Say It Like You're Kissing It
By Janet Joson

Nila stomped on the car brakes and jerked the gearshift into park. Of course there weren't any parking spaces. She was an hour late. Now she'd have to walk three blocks to her brother's house. She was in no mood for a party.

Nila should be happy for her. But she'd see the same old crowd, people too curious about why she and Ida were no longer friends. She was tired of their inquisitive stares and silly questions.

Oppressive summer heat assaulted her as she swiveled out of the air-conditioned car. She strode down the sidewalk of the quiet, tree-lined street, her sandals echoing angrily on the pavement. Going to the party was the right thing to do. Her niece had become engaged to a young computer whiz with a big house in Englewood. Nila should be happy for her. But she'd see the same old crowd, people too curious about why she and Ida were no longer friends. She was tired of their inquisitive stares and silly questions.

She entered her brother Nestor's small house through the packed kitchen. Nila searched for her daughter, who had arrived earlier. Then she saw Ida in a distant corner.

Ida looked like she'd lost weight. As if she could be any smaller. And that purple suede pantsuit. Didn't she realize it was August? Had to be a hundred outside. Not to mention the humidity. Suede and sweat. What was Ida thinking?

Ida hung her hands on her slim hips, talking and gesturing as if she were imitating someone. The women towering over her burst out laughing. Nila blinked. Ida was talking about her.

How could Nestor invite Ida? Didn't he know Nila wasn't speaking to her? That she had been avoiding Ida for months? Nila tilted her chin upward in what she hoped was dignified nonchalance. She hurried away, toward the living room. Her brother stood near the fireplace, setting up his karaoke machine on a wooden TV tray.

"Why is that woman here?" Nila hissed. "You knew I didn't want to run into her."

"Ay naku! Get over it, Nila," Nestor said. A look of surprise turned into annoyance. "Ida's been a friend of the family for a long time. Just because you're not talking to her doesn't mean we can't."

Nila frowned. She was at his party, making an effort to socialize. She hadn't been there five minutes and already she felt outnumbered. Who said blood was thicker than water?

A familiar sensation invaded her head. A pinch at the base of her skull. Soon the discomfort would balloon into a throb and creep north until it hammered behind her forehead, right between the eyes. Great. Perfect timing.

Marcie hadn't been her cheerful self lately. Must be those oh-so-serious kids from the Filipino Student Alliance. People with long hair and pierced noses.

Nila maneuvered through the throng in a blur. She heard people call out to her. There was her niece, standing by the front door with a tall blond man. Vanessa's fiancé? Nila wasn't sure of anything except the pain in her head. She needed something cold to drink. And a place to sit. Actually, what she wanted more than anything else was to go home. She sighed. Better find her daughter. Where on earth was Marcie?

Nila grabbed bottled water from a cooler in the small dining room and looked up to see her daughter approaching. Marcie bit into a piece of lumpia, then licked the egg roll's sweet and sour sauce from her silver-ringed fingers. Should have known Marcie would be near the food.

"Hey, Mom," Marcie said. "Decided to make an appearance after all?"

That sarcastic tone again. Marcie hadn't been her cheerful self lately. Must be those oh-so-serious kids from the Filipino Student Alliance. People with long hair and pierced noses. Better have a talk with Marcie before she goes back to school.

"Hello to you, too," Nila said.

She took a long drink from the plastic bottle. The pounding in her head eased a little. She studied her daughter's face, the generous cheeks and warm brown eyes. Marcie's baggy white T-shirt with "MANILA" emblazoned on the front couldn't hide her thick arms and protruding belly. Grease stains smeared her faded jeans.

If only Marcie paid more attention to her appearance, the way Ida's daughter did. Tiffany, unlike Marcie, watched her diet and always dressed in clothes that flattered her trim figure. Tiffany and Marcie may be longtime friends, but they couldn't be more different.

Then again, Ida's and Tiffany's obsession with designer clothes was unhealthy. Who else but Ida inspected labels on clothing people were wearing?

"Sweetheart," Nila said. "Try some of Tita Cory's fruit salad. She makes it with non-fat yogurt instead of that fattening whipped cream."

"Yeah, yeah." Marcie rolled her eyes. "I'll have some later."

"Did you see Ida over there?" Nila said. Her Filipino accent creeped in. Always happened when she got agitated. "I know she's gossiping about me. Every chance that woman gets--"

Marcie had been calling Ida that for years. But Nila and Ida weren't on speaking terms now. And Ida was certainly not kin.

"Mom, calm down. Of course she'd be here. She's practically related."

Nila scowled. No sympathy from her daughter, either. She took a deep breath and exhaled. Guess she was on her own.

"Well," Nila said. She busied herself with the display of food on the dining table. "I'm leaving in an hour, with or without you. My head's killing me."

Two lonely pieces of lumpia clung together in a large, oil-slicked foil pan. Stray strands of pancit noodles hung on the sides of a huge bowl like spider webs. At least there were still pork adobo, a savory stew, and grilled milkfish. Filipino gatherings always revolved around meals. This party was no exception.

The platter Marcie had delivered of Nila's famous leche flan held only two, maybe three servings. The stuffed pork sausage that Ida brought was still intact. Always overcooked it. Nila's mood brightened.

"Mom, I need to talk to you."

"Hmmm?"

"This fight with Tita Ida has gone on too long."

Nila grimaced at Marcie's use of the Tagalog word for aunt. Might have been the respectful thing to say. Marcie had been calling Ida that for years. But Nila and Ida weren't on speaking terms now. And Ida was certainly not kin.

"Look, she's right there near the kitchen," Marcie persisted. "Just go up to her and—"

"Not you, too, Marcella." Nila couldn't believe her daughter. But so like Marcie, always working for one cause or another. "Please stay out of it. This doesn't concern you."

"Classes start next week," Marcie went on. "Before I head back to the dorms, I thought Tiff and I would take you and Tita Ida to lunch."

"You think it's that easy to make amends with her?" Nila folded her arms and arched an eyebrow. The throbbing in her head returned. "No one seems to understand that Ida made me look like a fool. I can't forgive her."

Marcie's mention of Tiffany made Nila wonder why she hadn’t seen Tiffany this summer. Maybe Ida had talked her daughter into staying away from Nila's house. Wouldn't doubt it.

"So you've got Tiffany working on Ida, too?"

"And what if I do?" Marcie’s tone was challenging.

Hadn't she always reminded Marcie how lucky they were to be living here? But her daughter seemed to have some romantic notion of what it was like back home.

"Why are you so concerned about my friendship with Ida?" Nila rubbed the ache between her eyes. "I don't say anything about your friends. And believe me, I have some serious reservations about those Filipino hippies you've been hanging out with lately."

Those FSA kids. Putting ideas in Marcie's head. Ever since she joined that club she'd been pestering Nila with questions. Why'd we leave the Philippines? Don't you miss your relatives? What about my native culture?

Not that Nila objected to her daughter's desire to know more about where she was born. But Nila's parents were dead. Even her older brothers had encouraged them to leave Manila.

The States offered so much more than the Philippines ever could. Hadn't she always reminded Marcie how lucky they were to be living here? But her daughter seemed to have some romantic notion of what it was like back home.

"Mom, stop changing the subject," Marcie said.

Nila fired an irritated look at her daughter. "This is hardly the place for you to pick a fight with me, Marcella."

Her indignant tone drew curious looks from two men chatting nearby. She turned away and left Marcie in the dining room. She’d find solace elsewhere.

***

Nila sank into a folding chair near an open window, away from the partygoers. The weak breeze caressed her hot cheeks. People milled around outside, laughing and talking. She didn't make her usual assessments of who had gained weight or who was drunk. Instead, her gaze lingered on a sturdy carob tree that provided the yard's only source of shade.

Here she was, forty-two years old and sulking like a child. She couldn't help it. She wouldn’t pretend that all was well between her and Ida. They hadn't spoken in eight months. Best to keep it that way.

Nila heard the unmistakable swish of fat, stockinged thighs chafing against each other. Not Baby. Lord she could talk. Nila turned. A stout woman in heavy makeup waddled toward her.

"Nila, kamusta." Baby opened her dimpled arms wide and threw them around Nila. "Long time no see."

The large woman plopped down on an adjacent chair. She waved a wilted paper plate in front of her face.

Why should she suffer in silence? It was obvious from everyone's strange looks that Ida had been talking. Nila could set the record straight. Baby'd have Nila's version making the rounds soon enough.

"Just got back from Manila," she panted. "I swear it's just as humid in New Jersey."

Baby cast furtive glances about the room like she was checking for spies. Then she leaned in so close that her teased hair brushed Nila's forehead. Nila braced herself.

"Is it true you and Ida aren't friends anymore? What happened, eh?"

Bingo.

Rather than feeling annoyed, Nila sensed an opportunity. Why should she suffer in silence? It was obvious from everyone's strange looks that Ida had been talking. Nila could set the record straight. Baby'd have Nila's version making the rounds soon enough.

"You think you know people, but even best friends can betray you," Nila said. She knew she sounded dramatic, but every word counted. "Remember how Ida and I coordinated the annual church fundraiser last Christmas? We booked that great band that played at the harvest festival. Tickets went like mad. So my nephew - did you know he sells ads for the local newspaper? Anyway, he mentioned the festival to one of his reporter friends. I talked the guy into writing an article. Then he called the church to set up an interview."

"And?" Baby’s dark kohl-smudged eyes were as large as chestnuts.

"Ida got the call."

Nila looked at Baby. She waited a couple of seconds for the sentence to sink in.

"Left me completely out of the story," Nila continued with a royal wave of her hand. "It sounded like she organized the whole thing herself. Turned out to be the church's best fundraiser." Nila jabbed the air with her right index finger for her final point. "And she took all the credit."

Baby shook her head and pumped the makeshift fan in front of her large face. With her other hand, she fished out a wad of tissue from the recesses of her ample cleavage. She dabbed daintily at her upper lip.

"Ida made some excuse," Nila said, "going on and on about how she tried to reach me. She had the nerve to blame me, that I should’ve answered my cell phone that day and that I was just jealous. Me? Jealous? Please. The only way that woman could claim all the glory was to go behind my back."

Baby's silence surprised Nila. She appeared to be deep in thought. No doubt figuring out whom to tell next. Nila smiled to herself.

She and Ida had sealed their friendship with clumsy cuts on their wrists. Blood mingled in a girlish pact of devotion. What had they been thinking?

"Nila," Baby said, then hesitated. "I know you and Ida have had disagreements in the past. And I think what she did was terrible. But, well, you’ve been friends for so long. I can't believe you two can't patch things up."

Nila was stunned. She uncrossed her long legs and sat up straight. What a waste talking to Baby. Everyone expected her and Ida to make up, the way they always did.

"I don't think so, Baby." Nila rose to her feet. "Not this time."

***

Nila slid the bathroom lock into place. Odd how the sound of scraping metal soothed her. No one could pester her here.

The image in the bathroom mirror looked harried. Wiry gray hairs sprang like Medusa's snakes above her short ebony coiffure. Fine creases sprouted between her eyes, as if she'd been frowning for months. Dark eyes appeared dull, lifeless. Her height didn't hide a slight paunch. Why hadn't she kept up her exercise regimen?

Her gaze shifted to the crescent-shaped scar on the inside of her right wrist. She traced the shiny apostrophe with her finger. She and Ida had sealed their friendship with clumsy cuts on their wrists. Blood mingled in a girlish pact of devotion. What had they been thinking?

***

They were fourteen when they met at St. Theresa's school for girls in Manila. Ida, new that year, beat Nila in the school's spelling bee.

They admired each other's competitiveness and became inseparable. They loved to watch American films like "Breakfast at Tiffany's," "Sound of Music" and "Funny Girl." Nila hungered for a life filled with shiny convertibles and big houses with endless stretches of green, dewy lawns. But Ida claimed that life first.

Sloppy tears rolled down Ida's brown cheeks when she broke the news. Moving to America, a place called New Jersey. Nila hated Ida for deserting her, then despised herself for thinking such thoughts.

Five years later, Nila and Ida had married their boyfriends and given birth to their daughters. Nila and her husband saved enough money for one-way plane fares to New Jersey. To join her best friend there.

Together again, Nila and Ida had vowed to become model American citizens. They practiced softening their sharp Filipino accents. The p sound gave them away, the way it popped off their tongues with the force of a pricked balloon.

Nila resented the way Ida relished her position as mentor. That air of superiority had stained Ida's personality, like an ink spill left undetected for too long.

"Say it like you're kissing it," they had reminded each other.

Nila relied on Ida in those early days. This time, she was the new kid on the block. Nila resented the way Ida relished her position as mentor. That air of superiority had stained Ida's personality, like an ink spill left undetected for too long.

Nila jumped at the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob. How long had she been in the bathroom? She doused a tissue in cold water and pressed it to her face. At least her headache had subsided.

"Just a minute," she called out.

One final look in the mirror. She sighed. It would have to do.

***

Nestor's deep voice belted out Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love." Nila commanded a clear view of the living room from her perch in the back yard. Nestor's friends surrounded him in the living room, gripping sweaty cans of beer. Waiting their turn.

She had squeezed herself into a slice of shade under the carob tree. Harder to avoid people out here, but it was better than inside the house. Ida was in there.

Nila spotted Marcie in a far corner of the yard, talking to Tiffany with a serious expression on her face. Tiffany appeared bored as she filed her fingernails.

Growling sounds from Nila’s insides reminded her of her empty stomach. She ventured into the kitchen. Most of the dishes in the dining room had already been transferred to the counters. She scooped some rice onto a paper plate and helped herself to some adobo. Baby approached again. Now what?

"Nila, you’ve got to see Vanessa's engagement ring," Baby gushed. "She's showing it off in the guest bedroom. It's got to be at least two carats."

Baby grabbed Nila's elbow and pulled. Curiosity got the best of Nila. She didn't resist.

Baby led the way. Swish swish swish. The hallway seemed to shrink with Baby in it. Nila followed her inside the guest bedroom. The room was dark. And empty.

"Hmmmm," Baby wondered aloud. "Where's Vanessa?"

She looked sternly at Nila and Ida, heavy arms akimbo on her wide hips and feet apart, like a prison warden. All she needed were army fatigues and black, steel-toed boots.

Then Ida walked in. She stopped short at the sight of Baby and Nila. Her plum-colored lips curled inward.

"What the hell is going on here?" Ida demanded. Lipstick smeared her front teeth.

Nila looked at Baby, then at Ida, then back at Baby. Something about the stubborn look on Baby's face made Nila suspicious. Oh Lord. She didn't. She couldn't.

"Baby, did you...?" Nila willed her mouth to move.

"I'm doing this for your own good, for both of you.” Baby closed the door and positioned her thick body in front of the exit.

"You have no right," Nila blurted.

"How dare you," Ida gasped.

Baby didn’t budge. She looked sternly at Nila and Ida, heavy arms akimbo on her wide hips and feet apart, like a prison warden. All she needed were army fatigues and black, steel-toed boots. The thought of it almost made Nila laugh.

"Is this your idea of a joke, Nila?" Ida said. "If there's anything you have to say to me, it damn well better be an apology."

"Apologize?" Nila hooted. "You're the one who made me look like an idiot."

"I’m sick of repeating myself to you," Ida retorted. "If you weren't so obstinate and egomaniacal, none of this would have happened."

"You and your fancy words." Nila could no longer suppress her frustration and anger. "Always thought you were smarter than anyone else. Everyone’s fooled but me."

Ida's dark eyes flashed. "You're the one who likes to show off. Only you're sneaky about it. Like the way you accidentally leave behind those newspaper articles of Marcie winning this softball tournament or that basketball game."

At the word "accidentally," Ida made little Vs with her fingers and bobbed them like puppets. Nila hated it when Ida did that.

"Oh, really." Nila spat out the words. "And I suppose Tiffany enjoyed all those impromptu hula performances you made her do at parties." At the word "impromptu," Nila carved quotes into the air to imitate Ida's gesture. "As if she just happened to have her dance costume handy."

Nila jumped at the sudden sound of Baby clapping.

Who did Baby think she was? Oprah? Nila shook her head in amazement. A woman who couldn't keep a secret held Nila captive inside a dark room with the best friend she had vowed to disown.

"Hoy!" Baby was all business now. "Ladies, what's history is history. All water under the bridge."

Water. What Nila would do for more water. The room was sweltering. Her silk dress clung to her underarms and back. She searched Ida's purple suede outfit for sweat stains. Had to be boiling in that thing.

"What's that saying about spilled milk?" Baby pursed her full lips, then shrugged. “Anyway, I need you both to be quiet. Arguing won’t solve anything. You have to focus on how you feel, at - this - very - moment."

Baby chopped the air with her hand. Her whole body quivered with the abrupt movement. She enjoyed this. Who did Baby think she was? Oprah? Nila shook her head in amazement. A woman who couldn't keep a secret held Nila captive inside a dark room with the best friend she had vowed to disown.

Everything about the moment, no, the last eight months, struck Nila as absurd. She bit her lip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ida covering her mouth with her hand. Nila could barely contain herself now. She looked at Ida. Ida looked at her. They both burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" Baby demanded.

Nila snorted as she clutched her heaving belly. Ida tittered. They were on the same side for the first time in months.

A muffled boom silenced them. Nila looked with surprise at Ida and Baby. They stared back at her, mouths agape. Sounded like something heavy had crashed to the floor. The three women wrestled the door open. She jostled with Baby and Ida down the empty hall.

Nila's shoes crunched on something as she entered the living room. Shards of black plastic and twisted metal littered the hardwood floor. Something familiar about the heap in front of the fireplace. Her brother's karaoke machine. The appliance's innards spilled out in a jagged cascade of loose wires and shattered electrical panels. A deep gouge on the floor exposed bare, unvarnished wood. Must have been where the contraption fell. Nestor crouched on the floor, cradling the microphone.

"What happened, Nestor?" Nila said.

"Marcie and Tiffany." His voice was calm. The microphone dropped to the floor with a pathetic thudding sound. "They had a fight."

Someone tapped Nila on the shoulder and pointed toward the front door. She walked outside, her legs stiff. Why did the girls fight? Marcie always confided in Nila, even about trivial matters. She would have heard about any disagreements Marcie'd had with Tiffany. Wouldn't she?

Nila’s eyes burned in the harsh sunlight. There, on the ground. A flash of white against the pale trunk of a birch tree in the front yard. Marcie in her Manila T-shirt. Crying.

"What happened, anak?" The Tagalog word for child slipped out. She tucked her daughter's unruly black hair behind an ear rimmed with tiny silver loops.

"I really made a scene, didn't I?" Marcie said between sniffles.

A series of images sharpened into focus. Nila admonishing Nestor. Snapping at Baby. Screaming at Ida. Nila winced. If anyone had behaved badly, it was she.

"All I wanted to do was help you and Tita Ida get back together," Marcie whispered. "I asked Tiffany to help me, but she refused. Said you were both adults. That if you wanted to work things out, you would."

"Why?" Nila asked. "Why is it so important that we make up?"

Marcie turned her tear-swollen eyes toward Nila. She bit her lip, then spoke.

"All my life, I've watched you and Tita Ida fight and argue about the stupidest things. It's always one big competition between the two of you. And for what?” Marcie’s voice, no longer uncertain, grew more urgent with every word. “To prove that you belong here? That you're a better American than Mr. and Mrs. Smith? Well, you know what? Who fucking cares what other people think? You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"Oh."

Nila’s limbs sagged, as if all her energy had drained through her feet into the thirsty ground. She slumped against the tree, exhausted. The weight of what Marcie said, the reality of it, flattened Nila's heart. Her chest ached.

All those years reinventing herself. No one had handed her a manual at the airport, instructing her how to behave. The movies she loved - and Ida - had been her only guides. And yet her efforts to fit in seemed to have paid off. Maybe too well.

"So." The word came out in a croak. Nila cleared her throat and tried again. "So, intervening would accomplish what?" She didn't tell her what Baby had done.

Marcie bowed her head and tore up some dead grass, crushing the blades in her fingers. Nila waited for an answer.

"Saving your friendship with Tita Ida would mean...," Marcie said, her voice so low that Nila leaned closer to hear. "Your relationship may not be perfect, but.... What I'm trying to say is, giving up on her is like giving up on your past."

Tears flowed down Nila's cheeks. She let them. Nothing her daughter said surprised her. The truth had already come to Nila in that small, dim room. In the midst of all the yelling and gesticulating. Ida had sensed it, too. She wouldn’t have laughed otherwise.

"And Tiffany?" Nila knew the answer even before Marcie spoke.

"We were only friends by default, you know," Marcie said.

She didn't sound like her daughter anymore. Marcie had matured overnight, and Nila hadn't noticed. Until now.

"Yes, I know," Nila said. She wrapped Marcie's hands inside her own. Nila had a lot to make up for. Marcie deserved that much. "You ready to go home?"

The way Nila posed the question made her daughter look at her with puzzled brown eyes. Marcie stared hard at Nila, until recognition dawned like sunshine on her somber face. Nila smiled back. It was time to go.

© Janet Joson

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