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Chapter One

I sat on a stool and reached for a plate of whole-wheat banana pancakes that Mom already prepared for me. "Mom, what are you going to do about Mia?"

She gave me a quizzical look and said, "What about Mia?"

"Well, you're always at the shop now. Don't you think you should send her to a school?" Mia had been going to a small-scale, independent, child-friendly pre-school near our neighborhood since she was three years old. When Celia and I were at Mia's age, Mom (along with a tutor) home-schooled the two of us but when we reached high school, Dad decided to send us to a regular high school because he wanted us to develop our social skills. Celia adjusted quickly. She became a member of the student council, a varsity volleyball player and yes, was one the most popular girls in school. It took me a whole year to get used to a different kind of learning environment. Mostly, I skulked in empty hallways with my music player or hid in the library and drew to my heart's satisfaction with my sketchpads. After a year, Mom and Dad sent me to an all-girls school while Celia transferred and studied at a coed one. I did not mind my parents' decision, especially since they asked if I was fine with it. I was. Not because girls were easier to get along with than boys but because somehow, girls were more familiar.

Mom ruffled my hair affectionately.

Our hairstyles as sisters were like a before and after makeover photographs. Celia's long hair was stick-straight while Mia's was curly as the knotty cord of a landline telephone. I was the work-in-progress middle photo. I was in between with my wavy, shoulder-length hair.

"Don't worry. Mia's already enrolled in a class. It's only until noon so I will pick her up and she can hang around and help me at the bakery. If she prefers to go home, Mrs. Garcia can babysit her."

"Will Mrs. Garcia be able to handle this little tornado?" I gestured at Mia who smiled at me like a cherub. Admittedly, she was adorable but also a rascal at times. Last week, she broke a neighbor's five pots of plants because she drove her bike into them. The week before that, she mistakenly gave her lactose-intolerant playmate from our neighborhood some milk and cookies. Mrs. Garcia was our neighbor and she was a very nice lady and her house was the prettiest one in our street with its windowsill flower boxes and pastel pink paint. She was not that old but she had been on her own for a long time. I worried about her sometimes. Our other neighbors were the Esguerras. Their son, Jay, was the same age as I am and my best friend.

Mom smiled at me and said, "She insists actually. She said that life became too calm when she retired from being a lawyer. Plus, she misses having kids around. All her children are now grown-ups."

Celia stopped doing squats and said, "Mom, how much calories are there in one large poached egg?"

Mom paused and replied, "Maybe about seventy calories. Why?"

"Nothing, I'm trying to lose weight. Maybe five pounds or so. I'm watching my calorie intake. I guess I can eat one poached egg for breakfast."

I sipped my glass of orange juice and said, "You're being silly, Celia. You don't need to lose weight and count calories, especially. Eat this," I said as I pushed my pancakes toward her direction. I slathered my stack with syrup, whipped butter and I topped it with sliced strawberries.

"Silly Celly," Mia chimed in.

Mom added, "Your sisters are right, Celia. You are being ridiculous. You don't need to do all that. You're beautiful as you are." Mom put a fresh batch of pancakes in front of me. I smiled at her in gratitude. Mom put her arms around me and kissed the top of my head. Then she kissed Mia's mass of curls.

Celia frowned and said, "That's debatable and far from assuring. You're my mother. Even if I look like a whale, you'll never say it."

I smiled and said, "Don't worry. I will say it to your face if you do look like a whale. In a nice way, of course."

"Thank you? You look like a raccoon, by the way."

I reached for the silver serving spoon and gazed at my reflection. My sister was right. I did look like a raccoon with my black eyeliner. Over the years, I tried to discover my own style and I have not found it exactly but I learned that I loved the color black. I was not a true-blue Goth but I loved the simplicity of black. Also, I could match it to almost anything so it was a no-brainer.

The dark shadows under my eyes lent an added sickly yet smoky effect. I only had two hours of sleep because I had to cram and finish an essay on my World Literature subject which I forgot to do, until I remembered it as I was about to sleep. It was a poem by Marina Tsvetaeva entitled I Like That You Are Crazy Not With Me. I finished at almost four in the morning, partly because I got lost in the words but mostly because I lost track of time watching anime. Poetry was not my strength (nor was it my favorite subject matter) but I found the poem beautiful despite its indifferent yet romantic tone.

After ten minutes, I was ready for school. Celia, still in her neon pink and black exercise clothes, told me that she would drop me off because she had nothing to do that morning. She was in law school and she did not have classes until late afternoon.

The three of us were named after icons from the sixties because that was our parents' favorite decade. Celia was named after Celia Hammond. I was named after Talitha Getty and Mia was named after Mia Farrow. My parents, especially our mom, were sort of hippies. She used to wear feathered headbands with her wavy hair, long strands of beads accentuated her waif frame, and I had a distinct memory that she drove a Volkswagen Type 2. It was not painted with mermaids, peace symbols and rainbows but it was the unofficial hippie vehicle. At least, we were not named Flower Faith, Coriander Sky or Opal Paisley. Or worse, Daydream Starshine.

Mom still dressed as a hippie at times with flowing skirts and peasant blouses but she had definitely toned down the flower child lifestyle.

Our second names were taken from Filipina heroines. It was Dad's idea because he's a history professor. My older sister was given the name Francisca after Francisca Tirona Benitez, a Filipino educator who co-founded the first university for women in Asia. Mine was Gabriela after Diego Silang's wife who was an empowered insurgent. Mia's second name was Josefa after Josefa Llanes Escoda who advocated for women's suffrage rights and founded the Girl Scouts of the Philippines. A real badass, as Celia pointed out.

But everyone called me Talia.

"Did you watch that funny video that I sent you last night?"

Celia nodded.

I sighed. "I don't want to presume but it's a guy, is it not?" I leaned comfortably against the passenger seat, tying on the lace of my sneakers which I made Jay doodled a comic strip on with some black fabric marker. If you looked real close, you could see the hidden letter T on the left shoe and the letter G on the other, which was the start of not only my second name but also my last name, which was Gomez.

Celia ignored me as she carefully pulled out of our house.

We lived in a village where the houses had a small space as a driveway as well as a yard. Compared to many, our area was a dream. The house that we lived in exuded a rustic feel. The two-storey place used to belong to my grandparents. My mom's parents. They were retired and they moved a few hours away in a seaside town close to where my grandfather hailed when he was a child. They got sick of the city life and now, they have a small farm with an acre of fruit-bearing trees and three dogs.

"What's his name?" I prodded Celia.

I was a hundred percent sure that there was a guy. It was not that hard to know. I have seen it before. My sister, when in love, had a noticeable inclination to be a worrywart. Constantly. She would fuss on everything — the food that she ate, the way that she walked, the words that she uttered and even the way her eyebrows were shaped. It was insane. I would worry, but Celia was not doing all those things to impress someone. She was only relieving some of the stress that she was feeling within. She once told me that love was just a cuter, less-acknowledged version of stress.

She gave me a nonchalant grin and said, "His name's Sam."

Image Source: LACMA

"Campbell's Soup Can" by Andy Warhol