Page 4 of Giving In

“Oh, Did you? Change of mind?” She turns to me for one second with a raised brow.

“No, but it can’t hurt, right? They insisted.”

“Of course, ‘Me.” I can hear the smile in her tone. She was never good at school; she didn’t go to college and she never wanted to. My mom was always about living on the wild side until she met my dad. Now she has a daughter who was offered multiple scholarships from the colleges close to us, one full ride to UPenn, and possibly to Harvard.

“I probably won’t get it but still-”

“Oh please,” she cuts me off, “I hate when you do this. I hope you don’t do this at school.”

I can’t help a laugh. I do do this at school. To my defense, I truly think I’ve always done my worst at a test even when everyone around me knows I’ve done fine. I keep my expectations low to avoid disappointment. Call me pessimistic. This uncontrollable behavior and my respect for every single rule have earned me the nickname ‘Goody’ for goody two shoes. I don’t care though, like I said, I’m not there to be the most popular. I’ve got Em and Mom and that’s all I need.

We park by our small cottage and I get my suitcase while mom brings my backpack inside. I bring the suitcase up the four steps leading to the tiny porch and pull the screen. After a long journey, I finally push the door, and enter our humble home.

I breathe in the smell of Filipino food coming from the kitchen as I pass the door. Dad’s parents were from the Philippines and although mom is not the best cook, she does her best to learn the dishes I miss since he passed.

“God mom, that smells so good.”

Our front door opens straight into our living room that also serves as a dining room and any other room other than a bathroom or bedroom. Our house isn’t big, to say the least. From the door I can see the small open plan kitchen separated by a short counter with two stools around it. The sofa is a few steps to the right when you walk in, facing the wall perpendicular to the doorway.

I walk in, past the entrance shelves with old pictures of when we were a full family and turn left to a narrow hallway leading to the two bedrooms and the one bathroom.

After showering and throwing my dirty clothes in the laundry basket I join mom back in the kitchen.

“Where’s my souvenir?” She asks as she puts rice on two plates.

“Ha. Do you know how much anything costs in the Harvard university shop? I don’t even study there for real. You’ll get a UPenn sweater shipped to you if you’re sweet.”

Mom laughs and adds chicken adobo to complete our plates. “It probably won’t taste like anything close to your dad’s, but I do my best,” she says as she passes me my plate.

We settle on the sofa and put some reality TV on. Our dirty little secret is our obsession with anything reality TV. From the Kardashians to the Real Housewives, we’ve watched them all. I think it definitely is linked to my toxic curiosity with other people’s lives. Maybe I’mthatunhappy with mine that I can’t stop looking at others. Apart from Em, no one knows my vice and for some reason, I like to keep it that way rather than fit in with all the other girls at my school that watch them. Weirdly, I like keeping this image of miss perfect. Probably because that couldn’t be further from the truth.

???

The next day, mom wakes me up early for my shift at the café. I should really work somewhere else if I want to be able to afford anything or save any money. The Bakers pay next to nothing.

“‘Me, I’m going to need help behind the counter,” mom says as I’m wiping a table. “It’s overwhelming at this time of the day”.

“Sure,” I shoot back. I hurry and pull an apron from behind the bar.

I put my apron on and call the next person without looking as I try to tie it around my waist.

“Hey, what can I get you?”

My problem here is that being the progeniture between a small Filipino man and a tiny Southern Belle with a ballet dancer’s body, I ended up being a five-foot creature that still fits in children’s clothes at soon-to-be eighteen years old and I’m having a real struggle with this apron. Two times around the waist is leaving way too much string and it doesn’t fit three, so I have to choose between looking ridiculous or stop breathing for the rest of the day.

“Do you need help over there?” A voice asks as I still try to tie the apron. I settle on two times around the waist, so I don’t pass out during the day, and finally look up just to be met with the most heart-melting honey eyes.

My gaze locks with his for a moment before I drag my eyes to the boy’s beautiful caramel hair with slight curls that almost reach his ears. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back, and smiles at me with his gorgeous shy grin. His slightly chipped front tooth has always made my gaze linger on his smile.

Christopher Murray. Six foot four of pure perfection. My ideal man, my childhood crush that has turned into something way too hot to be a boy anymore. The most perfect thing about him is that the personality that accompanies his manly body is kind, intelligent, and respectful. I know he is smart because he is my main competition at being this year’s valedictorian. And I know he is kind because we’ve known each other since pre-school, he’s always been good to me, has never called me ‘Goody’ and has never succumbed to the peer pressure of not talking to me because I’m not cool enough to fit in.

Until seventh grade, we were good friends. Not best friends but at least friends. Then one day he showed up with the twins and we slowly drifted apart. Nonetheless, he’s always been nice to me.

Christopher is everything I want, or at least wanted. In fourth grade, I declared my undying love for him in a letter I put on his desk in class. He didn’t love me back but at least he had the balls to come to me and say it to my face. And this is the story of how I know that Christopher Murray is everything I want but I’m most definitely not everythinghewants. It’s a good thing now I guess because the height difference that has progressed over the years would have been awkward.

You go, Jamie, keep telling yourself that to make yourself feel better.

“Jamie? Are you okay?” His voice suddenly brings me back down to earth and I shake my head to push away the memory of the ten-year-old me getting her heartbroken by Christopher Murray.

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