Page 14 of The Five Stages of Courting Dalisay Ramos

“If I’d warned you, I worried you might not come,” says Pinky.

“And lose this bet?” Evan tries to sound casual, but he knows it’s a weak front.

Angel, the birthday boy wearing a golden paper crown and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt, runs screaming through the hall, leading a pack of equally hyper children as they careen around the open community center space.

Five clowns are scattered throughout the hall, entertaining groups of children with magic tricks and balloon animals and something Evan can only describe as “kazoo comedy.” Evan can’t look at any of the clowns. Perhaps if he doesn’t make eye contact, they will find easy prey somewhere else.

“Relax,” JM says. “We’ll talk you up to Dalisay, easy as pie, and be out of here in no time.”

Evan’s trying his best to act cool, but at what cost? His back is already running with sweat, and the close clown proximity is making him want to turn tail and run. He was way too young when he saw the miniseriesITstarring Tim Curry. At the time,his babysitter—a sweet elderly woman who was partially blind and mostly deaf—thought the clown on the cover was kid-appropriate. He carries those mental scars with him forever.

Sure, he’s used to being around people in costume at conventions, but clowns are apex predators. An entirely different species. They can smell fear.

Before he can set a foot further into the room, JM and Pinky both grab Evan around the biceps and spin him around.

“You are not allowed to talk to Dalisay,” Pinky says.

“Don’t even look at her,” adds JM.

“I know!” says Evan, throwing up his hands in surrender. “I get it! Stage one, let you do all the talking. I’ll try not to get murdered by a person wearing a big red nose.”

“You’re learning fast,” says JM, and catches him by the elbow. “Come on, I’ll protect you.”

Evan keeps his eyes down as JM guides him to the back of the room toward a table stacked with presents. Before he came, Evan stuffed an envelope with twenty dollars, and he sets it among the towers of boxes and bows near another table packed to the brim with food.

He’s had Filipino food before made by JM’s mom when she’s had them over for dinner, so he recognizes some dishes, but others not so much. There’s some kind of white paste in banana leaves, whatlookslike purple mashed potatoes, and a table with food spread across the entire surface on a large banana leaf. Several people stand around it, eating pickled eggs, sausages, roast pork, pineapples, and cucumbers with their hands. JM offhandedly tells him it’s calledkamayan, a kind of meal everyone enjoys without utensils. All the food looks incredible.

Standing around the table laughing and eating are a dozen or so Filipino adults, no doubt some of the parents of the children running the gauntlet around the room. The conversation is bright, the laughter rising through the hall, and Evan’s shoulders relax a little. For a moment he can forget about the looming threat of a wig-wearing nightmare lurking behind him. Still no sign of Dalisay.

JM and Pinky encourage Evan to try some food, and he gets a few cursory glances from the other adults as he grabs one of the wrapped banana leaves. He’s an unfamiliar face in what must be a close-knit community, but Pinky’s mom, a Filipino American woman in her sixties, calls up from the other end of the table surrounded by older aunties and uncles, smiling brightly.

“Evan!” she says. “Welcome, welcome! Everyone, this is Evan Saatchi. Pinky’s friend.”

He waves, smiling at the group, and does a double take when he sees a familiar face. At first, he thinks it’s Dalisay wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, but unless she just cut her hair into a straight bob with bangs, it’s not her. She has a rounder face than Dalisay, and sharp, angular eyebrows that give Evan the impression that he’s being judged. She stands with a man, a little older, wearing a graphic tee, who also watches him carefully through round, gold-rimmed glasses. Evan knows he is the only non-Filipino person in the building, but the way they’re staring at him seems to have nothing to do with that. He still smiles, unperturbed. He’s used to smoothing over uncomfortable situations.

A bright voice calls out behind him. “Kain na!”

It’s Dalisay, for real this time. She emerges from the kitchen, carrying a large stockpot with oven mitts. She passes right by Evan, doesn’t even look in his direction, and sets the pot down on the table. “Who wants more rice?” she asks as she scoops steaming mountains of fluffy white rice into a few bowls and hands them around the table.

It takes everything in his power not to be hypnotized by the sundress she’s wearing and how it curves around her hips.

“You really don’t have to do that, Dalisay,” Pinky’s mom says, taking a bowl. “You’re a guest here!”

“It’s no trouble at all,” says Dalisay. “I like to help.” She smiles and then notices Evan and her smile widens and starts to curl.

“What kind of name is Saatchi, anyway?” asks one of the older ladies. It’s not accusatory, simply curious.

“Persian,” he says.

“Oh, Persian!” the woman says, excitedly. The table explodes into a frenzy of questions about his family, and where they’re from, and how many live in America now. Immigrants of every kind seem to find kindred spirits with those who have come before them, a sort of camaraderie that comes from shared experiences. While conversation breaks out, Dalisay spins on her flats and leaves, and Evan can’t help the smile that lifts the corners of his mouth. He already feels accomplished just by being here.

Eventually, the conversation morphs away from the topic of Evan and transitions into talk about other families, and school, and how big the kids at the party are getting, and Evan helps himself to more food. There’s so much, he’s notsure where to start. JM has him trytocino, a kind of crispy bacon;tapa, salted and cured beef; and pickled vegetables calledatchara. It’s all delicious.

Upbeat pop music plays on the karaoke machine and a handful of little girls sing a Miley Cyrus song while a clown inflates some skinny balloons to twist into crowns and flowers for eagerly waiting children.

This kind of party is way different than what he grew up with. Evan doesn’t have any cousins or siblings, and this type of get-together would be seen as over the top and ostentatious for his dad’s liking.

When he was seven, his parents divorced. His mom moved to India for work, and Evan stayed in California with his dad. His dad is far more subdued when it comes to celebration. Growing up, Evan’s birthday parties usually consisted of a handful of friends over for pizza and cake and then they all went home by five so the house could return to stasis, peace, and quiet. He’s pretty sure his dad would have a nosebleed at the idea of a karaoke machine.

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