When Bluebirds Fly | ✔

Part Two : Chapter Six

I was expectedly grounded in my apartment for the weekend for breaking my curfew. My father didn't yell at me last night since he was pleasantly occupied with the little company that he had started. It was honestly hard for me to believe in his endeavours because of the cut-throat competition in this world and I knew that he was wasting his ambition on a project that was bound for lamentable failure. I didn't say this to him for fear of a tedious argument that it would ensue.

I spent my time languorously watching coming-of-age movies on my bed and reacting to memes that Isaac sent me. I didn't have a bath since morning and my sweat made my t-shirt cling odiously to my damp skin. I lazily got up from bed to go to the bathroom when I heard a light knock on my window-pane.

"Sam, what's up?" I asked curiously as he stuck his nose in my room through the sturdy grills like a weary prisoner behind bars. "You're sweating so much, let me get a towel." I walked speedily to my bathroom, grabbed a towel and soaked it in cool water. When I returned back, his skinny figure was still there. Through the gaps in the vertical grills, I warily stuck my hand out holding the towel and wiped the grime on his oval face. "Did you stick your head in an oven or something?"

"It's too hot outside," he whined, shaking his head as I continued torturing him with the towel. "Okay, stop, stop . . . I was coming back from the library and got noodles from baba's for you, but since you want to smother me to death with that bloody towel . . . "

I quickly pulled the towel inside, opening my mouth widely and pointing my finger at it.

"You can be a total kid sometimes, you know," said the boy two years younger than me, laughing. He noisily shuffled through the plastic bags of food and I was switching on my table fan, angling it towards us. The sudden cool breeze made Sam sigh audibly as he procured one large container of beef noodles. I propped my elbow on the windowsill, waiting for him to pick the slimy noodles with the chopsticks.

"Being grounded as a punishment isn't all that bad," I said candidly, watching him blow on the noodles in spite of the fan's services. Once he was satisfied with the temperature, he extended the chopsticks through the grills and I sucked in the delicious noodles. The first hit of spice and the smooth feel of the noodles sliding down my throat and plummeting in my tummy never failed to comfort me. I grinned with my mouth full. "Especially when someone feeds you food."

He half-smiled, gulping the hot noodles in a hurry, but patiently blowing on my noodles so that my tongue wouldn't burn.

"How was your party last night?" Sam asked, gazing fixedly on my lips as I chewed the noodles a bit consciously. My lips stretched involuntarily into a sly smile at the mere mention of the word party and I winced at my lack of control. "You're smiling in a secretive kind of way. That's new, huh. What did you do?"

"Uh, it wasn't that great or anything. Some dude peed over my sunflowers in the bin, one punched the glass dining table and broke it. Also, Ally had a panic attack," I said briefly. Isaac's animated face bobbing airily in the lawn flashed before me, the memory of us dancing under the setting sun nagging me. I broke into an unintentional smile again.

Sam was busy twisting the noodles in the polystyrene container with the chopsticks, the harsh rays of the sun hitting him on the back and fresh beads of sweat forming on his slender neck. The corridor was like a hot barbeque, invaded by a closely-knit gang of the scorching sun's rays, each ferociously piercing the skin and violating the body. I heard Sam sigh softly each time he felt the oscillating fan's flurry of wind on his sticky face.

"Papá is sleeping on the couch outside. I wish I could let you in," I said earnestly, giving him the towel.

"What do we have here, lovebirds?" Abel said hoarsely, standing next to Sam.

"Well, the lovebirds would appreciate some privacy."

"Ah, Sam," he addressed my best friend, ignoring my insolent comment. "Tell your mother that I'll catch up with her on the movie next weekend. Now I have some work. Speaking of work, Mariana---" His blue eyes, lighter than usual under the sunlight, locked into mine. "I have teamed up with this modelling agency. The manager has become a close friend of mine. Let me know if you're interested."

"To what? Work as a waterboy? I already have a much respectable job at Bailey's Nuts, you know."

"Always witty," he said, looking me up and down with the slightest movement of his eyes the way many men in this sordid place did. Witty? I was simply stating the truth. Then, he laughed in his gruff voice, further puzzling me. "Not a waterboy. A model. Like getting photoshoots and all done."

"She isn't interested in that kind of stuff," Sam chimed in, draping the sodden towel around his shoulders.

Abel's eyes darted between Sam and I. "Alright, that's a loss. If you want to, you can ask me anytime. You know which door to knock."

"A less shadier door," Sam muttered under his breath and Abel conveniently chose to ignore him, brushing past him.

"See you both later."

"Are the noodles still hot?" I peered at the containers and Sam nodded. "Still?"

"Shit, your door's unlocking." Sam fumbled with the food, trying desperately to pack them.

"Why is papá going outside? He's still in his undershirt! Fuck, Sam, just leave that plastic bag floating there and bloody run upstairs!"

"Samson? What are you doing here?" I heard my father's fairly chirpy voice considering he's rarely ever close to being chirpy. His spirits were still elevated from the doomed company that he idiotically believed in. "You don't have to get food for Mariana all the time. She doesn't eat anything I cook then."

"Your cooking's great though," Sam said, looking at me slyly from the corner of his eye.

"I know. It's all her abuela's best recipes. Children these days don't value anything."

Sí, I didn't value our shabby, tiny apartment which smelled like dirty laundry. I didn't value the absence of concrete plans for a better future. I didn't value the criminals infested in the place that I was supposed to call home. I didn't value the rats crawling all around me, becoming my family that I had lost.

Sometimes, I wished that parents valued their children too. Their opinions. Their choices. Their abilities.

"I don't have much to value," I said tartly, just loud enough for Sam to hear who suppressed his laugh.

"¿Por qué no lo acogiste? ¿Cual es este comportamiento? Está sudando tanto!" My dad expressed his disapproval at my lack of manners for not inviting Sam inside our grubby home (I thought being grounded meant that I had to completely cut out physical contact from the outside world) in our mother tongue as if by his intonation, Sam couldn't guess that I was being chastised. "Come in, chico. You can freshen up and we all can have ice cream. I don't understand why my daughter made you wait out in this terrible heat."

"I was following your rules of being grounded as an obedient, eighteen-year-old."

"She thinks that being a year older makes her an adult," I heard my dad mock me to Sam as they walked past the living room and the kitchen, entering my room. "I'll go get ice cream and bowls from the fridge."

"Your dad seems jolly." Sam sprawled on my bed, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"He talks more when he's like this. I'm not sure if I like it, but it won't last." I freely stretched myself next to Sam, seeing his long lashes rest peacefully on his prominent cheekbones. "At least, we get ice cream today."