Page 12 of On the Beat

Isla scoops somelaingonto my plate, insisting that she help serve the guest of honour. The problem is, I had no idea that taro leaves cooked in coconut milk would be spicy, and I’ve made two trips to the bathroom, dying of thirst like a hooked fish on land.

She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or pity me. I’d rather take the former.

“Sorry…” she apologizes when I return to the dinner table after my second dash to the lavatory. “I didn’t know you couldn’t eat spicy food.”

“It wasn’t that spicy,” I bluff, trying to suppress the urge to wipe my tongue with a paper towel as if it will wipe off the burning sensation.

“So, Isla, you’re a journalist, right?” Tita Evangeline asks, leaning an elbow on the table. “At least, that’s what your mother tells me.”

“Yep, I’m a journalist,” she says after a moment, chewing her bite of kare kare. I examine her body language for signs of deception: the too-many blinks, the hesitation, the way she flicks her hair over one shoulder. Something in my stomach tenses. Is that where I know her from? Is she one of the many dogged celebrity journalists that follow me around at awards shows? “I write some entertainment news and I’ve also done some financial pieces.”

“Have you heard any of Ryder’s work?” Paulo asks, looking like he’s gauging my level of success and fame. I’m grateful for it, as the only clue to my profession is the guitar I came here with, and I don’t think he told his mother about my career.

“Not sure,” Isla says, in a tone that tells me she definitely has. “Is it any good? Can you play us a song?”

“How about after we eat?” I say. My songs… right now, they’re seeds under soil, surrounded by an insignificant clump of dirt. But with any luck, they might become something beautiful, something unimaginably thriving and fresh and new.

At least, that’s my battered, ragged, against-all-odds hope.

Tita Evangeline suggests karaoke, something I’ll gladly acquiesce to if it means not having to sing one of my own songs. Everything I’ve put out in the past three years has felt exceedingly lacklustre. I had one good album, and now… Now I’m washed-up.

You’re never going to make anything as good as you have before.

You’re a one-hit-wonder.

You’ll never sell your music if you don’t sell your soul.

Give up and go home.

“So, Isla, what made you decide to visit us?” says Paulo, resting his chin on his elbow as he leans toward his cousin. “Tita Joy said your decision was very last minute.”

“I…” She takes a sip of water, choking on her food. “I wanted to see where my parents grew up. I wanted to see where they fell in love. Plus, it’s been so long since I came to the Philippines, that I thought I would come back and see everyone. I mean, the last time I was here, Paulo was still under the legal drinking age.”

Tita Evangeline lets out anaww, the sound that reminds me of Poppy when she sees a small animal like a baby hedgehog, something vulnerable and helpless.

But gazing at Isla, I’m not so sure that she’s either of those things. There’s something devious hiding behind those brown eyes, and I’m determined to find out what it is.

Deciding that defending my dignity from a possible spy is a better use of my time and energy than feeling sorry for myself, I ask Isla, “What made you want to see where your parents fell in love? Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you back in L.A. who won’t propose?”

“I don’t think that’s really any of your business.” Another vague answer. Something about Paulo’s cousin is making my guards go up, and as much as I’d like to look forward to the next few months, I can’t.

“Apologies, I was just making conversation.”And wondering if you’re trying to get into my business.

“Of course.” Her ensuing smile is as fake as the one I plaster on for concerts and paparazzi shots as she turns toward Paulo and Tita Evangeline.Herfamily. I’m the outsider here. “Karaoke sounds fun!”

* * *

The second morning after arriving in El Nido, I wake up far too early. Maybewake upisn’t the right term for it, considering that I never slept. I was up all night, trying to finish a song and wondering if I should try to run Isla Romero out of town, or at least out of this house.

All I want is to be left alone to write music. Is that so hard?

The last thing I need when I’m at my lowest, at rock bottom with a shovel, is for someone else, some stranger—especially a journalist—to see me.

At six am, birds gently sing and ocean waves thunder outside my window, a far cry from the traffic of Los Angeles. I slide out of bed, throw on a t-shirt to go with my shorts, and find Paulo. He’s an early riser, apparently, already in the kitchen making coffee. I need to confront him about his cousin’s presence here.

Paulo hears me coming, my footsteps creaking on the uneven boards. “Good morning.”

“You told me that this place was going to be empty,” I say as politely as possible. “Having Isla Romero here is notempty.”

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