Chapter 9
nine
LILIANA
April in Boston is one of the most irregular months of the year.
Some days start with a chill, one that tempts me to press my freshly brewed coffee to my face before drinking it.
Sometimes, by the afternoon, sweat clings to every part of my body.
Occasionally it’ll get colder than anticipated, and I’ll wrap myself as tightly into my sweater as I can.
When I walked into my Monday lecture, every button on my cardigan was fastened. Stepping out of class, there’s a switch to the heat of evening. Perspiration is gathering in the creases of my skin and my sweater has been stuffed into my tote bag.
It’s a bit poetic, though, that I start the most unpredictable month of the year with an unexpected grade.
“I think this is the best thing you’ve submitted to our workshop all semester.”
Kameron’s words sing choruses of praise in my head. They shouldn’t, because I’m walking out of class with a measly B- that would have sent me into an existential crisis during undergrad. Second semester graduate school Liliana, though, has only seen a grade this high in her dreams.
My heart could explode with pride and relief. I’m one inch closer to proving myself.
Kameron and I navigate around the students trickling out of their own classes. We head for the building’s exit and find our way to the subway entrance near campus.
“I can’t believe people liked it. Everyone hated the outline when I submitted it.”
“Hate is a bit much,” Kam says while heading down the subway steps. “I didn’t hate it. I just knew you could do better. And your first act draft is much better.”
I grin at him and look at the papers in my hands. He’s right. My outline was directionless and disorganized. I had concepts of a story, sure, but not a narrative with two characters and backgrounds and conflicts and conclusions.
I don’t want to credit the only successful thing I’ve done this semester to Grant, but I can admit his textbook helped. Learning about artists ignoring structure and reaching into their imaginations sparked a tiny bit of something in me.
It was Grant’s idea to pick my favorite outline out of the scrap pile.
His idea to continue with whatever story I connected to the most, regardless of what score it earned.
My first outline ever created, one with two people meeting at a mutual friend’s party and connecting over a game they love, was chosen.
When I pushed against it, he pushed back. Suggested if I couldn’t think of something to write, then I could move on. But if it was inspiring me then I should give it a shot. His logic of turning in something versus taking a zero convinced me to try.
My first act was the quickest thing I’ve written this semester.
It’s barely three thousand words, but there’s a foundation here.
Something to engross a reader and show them that my writing is worthwhile.
I know that for a fact, too. It’s written in the margins of the last page, in blue ink, with two exclamation marks that morph into a smiley face.
It’s the best feedback I’ve gotten all year.
I’m so drunk on that small sliver of praise that I bump into someone scrambling past us and have to yell an apology to his retreating figure.
Kam laughs. “Geez, you’d think that draft holds the answers to the world with how hard you’re staring at it.” It has the answers to my success, at least. That’s worth the world and then some. “You better text Grant a big ole’ “thank you” for helping you write it.”
He laughs again, with a nudge to my side and less humor in his voice. Not only has Kam been insufferable about Grant since I explained why we get together after my Thursday shifts, but as much as I’d hate to admit it, he has a point.
The eighty-one circled at the top of my assignment is physical evidence of Grant’s help.
It’s some verification the guy from undergrad wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
That Grant drove me home after lectures because he didn’t want me taking the train.
He asked me for book recommendations, then took the time to read them and discuss with me later.
He’d occasionally bring my favorite candy to study sessions and play it off like a coincidence.
I used to think that Grant had a crush on me.
I compared the two versions of him in my head after Thursday.
Marking his textbook with material I might find helpful and encouraging me to use the outline I liked, despite what others said, were very Original Grant behaviors.
The Grant that stood me up wouldn’t have taken time out of his day to do something extra for me.
He might have forgotten my half of the deal to begin with.
It's hard for me to accept either version as the right Grant. He does and says little things that would have sent me into a giggling mess a year ago, but are so out-of-character for a guy who left me nothing when I needed him. The times we spend together mix every feeling I’ve cultivated around him, both good and bad.
Kameron reminds me again to thank Grant before he hops onto his train home.
A crowd of people swarm once the doors to my subway open, and I hold the praised draft closer to my chest. I don’t particularly like having old memories and feelings bob at the surface. I don’t necessarily trust Grant, either. But there’s one thing he’s reminded me of that transcends our history.
I’m capable of doing something worthwhile. I can produce good work and get feedback that calls me intelligent and talented. It’s validation of my self-worth that I’ve been pining after for months.
And if Grant is the person who can bring uncover that, I’ll deal with everything else that comes with it. The risk is worth the reward ten times over.
“And then your cousin Arianna started screaming because another kid passed by with a toy she wanted, and he wouldn’t give it to her.”
“What did you guys do?”
“We told her if she kept it up we’d take her home and she stopped immediately.”
I laugh while leaning over the counter, closer to my phone and away from the pot of rice in the sink.
The vision of my parents and extended family hanging out at Nānākuli Beach Park is vivid.
I can hear the loud sounds of my aunts and uncles and cousins bickering around the containers of lau lau and Zippy’s chili.
Dusk might be falling over Boston, but it’d be early afternoon where my family is.
The perfect time to laugh and run around the beach park for a birthday.
There’s only one time I’ve experienced one of those outings myself, but with how often my parents talk about them, it feels too familiar.
A love for my family gathers in my chest.
I don’t know if the family members I only see on occasion know how much I appreciate them. My parents told me so much about the siblings and cousins they grew up with and how those people carve out their hometown. They are the ones my mom and dad clung to in the small part of O’ahu they call home.
My extended family are also the people who help keep us connected—as much as we can be on the mainland—to our culture.
It’s them who send us care packages of Hawaiian snacks, and they are the ones who video call during the May Day celebrations and family luaus we miss out on.
Every time my parents gush over how badly they miss their homes, an aunt or uncle or grandparent soothes them with promises of “next time.”
It’s more than I can say I’ve done as their daughter.
“Who you talking to?” My uncle’s voice drifts through the phone’s speaker, slurring with an accent native to most of my family.
“Liliana. She just when get home from class.” The same accent starts to slip into my mom’s tone. It only comes out when she’s around people she knows will understand her, and not side-eye her for the unfamiliar way she speaks.
There’s a sound of shuffling, and I picture my uncle swiping the phone from my mom’s hand. “Howzit, girl!”
“Hi, uncle. I’m good. I heard the birthday girl was screaming over a toy just now.”
He huffs into the speaker. “Nuts, that one. She always acking lidat, pretending like she tough. She get that from her madda.”
A chortle of laughter leaves my mouth, water splashing out of the pot in the sink. “Don’t say that so loud. Aunty is going to hear you and she’ll get upset.”
“I not sked of her.” My uncle talks about his wife with so much conviction, but he quickly drops his volume, whispering, “I lying. Your aunty is crazy. That’s why I when marry her.”
It’s easy to fall into this sort of joking with my family.
They’ve never treated me any different, despite my parents moving to the mainland so many years ago.
There are a few cousins from my generation who have grown up away from the islands, but we’re never outcast by our relatives who stayed in Makakilo.
I smile at the phone like someone on the other side can see it.
“I hope everyone is having fun. I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too girl. How come you never come home with your parents?”
My hands stall mid-rinse. Whenever my parents visit Hawai’i without me, there’s always a question of why didn’t I go home with them?
It’s not the question that bothers me. It’s the fact that my home is Boston, and O’ahu is theirs.
“I told you she get school.” My mom is quick to defend me. I’ve never said how awkward the subject is, but I think her intuition can pick up on it. She seems to know everything about me, including the parts I’m too afraid to share with her.
“So what? You guys teach school online, she no can learn on the computer too?”
“She likes Boston.” I busy myself with draining the rice and try to ignore the guilt building in my chest. “If she no like come, she doesn’t have to.”
My mother shifts the conversation, asking my uncle why he’s in her business when he’s supposed to be setting up the cake, and I busy myself with the rice cooker.
The counter is already tidied up and cleared before my uncle says his goodbyes, letting my mom talk.