Psyche

4

He’s not Chinese. He’s not Mexican. He’s Filipino. Technically half, the other being white, but no one cares about that.

Back when Girlie was a middle school teacher, she’d write that on the board on the first day of classes (due to students constantly asking what she was). Then the kids would ask, “How do you say ‘hello’ in Filipino, er, Tagalog? Can you write my name in it?” (No, to the second question.)  Kids used to ask Jamie those questions too. They left him alone once they realized he doesn’t like talking much and stutters randomly.

Alexandria had asked him today how to say I love you, and then proceed to use it on him. “Mahal kita!”

When Jamie gets home from the bus stop, Girlie is putting up dishes in the cabinets. The way she can barely reach them, despite standing on the tip of her toes, proves Jamie’s theory he got his abnormal shortness from her.

“There’s a new girl at school,” he says. His ears turn dark when Girlie smiles slyly, and he understands the meaning of it. “No, I mean like, you know. She’s nice.”

“I know. I’m just kidding,” she laughs. “I’m making brownies. I got icing to decorate them if you wanna help.”  She ties her hair into a ponytail and the simple action makes her seem so worn.

He used to think she was his mom--and the actual lady who gave birth to him was just a second mother. It wasn’t until he was six that Girlie explained she was his aunt, and she had adopted him. Sometimes he calls her mom because it comes naturally; other times just Girlie. She doesn’t mind either way. She feels she should’ve given birth to him instead of her sister.

His real mom couldn’t take of herself, so how was she supposed to care of a baby? Especially with what Jamie was born with. He only knows of her rebelliousness, that she was pretty, and her name was Lea. She died nine years ago of an overdose. He thinks she was forty.

He has vague memories of her coming to visit him when he was a toddler. He knows she named him Jamie Andre Aquino, because it’s a simple name for a simple baby. Even if he never was and still isn’t.  He knows he looks like her: they have the same brown skin, big eyes, and chubby cheeks, with floppy hair that never can stay combed.

(Whether or not Jamie inherited anything from his “dad,” he’ll never know. As far as he knows, the man was a mythical being Lea picked up one night.)

“Her name is Alexandria,” Jamie finishes. “She doesn’t like to be called Alex or anything like that.” She’s pretty and seems cool and he wants to believe she’s making fun of him, but he can’t feel it from her.

Jamie doesn’t know why, but there’s a small ounce of excitement in him bubbling, that he gets when he thinks of Alexandria. It’s not the same feeling he gets from thinking about Jean, but it’s something, and it scares him.