I pull into Yumi’s cul-de-sac, slowing to a halt in front of her house. “Me too,” I respond.
Because, really, what else is there?
Chapter 9
Beauty Queens
Twenty-four hours is 1,440 minutesis 86,400 seconds, which is not nearly enough time. I stack all my thoughts and plans on top of each other like a Jenga tower, knowing that time is just going to kick the whole thing over with the vigor of aSurvivorcontestant who just won the final-six immunity challenge. In a way, though, it’s good for me. There isn’t time to ruminate (Yumi-nate), so my nervous system gives up and takes a rare sabbatical. I can overthink when I have one million dollars in my bank account.
Yumi is on the phone with her college-orientation coordinator when she opens the side door. “No, I know that. But Ican’t make it.” She peeks around my back to make sure I have both brand-new matching blue hiking packs slung over my shoulder. According to the outdoor supercenter, they’re the Hiking Woman’s Bag of Choice, and since there wasn’t a Reality TV Competitor’s Bag of Choice, I figured that was close enough.
I step into the Panganibans’ kitchen. Yumi’s grandma—orlola, in Tagalog—hunches over the stove, poking at a pan with a set of tongs. The small, frail woman with light brown skin and white hair doesn’t react to the sound of the screen door slamming.
“No. I can’t,” Yumi says into the phone, watching me kick myshoes off. She covers her microphone and stage-whispers, “Lola, look who’s here.”
“Sino?” her lola asks, giving one last poke at the food in the pan before turning. Her mouth drops open in a loud gasp before she hobbles toward me, arms out in a hug. “Hay naku, my food will burn. Quick, quick,” she commands with a brief tongue click.
“Hi, Lola,” I say, letting her wrap me up in a bony hug that smells like White Flower, the Philippines’ equivalent of Icy Hot. In a gesture that I know will piss Yumi off, I take her lola’s hand and press the back of it to my forehead. It’s a sign of respect for Filipino elders that her family taught me back when we first met. It’s very formal, so I haven’t used it in years, but it feels right for this moment. And the annoyed deadpan stare Yumi gives me is just a delightful bonus.
Her lola responds with a pleased chortle, waddling back to the stovetop to place her cooked lumpia, fried spring rolls with a pork filling, in a paper-towel-lined colander perched atop a large bowl. In a sizzling explosion, she drops another handful of frozen lumpia into the hot oil. “Kain na.” She points to the colander with pursed lips. “Be careful ha? It’s hot.”
I can’t help but smile at her familiar Taglish, thef’s that sound likep’s and the almost playful cadence. I don’t know Tagalog, but I know enough to thank her. “Salamat,” I say sweetly.
Yumi rolls her eyes.Oh my fucking God.Kiss-ass, she mouths, shielding the words from her grandma. Into the phone, she overenunciates, “But I’m going to be out of the country.”
I grab one of the lumpia and bite into it. It is, as advertised, way too hot to eat, but I can’t resist my favorite Filipino food after a yearwithout it. It crunches perfectly, flaky pieces of the crispy golden wrapper falling to the counter. I chew quickly, sweep the little pile of crumbs into my palm, and toss them into the garbage.
Pinning her phone to her ear using her shoulder, Yumi grabs a plate and places the remaining cooked lumpia on it. “Thank you po,” she says, kissing her lola on the top of her head. She gestures for me to follow her through the kitchen and up a small set of stairs,mmm-ing andmhmm-ing at her orientation liaison the entire way.
Yumi’s room is larger and warmer than a typical bedroom, because it was originally built as a solarium. A domed skylight takes up the length of the ceiling. Not the wisest option when you’re living in a desert, but there’s no talking a pushy ten-year-old and her hyperactive friend out of a bedroom made of glass. For over a decade, a large shade on a mechanized track has valiantly fought a losing battle against the Maricopa County sun.
“Wanna watchThe Adventureversewhile we pack?” I ask, now that Yumi has finally convinced the University of New Mexico that the school will somehow survive if she attends a different orientation session.
“Sure.”
As I obediently place liquid toiletries into a clear, quart-size plastic baggie, she clears the edge of her bed of Yumi paraphernalia—papers, discarded clothes, and empty lip balm tins. When she positions her open laptop to face us, I see that the browser is already open to the show’s streaming page. I wonder if that was a choice made before or after the email from Aliona.
Since we’re alone again, Yumi has returned to minimal interaction. If I didn’t have to be here for packing and planning, I wouldn’t put myself through the awkwardness. It’s torture. But I’m also acutely aware that something has to break this tension between us. To win my dad a million dollars, Yumi and I have to at least be able tolook at each other.
The show starts and I hum along to the theme song, a trumpet-heavy instrumental that’s clearly inspired by the Olympics. “The MMA Fighters were my winner pick,” I say, zipping the baggie closed and placing it in my pack just before Titus and Kyle appear on the screen, arms crossed over their chests. Like most of my winner picks, they didn’t even make it to the finale.
“Knew it.” Yumi’s voice is flat, but I know this is practically a peace offering. She’s telling me that she watched this season and thought about my opinion.
I hold out my own olive branch. “Of course you did. I know yours, too.”
“Yeah? Who?”
My eyes hold on the screen, waiting for the opening to cut to the yellow team. “Zelda and Willard.”
The retired high school teachers are exactly the kind of soft grandparent content that Yumi happy cries over. It’s a casting archetype that never wins, because they can’t keep up with the sustained physicality and sleep deprivation, but that doesn’t stop Yumi from choosing them. I bet she teared up every time they kissed.
Yumi doesn’t respond right away. She stands there, regarding me silently. Her full lips press together into a tight line. Finally,she looks back at the screen and says, “Not this time. I picked the Beauty Queens.”
I nearly drop my water shoes. “You did?”
“Mmm.” She kneels down beside her backpack without further elaboration and begins filling a travel organizer cube with socks.
She picked the Beauty Queens? But they won. Her winner pick won?
