Fresh Off the Boat (10 page)

During gym, Whitney went up to each girl in the line, as we waited our turn on the tennis court. She had a stack of typewritten pages with her, which girls were filling out, using each other’s backs to write on. Everyone was giggling and blushing.

When she got to me, she looked skeptical. “Ever hit home base?” she asked, a pen poised over her notebook.

“Excuse me?” I asked. “What’s this all about?”

“Sex. You know. Wait—don’t tell me. Are you, like, a
virgin
?”

I was so shocked I dropped my tennis racket.

“So, are you?” she asked, sizing me up.

“Uh, yeah.” I nodded. I’m fourteen years old. Wasn’t everyone?

“Thought so,” she said, smirking as she marked a check in an empty column. I peeked over and saw tons of checks in the “Dirty Thirds” column, and wondered what it meant.

“You won’t be needing this then,” she said, snickering, as she passed a sheet of paper over to Georgia.

I heard them whispering and pointing at me, hissing the
word “virgin” as if it was some kind of insult.

What’s so wrong with being a virgin at fourteen? I didn’t even know it was possible to have sex that early. Was I that naïve?

That afternoon, when I got to the Sears cafeteria, I called Isobel on my cell. Hers was the only number programmed in it. I had to ask her a geometry question anyway. I’d taken to calling her whenever I got stuck. She was like a human mathematical database with a funny accent. She answered her phone after a few rings.

“Comment?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“
Allo!
You’re missing the biggest sale at Rolo’s!”

“Like I have the money anyway.”

“Don’t worry. If I see anything you might like, I buy it for you.” Isobel was like that. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a big fan of gold lamé.

“Hey, Iz. What’s a dirty third?” I asked, momentarily forgetting my geometry problem.

“Comment?”

“Did you get that poll Whitney was taking today?” I asked.

“Oh, le sex poll?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?” she asked.

“Did you get a copy?”

“Uh-huh. And Georgia e-mailed everyone a copy, too.”

I felt a stab of hurt that I hadn’t even merited the online version. “Can you send it to me?” I asked Isobel.

“Sure.”

Isobel filled me in on all the bases. “No big deal,” she said. “I don’t even think half these girls have done it. If they say they have, they are deranging.”

“Deranging?”

“Um, not to tell the truth?”

“Lying.”

“Oui.”

“Have you?”

“Of course.” She sniffed. “Twice. With my boyfriend, Sam, in New York.” Right. Isobel’s eighteen-year-old boyfriend who was a nightclub DJ and a freshman at NYU.

“Is not a big deal,” she assured.

“Do you think Whitney’s done it?”

“Who knows? Is so dumb. Did you see the questionnaire she was handing out? Which is a guy’s most erogenous zone? What kind of condom you prefer? I threw it away.”

I was aghast. I didn’t mention that I planned to remain a virgin until I got married. Just like every good Filipino girl is supposed to—except for one of my cousins, who got knocked up when she
was fifteen, but we’re not supposed to talk about that. I didn’t see anything wrong with waiting. I was having a hard time imagining French-kissing a guy, let alone doing…well…that.

Claude would understand. Like a gentleman, he would wait until we had graduated from college and had a proper church wedding with seventeen bridesmaids (I have a lot of cousins). I practiced writing his name next to mine on all my notebooks. Mrs. Vicenza Caligari. Mrs. Claude Caligari. Mrs. Vicenza Arambullo-Caligari.

If I couldn’t have Tobey Maguire, I would settle for Claude. If Claude were my boyfriend, I would become the most popular girl at Gros (even more popular than Whitney, because unlike her, I would use my powers for Good rather than Evil).

“Americans are so puritanical,” Isobel firmly declared. “Why take a poll to find out how to make out? Did she need tips? Just pick up
Cosmo
. The whole thing was so ridiculous. Anyway, I need to try something on. Telephone you later?”

“Oh wait, I totally forgot to ask you. How do I measure two acute angles? It’s the last question on my homework and I can’t get it.”

“
Pardon?
Read the whole thing to me.”

“In a right triangle, one of the acute angles is two times as large as the other acute angle. Find the measure of the two acute angles.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“
Vous
cannot do this on your own?”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Isobel harrumphed, like she always did when she thought I was being slow. “It’s so easy, chérie! In a right triangle, the right angle is always ninety degrees. And the sum of all angles is one hundred eighty degrees which means—”

“I don’t need the theory. Just the answer.”

“You’ll never learn.” She sighed.

“Just give it to me, please?”

“Sixty degrees.”

“Goddess! Thanks!”

“Cheater,” she said. “You’re welcome.
Mais
, I’ve really got to go now. I want to try on this Lycra catsuit.”

I shuddered to think what leopard-print atrocity she was going to purchase now, said good-bye, and scribbled down the answer before I forgot it.

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SENT: Thursday, November 5, 7:30 PM

SUBJECT: bases loaded!

Dear Peaches,

It was a school night, but Mom let me go over to Georgia’s with Whitney and Trish for a sleepover last night and we had a looong discussion about really important stuff. We even put together this fun poll. (See attached!) You were right about second base. I’m attaching a breakdown of how it goes. They all said they’d hooked up tons of times, so I said I did, too. Even though YOU know I would NEVER (well, maybe first base).

Later,
V

DOCUMENT ATTACHED: LOVEPOLL.DOC

10
Catwalking Down the Aisle

W
E WERE LATE
for church today and it was all my fault.

Actually it’s Mom’s fault.

Every Sunday Mom wakes us up at an ungodly hour to get ready for nine o’clock Mass. I don’t think my parents have ever missed Mass in their entire lives. If we have to go on a trip or if we’re out of town, they’ll make plans to go to the Saturday Mass or else look everywhere for a Catholic church before we can do anything else. I have distinct memories of being five years old and walking around lost in Hong Kong while Mom and Dad asked directions to the nearest Catholic church. We missed a whole day at the Ocean Park roller coasters because of The Lord.

My parents aren’t religious fanatics. They don’t speak in tongues or shake tambourines and sing with their eyes closed or anything. In fact, some of Mom’s (very distant) relatives are of the revivalist-percussionist strain, and for my grandfather’s funeral,
they had planned a special performance. But Mom wouldn’t hear of it. “No one’s banging on a bongo drum anywhere near my father’s coffin!” she said.

Our car doesn’t have a Jesus fish on it, and I don’t own a “WWJD” bracelet (although secretly, I think they are kind of cute). We did watch
The Passion
, but Brittany cried so much that we had to turn it off. (Oh well, we all knew how it ends anyway.) In Manila every Lent the TV stations don’t show anything but
The Ten Commandments
with Charlton Heston. As practicing Catholics, we attend Mass regularly. In the Philippines, everyone attends Mass on Sundays. Friends say to each other, “I’ll pray for you” and it doesn’t sound corny or pious.

Here in America there are Christian rock groups and Christian band camps and Christian cable networks. But for all the religious talk, it seems the only person who attends church is the President. And even then, it looks like he’s only doing it for the cameras. But back home, we bumped into everyone at church: relatives, friends, Mom’s socialite cronies, Dad’s business associates, and customers from the restaurant. It was just another thing you did, like going to the country club on Saturdays.

No one at Grosvernor goes to church—at least that I know of.

Dr. Avilla asked me to tutor Whitney and Georgia last week, and they asked when we could get together to go over
the English exam. Stupidly, I told them I was free Friday night. They snickered and said, what about Sunday morning instead? But I told them I couldn’t, since I had to go to church. They both rolled their eyes and I knew they thought I was such a goody-goody.

I’m not. I don’t even like going to church.

Okay, maybe I do. It’s the only time other than geometry class that I get to see B-O-Y-S. You have to take what you can get when you go to an all-girls school. Plus, church is the only time I can dress up, so on Sundays I throw my own personal fashion show.

Which is why I was late today.

I couldn’t decide what to wear. Plus, I was dreading having to see the Dalugdugans later. I knew why Mom was so keen on having them over, and I did not—repeat, did not—want to have to go through with it. I was still hoping she would give up on the idea of Freddie being my date for the Soirée. But I know Mom. She’s persistent and she’s got it in her head that this Soirée thing is really important to “assimilating.”

Anyway, I have to wear a uniform five days a week. Do I wear the gray skirt or the gray skirt? The burgundy sweater or the burgundy blazer? (We were allowed to switch off, although most of us wore the blazer only on the required Mondays for Headmaster’s Meeting.) Knee-high socks or knee-high socks?
Oh, the choices! So on weekends, when I’m free to wear whatever I like, I make the most of it. At the cafeteria on Saturday, I wear jeans and sneakers because I’m on my feet all day. But on Sundays, I bust out what I like to call “The Outfits.”

I’m very serious about “The Outfits.” I plan them days in advance in my head, coordinating shirts and skirts, colors and fabrics, deciding whether to go with trends or classics, plain-fronts or pleats. But this Sunday, I had no clue. I just didn’t know what to wear. For a while, I had taken to throwing my thrift-store blazers over Dad’s old tuxedo pants, which had gotten too small for him. I hemmed the bottoms to capri length and wore them with an old Lacoste shirt I had found crumpled up in the corner of the Gros locker room one day. But I was tired of doing that look.

I took out everything I owned from my closet and tried stuff on: my shrunken T-shirts; my favorite jeans; my camouflage pants; my furry sweater; my itchy sweater; my holey sweater; a houndstooth vintage suit I’d found at the Salvation Army for five bucks that reminded me of something Madonna would wear, the dreaded 49ers jacket.

But everything made me look fat, or short, or just didn’t give me a good vibe.

“V, we’re almost ready to go!” Mom called from downstairs half an hour before departure time.

I put on my standard backup ensemble: black sweater, black pants, and black flats. I looked in the mirror and saw a mime. Ugh. No.

“VICENZA! Let’s go!” That was warning number two. Which meant I had five more minutes.

I ripped through the stack of clothes on my bed, slipping in and out of khakis, corduroys, denim, cotton, silk, wool, and rayon. I looked in the mirror, sucked in my cheeks, pursed my lips, and held my breath. Nothing.

“MARIA VICENZA ARAMBULLO!!!” That was DEFCON warning number three. Which meant we were in the danger zone—that there was a chance we wouldn’t arrive in time to get our favorite seat—the first pew.

I quickly put on the new miniskirt that I had saved up for, thinking I would just wear it over my black tights and that would be fine. I walked down the stairs, grabbing my jean jacket and ran into Mom, who was standing by the staircase, her eyebrows raised.

“What are you wearing?”

“Huh?” I looked down. Did I have a run in my tights?

“You can’t wear that to church!
Dios ko
, do you want to give the priest a heart attack?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Your skirt! It’s too short! Show some respect!”

“It’s not too short! And I’m wearing tights!”

“Don’t talk back to me!”

“But, Mom!”

“No! You have to change! Hurry. We’re already late!”

“Mom!”

“PSSSSTTT!!!” She waved an angry finger and pointed to my room.

I stomped back upstairs, my heart black with hatred. I took off the miniskirt, grabbed the nearest pair of jeans, slipped them on, kicking off my treasured pair of black patent leather Mary Janes, and ran back downstairs. The house was empty since everybody was already in the Tan Van, and Dad already had the engine running.

“Ano ba? Bakit ang tagal?”
Dad asked, looking over his shoulder at me. (What took you so long?)

I was puffing as I scooted in and slammed the door. I shrugged and looked away, blinking back tears. Life was so unfair. I couldn’t even wear my new miniskirt to church! Where was God at this time?

Everyone else in my family was well turned out and nattily dressed. Dad had his “Regis Philbin” tie and matching jewel-colored shirt on under his lone sports jacket, Mom had on a silk blouse, pearls, and nice black slacks, and Brittany was wearing an adorable sailor dress. She kicked the back of Mom’s seat
absentmindedly, and for once Mom turned around with an irritated look on her face to tell her to stop. I slumped in the back, in my jean jacket and sneakers and uncombed hair, hating them all.

Our parish church is Our Lady of Sorrows, which is appropriate enough, since many parishioners are Filipinos in what my parents call “reduced circumstances” like us, as well as a sprinkling of Irish families. Mom and Dad walked all the way up to the first pew, where the Dalugdugans were already sitting. Mom gave them a strained smile, and Dad ushered us reluctantly into the second pew. Freddie winked at me and I grimaced. He was wearing a Montclair Academy varsity letter jacket, but he’s no athlete. He’s the manager of the lacrosse team. That one game I was able to attend, I saw Freddie on the bench, keeping score and statistics and handing out water and towels to the players between breaks.