Thirty-two Faces

Chapter 7

Mom likes chocolate cakes. I inherited my sweet tooth from her.

She calls it bad eating habits, because sweet things spoil your teeth, make you fat and give you cancer and diabetes. So I’m only allowed to have one sweet food per day. My choice is a hot-chocolate drink with marshmallows. Occasionally, I get Jell-O for dessert as a treat for good behavior.

Otherwise, Mom cooks us healthful meals, like steamed organic vegetables in exotic world-cuisine flavors. We’ll have things like spelt pappardelle pasta, olive oil with quinoa salads, and falafel with haloumi cheese. But if I know where to search in the kitchen, I can find her secret stashes of potato chips and Jell-O.

Her berating Samuel for his beer and pizza diet is what he calls ‘the pot calling the kettle black.’ I think that’s because Mom wants the best for us, but she doesn’t care much about her own diet.

For example, she always wanted to be a Hot Yoga instructor, but instead of setting out to be one, she decided to home-school both of us instead. My guilt is great because I kind of killed her dreams: she says I need 24-hour-a-day supervision. On an average week, I hear her screams, cries or comforting words at least once.

Even after we got on Professor Hoffman’s street-learning program, she continued to find something to worry about. That is quite remarkable because we hardly see our parents for the most of the day. I don’t understand how she can be worried about things she cannot see. Mom will message Samuel every now and then to check if anything has freaked me out. If he doesn’t reply within five minutes, she’ll call.

Dad’s original intent in enrolling me in the street-learning program was to get me used to the outside world. Later, I found out that he also did it to get Mom to relax and keep my rambunctious brother out of trouble.

That’s according to Samuel.

Given Samuel’s rebellious ways, Dad figured the best way to home-school my brother was to give him free rein but with a clear, compelling purpose, as Dad called it, to guide him — that is, to socialize me to the outside world. He said to Mom, The rest will sort itself out. He will find his own moral compass.

That’s how Dad convinced her to let him drop out of middle school to study at home.

In a way, the decision succeeded with the two of us. My brother became more responsible. It didn’t keep him out of fights, but at least he did his homework, although he still made me do his math and science assignments. He liked roaming the streets, leaving me to worry about the puzzles. He even became the captain of the football team in high school. As for me, I am now able to get out of the house by myself if it’s a familiar place and it’s walkable — or explore new areas as long as he’s around.

But Mom can’t stop worrying. We often see her staying up late at night to plan for our next quest. Dad may have come up with the puzzles, but she will check the locations over and over again to make sure they are safe places for me to go. Not too loud, not too many people — our clue locations are always within my reach. She will travel to the locations in advance and plant the clues herself.

When we pursue a false lead, we might enter new places that could upset me. Places like construction sites, lunchtime crowds or areas with loud noises and bright lights. That’s why she dishes out instructions to Samuel before we leave the house every day in the morning,

Make sure you never let your brother out of your sight.

Hold his hand when you’re crossing the road.

Did you pack the earmuffs?

So I figure, if I want Mom to get better, I will need to keep her off sugar, stress and get her to exercise.

# # # # #

The operation starts at 9.32 a.m. and 43 seconds. There is a team of four doctors and eight nurses working in shifts throughout the entire process.

So far, 4 hours, 12 minutes and 2 seconds have gone past.

And there is another 7 hours, 47 minutes and 58 seconds to go.

Dad sits on the seat’s edge, elbows on his knees, hunched over, his face resting on both palms. As far as I can recall, this seems to be the first time I’ve seen him hunched. Normally, he sits straight as a ruler, like the way he wears his square-framed spectacles.

He looks a lot smaller when he’s all stooped, especially when my brother is next to him.

Strands of Dad’s thin hair stick up; etched lines show all over his forehead when he looks up at the clock. It’s an unusual face for him, since it’s usually creaseless, like the neatly pressed shirts he wears. He shifts in his seat for the hundred-and-eighty-seventh time in the past hour. Clearly, Dad must be feeling very scared, because fidgeting is a common sign of anxiety. I don’t even have to check with Face Reader to know that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The ticking hospital clocks sound louder when the air in the waiting area gets heavy and oppressive.

Time goes past in repetitive cycles of waiting and staring at the occasional nurse or doctor coming out from the operating room, then back to more waiting again.

Dad and Samuel follow their eyes when they come out of the operating room and take down their surgical masks instantly for a breather. Sometimes they look flustered, and sometimes they will even look back at us. Most often, the doctors will just walk straight, faces fixed ahead. It’s like how waiters avoid eye contact when restaurants are busy.

My brother stands, leaning against the wall. Occasionally, he sits down next to Dad, puts his hands over Dad’s shoulders, and says something comforting to him.

Blue plaid shirt and rolled-up sleeves.

It’s one of those days where he’ll take charge and tell everyone what to do. He won’t take no for an answer, even from Dad. You might miss it because he will insist in the gentlest manner. But I know better.

Like the way he comes back with a cup of coffee and hands it to Dad, even when Dad says he doesn’t want any. Samuel will say things like, “Have some, Dad, you need to last the whole day.”

Or when he hears Dad’s growling stomach, he’ll ask, “Should we get you a sandwich, Dad?”

“Later, perhaps. Don’t really feel like eating.”

“We might as well get it now. Babe, you’re hungry anyway, aren’t you?”

Without any cues, he’ll shoot me a conspiring look. Somehow, I know I’m supposed to say yes even when I’m not hungry. But my mouth won’t coordinate to lie gracefully, and after making a few stuttering sound, I simply nod my head vigorously.

Dad might suspect we’re in cahoots if he looks at my face, but he doesn’t call our bluff. Instead, he wants to be left alone.

“Why don’t you boys go home? No point for you to stay,” he says.

Samuel kneels down in front of him and puts a hand on his shoulders. He waits long enough to let Dad know that what he’s about to say is not trivial, “We stick together, Dad. That’s what you always told us.”

And he won’t take no for an answer.

My brother, a natural-born leader with good intentions, takes orders from no one if he feels strongly about certain things. Mom and Dad have a hard time controlling him in those cases.

Rebellious and fiercely independent, their greatest fear is that he’ll end up in a maximum prison for felony. He often got into fights when he was young, but most of them because of me. As far as infamy is concerned, he has had his fair share of the limelight as the family’s problem child.

All kinds of trouble followed him, even during elementary school. Kids either loved or hated him because he’s the kind who’d beat the crap out of someone if they kicked a dog or bullied another kid. Mom had so many calls from the principal that she decided to home-school him along with me.

According to Dad, both of us are one-track minded: him being stubborn and me being tunnel-visioned. If we had been better children, she would probably have worried less and might not have gotten cancer.

My thought bugs me for the whole morning, so I tug at his sleeve when we cross the road, “Samuel?”

He pauses for a moment and looks back at me. I ask him, “Did Mom get sick because of us?”

“Why do you think that?” He seems puzzled by my question.

“We always make her angry or upset,” I say.

He takes my hand when the cars start honking at us. We hurry and slow back to a walk only when we reach the other side of the road. Then he looks at me again, shrugging his shoulders and says, “Then, we’ll stop upsetting her from now on.”

“How? Everything I do upsets her,” I say.

“Move out, live with me. She can’t get mad if she doesn’t know.”

I laugh at his private joke. That’s always his excuse for making me lie for him.

Samuel hates rules, while I love them. It’s a wonder how we get along. He always told me he couldn’t wait to move out of the house. Now that he’s already moved out, he wants to work overseas, to somewhere far and anonymous, where he is free to be himself.

It’s not as if Samuel doesn’t have his own rules. He just doesn’t like the ones everyone else makes him follow. One rule that he keeps telling me is: never be afraid. And he’ll go to great lengths to prove that he isn’t. When we were young, kids would pick on me at the playground, and he’d say to me, “Got to stand up to them or your head will always be on the ground.”

“Shouldn’t we just tell Mom and Dad they call me names?”

“That won’t make a difference. Those kids will just do the same thing behind your back.”

The pocket knife I keep is nothing more than a comfort blanket. I’ll run if I can. Not everyone is brave as he is.

If you’re scared, then I’ll stand up to them.

So that’s why he often gets into fights, to simply prove a point.

Bossy as he is, my brother won’t force others to follow his rules. But that doesn’t stop him from doing things his way. If he thinks you should fight and you don’t, he’ll fight for you. And if he thinks you should eat but you don’t, he’ll simply go ahead and buy food, anyway. That’s why he ordered a salad, a soup and an apple as well as the sandwich to take to our father.

“Didn’t Dad say he doesn’t feel like eating?” I ask as he pays at the cashier.

“That’s not what his stomach says. I’ll eat it if he won’t.” He shrugs.

Go by the guts. Listen to what they mean, and not what they say. That’s what his face and his body is telling me.

On a good day, I count myself lucky if I can understand what people say. Knowing what they really mean is a dream for another lifetime. People are very confusing and full of contradictions. Why can’t Dad speak plainly? Who can you trust for the truth if not your own family? So I ask, “Why doesn’t Dad want to admit he’s hungry?”

Samuel takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. Taking the trays from the counter, he says, “Maybe he’s not in the mood; maybe he wants to suffer together with Mom. I don’t know, Babe.”

I stop asking since he seems tired. But my anxiety and confusion must have shown on my face, because Samuel answers the question I’ve been meaning, but didn’t know how, to ask,

What should I do?

“Just do what you think is right.”

And it turns out that he is right.

Because Dad eats all the food and holds on to Samuel’s hand for a long time just to say, “Thanks for the lunch, son.”

Looking at the way his hands grip, I think he means,

Thanks for being thoughtful.

Samuel acknowledges his gratitude with a smile. It isn’t a simple, happy smile. He’s trying to make a point.

I don’t understand what it means until after a long silence. Dad says to him, “I… take back what I’ve said. About you being irresponsible.”

And Samuel’s smile suddenly becomes clear when he responds too quickly by saying, “So Babe can stay with me?”

That’s what the smile means,

I proved you wrong.

“I prefer him going to Massachusetts. Hoffman knows what he’s doing. But if you’re very certain-”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble, Dad. It won’t happen again,” Samuel interrupts.

What won’t happen again?

I’m not privy to their argument, but I’m used to being talked about as if I wasn’t there. Better to keep my mouth shut in case it makes him change his mind.

“All right, as long as your mom feels at ease.”

My brother smiles as if he had raised his fist in victory.

They spend the afternoon talking about me.

And I spend the afternoon watching them talk about me.

It feels kind of surreal, like I gained the power to be invisible. Occasionally, my brother brings me into the conversation and asks me for my opinion, “Babe, are you scared of living alone?”

“Yes.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Who can I run to if I freak out?”

It takes me some time to realize he isn’t really asking me to answer his questions. They are meant to lead me to telling Dad, despite my inability to form a coherent argument, why sending me to Massachusetts is a bad idea. My brother doesn’t get daunted by rejection so easily.

As Dad’s stance softens, Samuel and I shoot each other a conspiring look again, and I happily play along.

The waiting area becomes even cooler and quieter in the evenings. All the hospital staff looks more menacing under the naked fluorescent lights. It’s like their faces have been bleached bone white, as sterile as their clinically blank expressions.

By 8pm, Dad is slouching really low on the seat, and Samuel takes a smoke break almost every fifteen minutes. There’s only 1 hour, 32 minutes and 42 seconds till the surgery is complete. Exhausted by the day, Dad and Samuel get pretty short-tempered. So I decide to leave them alone, take out my iPad to practice with Face Reader.

“You still have the mood for that?” Dad asks me.

“Didn’t you ask me to practice every day?” I’m puzzled by his tone, because it sounds both like a question and a reprimand. I don’t know how to respond to him, so I continue with it. It’s important to practice now.

“He wants to be able to know what Mom is feeling after she wakes up.”

I look up when my brother says that, surprised that he understands what I am doing when Dad doesn’t. Aren’t PhDs supposed to know everything? No wonder Dad always tells me to think for myself; even the experts don’t have all the answers.

But they want you to think that they do.

At 9.52 p.m. everyone is sitting on edge. Whenever someone comes out from the operating room, all heads turn towards them. Dad’s and Samuel’s moods gets worse every time the nurses and doctors come out but don’t say anything. The surgery should’ve been completed 20 minutes and 4 seconds ago. The doctors said it would take 12 hours. Experts shouldn’t make empty promises like that.

Dad’s face is all clenched jaw and knitted brows. Samuel paces around and occasionally kicks the chair in frustration. The doctors aren’t giving any information, so I start researching Stage 3 ovarian cancer.

Apparently, only 15% of women get diagnosed at an early stage for this form of cancer, because the symptoms are commonly mistaken for irritable bowel syndrome or pre-menstrual syndrome.

For stage 3, only 20% of the women will live longer than 5 years.

“Babe-” Dad snaps. He puts up his hand and says, “Now is not the time to-”

At that moment, the operating-room door swings open loudly. A doctor, a stocky man with iron-grey hair, emerges with two other doctors following closely behind. They speak together in hushed but rapid voices. When he takes off his mask, I recognize him as the lead surgeon. Instead of approaching us, they walk hurriedly down the corridor. Samuel shoots up, runs after them and demands an update.

Taken aback momentarily, the lead doctor regains his composure when he recognizes Dad.

“I’m sorry. That’s my son,” Dad says.

“I’m afraid there might be some…” the doctor says with deliberated measure, “complications.”

He asked, “What do you mean?”

“There are some tumors near her spleen which are in a very delicate position. We’ll risk organ and tissue damage if we don’t do this properly. The situation needs to be assessed quickly.”

“Shouldn’t you have checked that earlier?” Samuel snaps.

“The X-rays and scans only show the tumors’ positions, but there are many risk factors involved — like the locations of nearby major arteries, how they are attached to the organs, etc.,” the doctor says.

I want to say something, but Dad pulls me back and tells me to let the doctors go and do their work.

When they leave, he collapses on the seat with a loud thud. He takes off his spectacles and rubs his face with both palms. Veins are clearly visible on his neck and the sides of his head. Heaving a deep sigh, he looks up at my brother and says, “Samuel, take Babe home. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

I don’t understand his face, but I don’t like the look at all, like something bad is going to happen, and no one plans to tell me about it. Holding on to Dad’s arm tightly, I refuse to let go of him. They are not keeping me away from Mom.

“Babe.” Samuel squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

“No.” I shake my head furiously to compensate for the words I can’t find at that moment to describe my anger.

Aren’t we supposed to stick together?

Samuel puts his hands on my iron grip tightly clutching Dad’s arm and says to me gently, “Come on. Don’t make it hard for Dad.”

Then he pries my fingers open, one at a time and says, “Aren’t you supposed to listen to whatever I say?”

On the way home, I grip the car handle tightly, like I’m sitting on a rollercoaster ride without seatbelts. That’s how Samuel describes me.

“You’re not going to fall from the car, you know?”

He smiles. But a fake smile.

I can tell because he looks down the road too quickly when I face him, even though there’s nothing ahead. It isn’t the streetlights that glisten in his eyes. He is just as scared as I am, but he won’t show it.

No one remembers seeing him sad. Sulking perhaps, or even moody.

Mom and Dad think he never is sad, but I do. It’s just that he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Only during those nights when he crawls up behind me in bed and asks, can I sleep here tonight, do I feel his shoulders heaving slightly after he thinks I am fast asleep. But when he does that, those short, sharp pulses of movements in his body last for a long, long time.

Was he laughing at those times?

There’s no reason for him to, unless he has a funny dream at night. It happens rarely, so I never think much about it.

On the last night before he left for college, thinking that I was asleep, he cuddled me from behind, and I felt the pulsing movements from his body again: That’s when I understood what it meant. He doesn’t want anyone to see him crumble. But no one can be strong and brave all the time, not even him.

So I’m not too surprised when I find him coming into my room, crawling into my bed, saying, “Dad might call us any moment. Better if we stick close.”

I simply nod.

Simple things I can do, like remembering stuff, math and puzzles. But at times like this, I don’t know how to say clever things to make him feel better. So I normally do what I know best, just lie there quietly and pretend that I’m sleeping. Having a warm body to cuddle against is all the comfort he ever asks from me.

“Get some sleep, Babe. Mom will want to see you fresh and sprightly,” he says.

And I turn around, feeling him spoon me from behind, arms under my neck and over my waist.

I drift in and out of sleep. He tosses and turns, looking at his phone every few minutes to check for messages. Occasionally, I wake up and find him smoking outside on the balcony. It takes us two hours to realize it’s pointless to sleep.

So we end up talking — about Mom, about the two years we spent apart, reminiscing about our childhood and about the future.

“When Mom called me and told me about her cancer, I was shocked. I can’t imagine her dying.” He takes a puff and flicks the ash into the ashtray next to the bed. Then a weak smile comes to his face, “Suddenly, I don’t mind her calling to nag me anymore.”

“I don’t want Mom to nag. It means that she’s worried,” I say.

He tousles my hair, eyes downcast and melancholic. Exhaling smoke through his nose, making a sound like a deep sigh, he says, “Life is so short, Babe: you graduate, you get a job, work nine to five, get married, have kids, make some money and then you die. Just like Grandpa and Mom and everyone else.”

“Are those your rules?” I ask.

Shaking his head slowly, he looks out toward the balcony and says, “Every time I’m tempted to drop out of college and take up photography, I can almost hear Dad in my head saying, How are you going to pay the rent? Then Beth will tell me to get real. I’m not like you, Babe.” He turns backs and look at me before he continues, “You live by your own rules. How nice is that?”

“Why can’t you?”

The cigarette stub burns dangerously close to his fingers. He snuffs out the last spark against the ashtray.

“I guess I’m not as brave as you,” he says.

My brother is not allowed to be sad. Not when he’s the football captain, the popular boy in school. People think he doesn’t have the right to be sad. Standing in a corner in school, I hear his friends say to him when he confides in them, What do you have to whine about?

Since he’s the older son, the normal son, all of our parents’ remaining hopes are pinned on him. When he asks to do photography in the Wyoming community college, Mom tells him, You have to get into a good college.

Last summer, when he refused Dad’s offer to take an internship in an IT company, he was berated.

Do you know how hard it is to get a job right now?

I can cry and wail because no one expects anything more from me. As some of the kids in school say: I’ll be lucky to get a job sweeping floors for McDonalds.

A long silence settles between us.

His phone finally rings at 2.17 a.m. Both of us shoot up from the bed and scramble for it.

“It’s Dad,” Samuel says. He gives me a fearful look as if he’s afraid to pick it up and answer it.

It is a torturous six seconds, as his intense expression tells me absolutely nothing. His attention is focused on what Dad is saying.

I grab onto his arm, trying to gather what’s going on by the look on his face. When he finally softens, sighing with relief, and breaks into a smile, I feel I can breathe again.

Mom is okay.

“We’ll come over right now,” Samuel says into the phone.

No?

Okay. I see.

We’ll come over first thing in the morning when she wakes up.

When he ends the call, he pulls me in for a tight hug. And my plan to get her well just got started.

We visit Mom every day when she’s resting in the hospital. She sleeps most of the time for the first few days, so we only get to watch her quietly. Seeing her breathing and alive is good enough for me now.

By Friday, she’s well enough to sit up and chat with us. Mom is proud of me for cooking the meals in her absence, even though Samuel complains he has to eat green-olive tapenade every day. Unlike me, Dad and Samuel like variety in their food. I can eat the same thing over and over again if I like it very much.

On Saturday, I try out a new recipe and cook some ratatouille for Mom. She must be sick of the hospital food, which doesn’t look very healthful to me.

I get into an argument with the hospital staff when they don’t want to allow me to bring my own food in. The nurse threatens to throw me out of the hospital if I don’t keep my voice down.

When Samuel comes back, he puts on a sad face and tells her a much exaggerated version of Mom’s condition and my mental disability. Suddenly, hospital policy no longer matters to her. I watch with awe and disgust when she flips her hair, touches his arm offering condolences, and then within a minute, we walk in without further obstructions.

“Are you sad?” I ask him when we’re alone in the elevator, remembering the look on his face earlier.

“I was just pretending to be, so she’d let you through,” he says with a cocky grin. I’m amazed how he can always get others to do things his way. Boys, girls, young and old — everyone seems to like him. But I don’t understand the logic behind it.

“But why do you have to pretend?”

He looks at me, surprised that I’m still talking about it. Shrugging, he says, “That’s how the world works, Babe. You can’t survive if you don’t know how to put on a mask.”

“Will you teach me how?” I ask.

“No. I like you the way you are.”

“You just said I can’t survive if I don’t know how.”

He laughs and then says, “Don’t worry, Babe; the world will need to survive you first.”

Things get even more confusing, so I decide not to ask anything more. It hurts my brain.

Dad is already there in Mom’s hospital room. He sits by the sofa waiting for us while the doctors examine her. The curtains are drawn around her bed so we can’t see her yet. While waiting, Dad chats with Samuel. "Have you considered George’s offer at Accenture?" Dad asks.

"Dad, I'm just starting my junior year." He leans his side against the wall, looking out at the window.

"You need to think ahead, son; graduation will come sooner than you think."

My brother looks at me for sympathy, and I understand. See what I mean? That’s what his face is showing me.

Samuel told me once that the corporate ladder is a fairy tale like Jack and the Beanstalk. The twist is that once you climb to the top, you’ll find no cloud castles. Instead, you have to hang on for dear life, because either someone below will try to push you off or you’ll lose your grip and fall from grace. That’s why he tells Dad, "I want to be a photographer. Work for National Geographic or something."

Dad's face crumples, and he doesn't say anything for a long time. Emerging from deep thought, he tilts the glasses up from his nose and says, "I trust you know what you're doing?"

Trust means confidence, but Dad’s questioning tone contradicts his confidence. It’s so confusing.

The conversation ends when the doctors pull back the curtains. Mom lies on her bed; she smiles, looking tired but alert. Moving slowly to prop herself up, careful not to disturb the tubes and needles inserted everywhere in her body, she reaches out her hand and asks me,

"Babe. Have you eaten?"

I nod.

"He even made you lunch, Mom," my brother says.

Her smile widens as I take out the food warmer and show her the colorful ratatouille I've packed inside.

"Thank you, Babe," she says as I pass her the cutlery. Then she leans over to me and whispers, like she's telling me a secret, "The hospital food is horrible."

"How are you feeling?" I ask her.

"Argh… Feels like I’ve been hit by a truck." She shakes her head as she slowly lifts the fork to her mouth. "And I have chemo to look forward to after this."

"I made a diet plan for you," I say. “You will get well soon.”

"Did you?" She takes my hand and smiles. Her grip is weak and tenuous.

"And I've downloaded five new recipes. You don't have to eat the same food every day."

After she’s done, I put the utensils and food warmer into my bag. I take out a get-well card I’ve made and hand it to her.

It was originally supposed to be a manual for her to understand me better so that she doesn’t get mad or upset so often. Samuel said I should write it like a story, but I don’t know how to explain without equations and graphs. So it took me a very long time to describe myself.

It started off at 73 pages, but every time I showed it to my brother, he edited out most of it. In the end, only a few small paragraphs remain, and he says I might as well write it on a card. And so she holds it up and reads.

She cries and hugs me after she reads it. Her reaction confuses me because what I wrote is not supposed to make her sad. But my brother tells me not to worry about it.

The week goes by making trips to and from the hospital. She still looks pale, but she’s more alive and chatty every time we visit her. It will be only a few more days till she gets to come home.

# # # # #

I almost forget I’m supposed to go boating with Samuel and his friends on Sunday until he reminds me to bring my trunks. On the night before, I get cold feet and I ask him if I can pass.

Getting trapped in a boat full of strangers is like taking a bus, except that I am supposed to talk to them.

“I thought you wanted friends?” My brother puts down his iPad. Actually I just want to be left alone, but that worries Mom because she thinks everyone needs friends. Standing outside his door, I shrink a little and mutter, “There’s nowhere to hide if I’m scared.”

“That’s the whole point.” He shrugs.

Before I turn away, he calls me back to his room and then points at me, showing that he means business when he says, “And DON’T bring your knife along. If you do, I’ll use it to skin you.”

I wake up extra early to go for my morning routines so I can get back early to make some brownies. The internet says food is a good way to bribe and socialize. Heightened dopamine levels also make people friendlier, so I add an extra dose of chocolate into the brownies.

“What are you doing, Babe?” Samuel asks when he finds me in the kitchen baking. He looks at his watch and says, “We have to go soon.”

“I’m baking brownies for your friends.”

“Are you serious?”

“What’s wrong? Should I have baked a cake instead?” I ask.

“Never mind. Just hurry up.” He shrugs.

On the way, Samuel whistles and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He seems to be in a better mood now that Mom is recovering. He’s wearing a blue lumberjack shirt, which means he’s going to be bossy today, and that makes me even more nervous.

Of the group, I know Peter and Rachel are friendly. Mindy and Sarah, I already know by face, but there will be two boys who are complete strangers to me. Boys are the scariest because they are more aggressive.

“Hi, everyone, sorry we’re late.” Samuel announces his arrival, strolling casually towards the group, with me hiding behind his back.

“And this is my brother, Keith.” The strangers say hi when he introduces me. My brother tries to coax me out from behind his back with a sweet voice, “C’mon, Babe, don’t be shy. Say hi to Marcin and Rory.”

When I still don’t budge, he practically shoves me in front of them. My eyes are glued to the ground when I finally manage to mumble out a greeting,

“H-Hi…”

Greeting the rest is easier since I already know who they are. Peter and Rachel greet me warmly, but the two girls immediately turn their attention to my brother.

“You always make girls wait for you!” Mindy squeals and hits him.

“I know, I know. We’ll make up for it.” He puts his arms around her and smiles. Then he says to me, “Babe, why don’t you bring out the brownies from the car?”

So I go, happy to get away even for a brief moment. I return and peel off the lid; the piping-hot, sweet aroma fills the air, revealing a luscious tub of moist, creamy brownies. Rachel is the first to help herself, followed by the boys. Sarah and Mindy are on a diet.

“Is there weed in it?” the taller boy, Rory, asks.

The recipe didn’t mention anything about weed, so I didn’t know I was supposed to include it.

“N-No. My lawn is very well trimmed,” I say.

The boys burst out laughing, and then Peter says to Rory, “See what I told you?”

Are they making fun of me?

They must be, since I’m not telling a joke.

I look at Samuel, worried that I might have said something wrong.

It’s cool, he mouths to me silently.

Then Marcin asks me an even more puzzling question, “Are you for real?”

Stand up for yourself, my brother’s eyes seem to say when I turn to him. So I speak louder this time, though my eyes are still on the ground,

“Yes. Dad trims the lawn because I’m not supposed to touch anything sharp and motorized.”

More laughing again.

“All right guys, let’s go,” Samuel says loudly as he waves his hand for their attention. And the laughing quickly subsides as everyone picks up their stuff to follow him. Except for Rachel, who is still helping herself to the brownies.

“These are really good, Keith.” she says, sucking the remaining chocolate fudge from her fingers.

I catch up with Samuel, and he puts his arms around me, rubbing my shoulders. The two boys, who are cousins, tell him all about the yacht, like they are trying to impress him. Occasionally, when he feels like it, he nods and smiles to acknowledge what they say.

I watch him with awe and envy, because he gets his way with things so easily. Everyone listens when he speaks. The girls forgive him for being an hour late, just like that. It’s like they’re glad he even showed up at all.

We get aboard a luxury yacht owned by Rory’s dad. There’s a galley, a lounge and a small cabin inside for us to change into our swimming trunks. It’s pretty small, so we have to take turns. Sam and I go in last. While we’re changing, Samuel leans over and asks me discreetly, “You whacked it off, I hope?”

“What?” I look at his face.

My brother points to my crotch and makes a jerking-off motion with his hand. My face turns beet red when I realize what he’s talking about. I came well prepared. Why would I risk a public humiliation in front of all his friends?

“Of course, I did. I came in your mouth, too, if you must know,” I say.

He smacks my head and chortles.

“I’ll kill you when we get home.” Then he hands me a pair of sunglasses and says, “Wear these; they won’t know when you gawk.”

The glasses are slightly too big for me, but they actually make my staring feel less overwhelming, considering this is a new place. Somehow, they make me less nervous. Other than the motor engine and the light chop of the water, the lake is relatively quiet. Samuel grips my hand firmly one last time before we head outside.

Some of his friends are lying in the sun on the deck with a magazine or simply lying on their bellies sleeping. Only Peter is sitting on the outside of the deck fishing for trout. No one seems to be mingling. So I simply lie down on my back and close my eyes.

When I wake up, I find Samuel applying lotion to Sarah’s back. She’s lying on her belly, and the bikini top is off. Mindy comes out from the cabin and whispers something to him. Then she touches his shoulders, feeling them with her fingers and peeling off a sliver of dead skin.

Sarah looks up when both of them jump into the lake for a swim. Putting her bikini top back on, she stomps her way back into the cabin, muttering slut under her breath.

After that, I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my body.

“You’re not supposed to lie in the sun without sunscreen,” Rachel says.

I open my eyes, looking left and right, to see who she’s talking to; then I realize only two of us are left on the deck.

“Come,” she hands me a bottle of lotion, which I’m supposed to apply to my skin. The cream is soothing and cool, like cold jelly. When I hand it back to her, she asks, “How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

She sits down next to me on the deck, looking at my brother splashing water at Mindy. She asks, “Why does he call you Babe?”

“It’s a term of endearment.” As defined by Rule 3354.

“You don’t mind? It’s kind of embarrassing for boys isn’t it?”

It takes me some time to understand her question, which has two parts to it. First, she is asking whether I mind being called Babe, which I don’t. Second, she is asking why I don’t find it embarrassing for a boy.

My mind needs some time to visualize a response, so I answer the easy part first, “No.”

“Really?” She cocks her eyebrows. The second part of the question is unclear, so I say what I think is the most logical explanation.

“Because it is an accurate description. Samuel says my skin is smooth as a baby, and I smell like one.”

“You forgot to mention killer abs as well.” She winks and smiles. Her expression intrigues me because I recognize it from one of my Face Reader practices. If the target is female of a similar age group who compliments me on my physical attributes, it indicates sexual interest. So I ask her, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Are you always so direct?” She widens her eyes and laughs, putting a hand over her chest, she says, “No, I’m teasing that dork over there.”

And she points at her boyfriend, Peter, who’s still sitting on the edge of the hull fishing. He turns around smiling and says, “I can hear you, bitch.”

Why is he insulting her? I thought Peter was a nice person. The conversation gets more confusing, so I decide to walk away. She pulls my hand and asks, “Why do you look so angry?”

“He just called you a bitch.”

“Relax, it’s a term of endearment, too,” she says.

I sit back down and listen to her talk. Rachel is easy to be around, because she talks more than she listens. It works well with me, because I don’t have to think what to answer her. If I don’t understand, I simply turn my attention elsewhere.

Peter and Rachel are in college in California, too, and they are two years older than I am. She calls Samuel a ‘player’; I ask her if it’s a term of endearment.

“God, no! Which planet are you from? Anyway, it’s none of my business. He and Beth deserve each other.”

I don’t like the way she talks about my brother even though I’m not sure what she means. It makes him sound like a bad person.

I stand up from the deck, ready to walk away again when I see a hand waving in the water.

“Babe! Jump in, the water’s great!” Samuel shouts to me from below.

I set my sunglasses down and jump into the water with a somersault, splashing water everywhere as Mindy screams.

After the swim, I go inside the cabin to look for a towel. After digging through the spare clothes and toiletries, I realize I left it inside the car in the other bag. My brother sees me and takes out his towel to dry me while I sit hugging myself to get warm.

“Eew, get a room,” Marcin says.

Unfazed, he continues to dry me as if no one is around, even planting a kiss on my forehead when he’s done.

“Aww, that’s so sweet,” Sarah says.

“Put on a tee shirt,” he orders once he’s done. After that, he sits back down with the boys to play cards in the lounge.

Towards evening, I find Peter descaling the fish he caught. He plans to grill them for dinner. I don’t know how to descale a fish, so I stand in a corner outside the galley, observing how he does it. Every time he turns around, I retreat behind a pillar until finally, he asks, “Why are you standing there?”

He catches me staring. Peter is friendly, so he might not get mad if I tell him the reason. “I want to watch you descale the fish.”

“Then get your ass over here.” He turns his head towards me and smiles.

Peter smells nice, I think. Not the musky kind like Samuel, but fresh and soapy as if he just came out fresh from a bath. Smelling nice is rare for boys, because they usually stink — unlike girls, who smell like flowers and honey, which makes me feel good to be near them.

I stand about two feet away from him at first. But after a while, I start to feel safe enough to let him guide my hand as he shows me how to descale the fish with the knife.

“You’ve got to stroke it long and not too hard or the flesh will be scraped off,” he says.

“Like this?” I turn towards him to see his face. Peter nods approvingly and says, “Yeah, that’s it.”

From a corner of my eye, I see my brother looking at us while he’s playing cards. I think I’m doing something wrong because his jaw looks clenched. But when I turn around, his attention goes back to the game.

“When are you goin’ to teach me that backflip?” Peter asks.

“I practice at 7 a.m. every day,” I say.

He rolls his eyes and moans, “Can’t you come out at later time?”

He’s asking me to hang out. Does that mean we’re friends now?

“Duh, yeah.” He chuckles and nudges me with his elbow. Verbalizing thoughts are so tricky; you never know when they get broadcasted. Despite the slip-up, I smile broadly, not even bothering to hide my blush, because Mom would be proud of me for making a friend.

“I s-suppose I could meet you later.”

He nods as he takes the knife from me and scrapes the remaining scales off the fish. When we’re done, he says, “Think you can teach me a sleek move here? It’d be a nice party trick.”

I nod.

Rachel marinates the fish while both of us go out to the deck. There are two things he needs to remember for backflips; one is that he needs to jump really high, and two is he needs to rotate from the hips. I show Peter by doing two high jumps, tucking my legs to my chest before flipping back.

Most people fall because they lean backwards when they jump. Holding his spine straight with both my hands, I asked him to jump as high as possible. Then, I ask him to lay his back on the floor, tuck in his legs and rock back and forth, head to foot. This is to practice rotating his hips.

While we are practicing, Samuel comes out and glares at us with his arms folded. He says to Peter in terse tones, “Are you done playing? We’re all starving.”

“Sorry, cap’n. Comin’ right up.” Peter gets up from the deck and gestures that he’ll call me.

I follow him back to the galley, but Samuel puts a hand on my shoulders to stop me. He says, “Come play with us, Babe; we’re short a player.”

“But I want to learn how to grill fish,” I say, watching my new friend going back into the galley, heading towards Rachel.

“I’ll teach you when we get home,” he says. The finality in his tone means it’s not for discussion, so I let him nudge me back to the cabin while I keep looking at Peter. "Stop looking; you're not going anywhere."

# # # # #

When I reach home that night, I print out a card, sit on my bed and start writing things to Mom. My brother walks up and asks me what I’m doing.

“I’m writing another get-well card for Mom,” I say as I sign it at the bottom.

“Why? Didn’t you just give her one?” Samuel takes the card from me and reads it.

“She’s not well yet, so I can still write her.”

It isn’t like a birthday or Christmas which only fall on one day. Besides, the last card made her sad.

“You might want to remove this bit.” He points out the line after he hands me back the card. Leaning down on my bed next to me, he asks, "Are you excited? Mom's coming home tomorrow."

"I'm happy. But why should I be excited?"

He leans close to me, grinning and says, "If Mom agrees, you can stay with me in LA."

I smile brightly and lean my head on his shoulders.

Kissing me good night and tucking me into bed, he leaves my room and turns off the lights. Afraid that I will forget his instructions, I turn on the lava lamp and delete the sentence Samuel asked me to. I read it one last time, before I go to sleep.

NEXT CHAPTER