last prom comm meeting, Auntie Baby suggested that we have a soiree with Seph’s class, and since you two are neighbors, we thought you could cohost!”
“No.”
“Auntie Baby even said that your parents met through a soiree.”
“No,” I say again.
“And that you and Seph are really close.”
Is there a way that I can shut Dani up and still succeed in managing my emotions?
As I’m about to turn down Dani for the tenth time today, my sister unexpectedly comes to my rescue.
“Ms. Ilagan!” Dani gets distracted and runs over when she spots Achi. My sister quickly wears her resting constipated face once she hears Dani’s voice. It’s my sister’s expression whenever she has to deal with difficult customers at the bakery.
“Did you get to review my recent student council proposal?” Dani asks. “The action plan about ensuring appropriate behavior during club events? We want to make sure we all practice appropriation.”
Achi sighs and tilts her head at Dani (way more politely than when she does it with me). “Yes, I got your twenty emails. Have you signed up for that social justice workshop that I recommended?”
After Achi and I take turns trying to shake off Dani, Achi swipes us both out and we’re finally leaving Saint Agnes school grounds.
I’m still making sure that Dani isn’t following us when Achi hands me a paper bag. “In case you’re hungry.”
It’s one of her fancy bento lunch boxes packed with noodles.
Hold up.
“Did you make me pancit canton?” I gape at my sister.
“They’re special Japanese noodles.”
I open the box and eat some using the chopsticks placed inside. The chilimansi flavor already wafts through my nose before I take a bite. “Definitely pancit canton,” I say through more bites.
“Again, special. Japanese. Noodles.” Achi continues insisting on the lie.
“Wow.” I smile and look up at her. “You must feel really guilty about lying to me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“You didn’t tell me about Ma trying on wedding dresses,” I point out. “That’s hiding the truth. Definition of lying.”
“That’s not the same as lying.”
“Still felt like a lie,” I say, grumbling. I hate how my voice sounds like a little kid’s.
And I hate how my sister is now looking at me like I’m a little kid too.
“Sorry na, okay?”
I ignore her and focus on my special Japanese noodles.
She tries again. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
My heart twists at Achi’s offer. I never considered confiding in her about Pa … yet maybe, she would know what to do?
Achi then switches to lecture mode. “You can’t blame Ma for wanting to keep the dress fitting a secret. Look how you acted during the ting hun, at the memorial. You even insulted Uncle Derrick’s barista skills.”
And just like that, all hope empties out of my chest.
“I was giving Dr. Derrick constructive criticism.”
“Well, give nicer criticism,” she says. “He took time off from his clinic to help out again today.”
“What? He’s there again?!”
Great. Just what I need, watching Dr. Derrick and his sluggish coffee-making insert himself in Ma’s business.
When we round the corner of Buns by Beth’s street, I stop when I see a pale, ghostly white figure hovering by the storefront.
“Nika? Jackie?”
Every time Pa sees my sister, I can tell he’s bracing himself, hoping for the chance that Achi sees him too.
Then Achi walks straight past Pa, oblivious to his presence, and opens the door.
I want to ask if he’s okay when Achi says, “Why are you just standing there?”
“I’ll … finish my Japanese noodles first,” I tell Achi, and lift the lunch box for emphasis. “Don’t want to set a bad example for customers and bring in outside food.”
Achi looks at me skeptically before leaving me (and Pa) alone.
I hold my phone to my ear in case Achi watches me. “How did you know this was Ma’s bakery?” I ask Pa.
“Beth has a bakery?”
“Yeah, this is Ma’s store.”
His eyes light up when he scans the place. “Buns by Beth.” Pa’s body levitates even higher when he reads the store sign. He reaches out his hand through the window display.
“Wait,” I say, in case Ma’s bakery has some force field ghost repellent too.
But his arm goes straight through.
“Did the force field disappear because it’s your old warehouse?”
I try explaining how Ma converted the place, but Pa keeps butting in with comments about how there are so many customers, how the space looks so impressive. He doesn’t seem interested in figuring out the mechanics of when he’s tangible or not.
Pa’s hand traces Ma’s name on the sign. “You think I can go in?”
“We can try?”
I step inside and leave the door open for Pa to float through.
Pa braces himself and carefully moves toward the entrance.
I keep one eye closed since I hate seeing Pa get rejected by spaces.
Then he makes his way in—no falling, no ricocheting.
He immediately starts marveling at the pastry displays, the newspaper articles about the store that are framed on the walls, the customers lined up at the register.
“Always knew she could dream bigger,” he says under his breath.
Through it all, he asks me millions of questions.
“How did your mom start?
“She did this all on her own?
“What’s her bestseller? It’s her siopao, ‘no?”