Page 53 of Something in Between

“Who taught you how to change oil?” Dad asks.

“My dad hired a mechanic to teach me,” he says, filling the oil pan. “He said every guy needs to learn.”

“Daddy, Royce is here to hang out with me,” I say. “You have two sons to help you with that.”

Dad’s arm pops out from under the car. He shakes a wrench at me. It looks like the arm isn’t attached to a body, which makes me giggle. “If you were a good daughter you would fetch us some lemonade,” he says.

“Fetch, Dad? Dogs fetch things. Not daughters,”

Royce peers up at me with a pouty face and a puppy dog look.

“Fine,” I say, but in truth I can’t resist him.

When I enter the kitchen, I find Mom counting the cash from today’s work. I think of Maria doing the same job over at Royce’s house and feel a mixture of shame and irritation at myself for feeling strange about the whole situation, like I’m embarrassed about her, which I’m not.

Opening the refrigerator, I reach for a big pitcher full of juice. “What do you think of Royce?” I ask, pouring the liquid into a couple of glasses for Royce and Dad.

“He’s very nice, like you said,que guapo,” she says distractedly, even as she notes how handsome he is. She finishes counting the bills, then turns her attention to me. “But you watch out you don’t get hurt.”

“Is that what your mother told you when you brought Dad home for the first time?”

“Not at all. Your Lolo took Dad outside and was about to chop the head off a chicken. But your father stepped in, took over, showed Lolo that he wasn’t afraid of a chicken without a head, or of blood, that he knew how to take care of business.”

“Gross, Mom. Are you trying to say Royce needs to impress Dad by chopping off the head of a chicken? The Blakelys live in Bel-Air. They’ve probably never even seen a live chicken. Well, maybe on TV or something.” I laugh, thinking of Royce beheading a live chicken.

I head back to the garage with the glasses of juice. My dad comes out from under the car, wiping the sweat from his head with an American-flag bandanna. He takes big gulps from the glass.

“Thanks,” he says, after greedily finishing it. Without saying anything more, he starts to leave.

“Where’re you going?” I ask.

“Wherever the next chore is,” he says, leaving us alone in the garage.

Royce pops out from under the car too and washes the grease from his hands. He tucks his shirt back inside his pants and finally takes a drink. He’s sweaty, and there are grease marks on his clean pants and shirt. “Thanks,” he says. “Wow, this is really good, what is this?”

“It’s calamansi juice. It’s a Filipino key lime, I think?”

He guzzles the rest of it down. “Yum.”

“You know that was a test,” I say.

“What do you mean?” Royce crinkles his forehead.

“My dad, making you change the oil—that was him trying to see what you were made of.”

His face brightens. “Oh yeah? And did I pass?”

In answer, I tiptoe and give him a quick kiss. Somehow, I know he’d behead a chicken for me if he had to.

17

Long, long ago, I learned the heart cannot live in two places. I had to choose. My heart is in America.

Where is yours?

—MARIVI SOLIVEN,THE MANGO BRIDE

THE END OFNovember comes and goes, and the deadline to apply for UC schools passes. I didn’t turn mine in, since it seemed like a waste of the application fee. I know I made the right call, but I’m still down about it.

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