Chapter Text
"Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls."
- Joseph Campbell
Sighing, a teenager with fifteen years of living under her belt slouches back into the comfort of the couch and then deciding against it; she droops downward, almost boneless with the way her spine pops when she slithers, followed by a strangled exclamation of relief. Now lying in a heap next to the table, the spectacled girl throws her leg up onto the couch, her big toe and long toe working together to pinch the corner of the fattest pillow that she now deemed her favorite. She was content there, basking in the almost noiseless atmosphere save for the sound of running water in the kitchen. The girl's grandmother was washing the dishes, having shoved her granddaughter out and giving her that look that said exactly what was on her mind.
Get out of my kitchen.
With a full head of hair on the checkered cushion, a restless Kenai Talamantes lets her eyes close shut, thumb fiddling with the ring on her pointer. A coping habit of hers. See, Kenai has always been that type of kid who enjoyed the what-would-be trivial things at that age. Things like routine and stability. Take school for example. Seating charts were her favorite part of the beginning of every school year from seventh grade to sophomore year off the reservation.
Off the reservation? What's a reservation? Y'know? The place where all the Native Americans can frolic and play, even if it's a limited privilege for certain people living there. Ahem, her family. It's the one in Oregon. Table Rock Reservation. Don't ask her why it's called that. Let's save that for later. Anyways!
Given that she's a kid from the Native circle, the children that have gone to school together since their graduation from diapers and pacifiers had taken one look at her. One look. That's all it took for those pieces of chicken droppings to think that she was a weirdo. A weirdo! And hey, maybe she is a weirdo, but in a good way. They certainly didn't see it that way. No one talked to her. The nice kids who attempted to scurried away when one of the mean popular kids glanced in their direction. That was that. No one sat next to her unless it was enforced by the teacher or if it was for a project. Forever alone.
Now, the story with her family. That's a doozy.
It all started with her great grandmother, a pure Native woman. She was pure in blood, but a majority of the residents in Table Rock thought her rebellious ways were adulterated. She was always sneaking off and going to town to flirt with all the small-town boys until she found the one that got her belly heavy and full in nine months. You would've thought that she'd get kicked off the reservation, but her parents were respected council members and it was a bonus factor when the baby's father (a light-skinned Filipino) said his words of peace, promising that he'd come back to take care of his wife and child once he got back from his job out at sea as a fisherman.
That child grew up with only a mother after discovering that the boat had sunk when lightning struck the vessel. The mother named her Tilda Pikewood Rojas.
Despite the rest of the residents' prayers for a good-natured young lady, the apple never falls far from the tree.
With a contrastingly light complexion, Tilda took the stares of those on the reservation and she played it to her advantage, often seen playing petty pranks on the rest of the children who'd throw rocks at her when her mother wasn't looking. She walked with her chin up and glared at the older members who would criticize her for her behavior when another child was doing the same petty thing in front of them. The girl would smirk when she'd say something appalling, chalking up the adult's scandalous look from seeing her face, reminding them of their premonitions - of a spirit haunting them. Needless to say, by the time the girl crossed the threshold of womanhood, she had milked the heck out of that story and ended up having half the Natives run away from her when she'd appear.
It wasn't like her actions were unwarranted. The council members had agreed that if Tilda and her mother were to remain on the reservation, the child would have to forgo the culture that all Native children should be taught. They believe that their culture is sacred, so very sacred, that they wouldn't let this innocent girl partake in it. Plus, they didn't even bother to hide their intentions. When the children used it as ammo, the council would leave them be. Once Tilda fired back, well, you could guess which side they took.
Then came Edgar. Another Filipino. It's funny how history repeats itself. They certainly had a type. This time, however, Edgar stayed and took care of the mother and both their daughters. They lived happily and most importantly: together. But, an altercation had occurred and it ended with Edgar having to leave.
Kenai doesn't know much about what happened after that. It's a sore subject. It doesn't take a genius to know. So, she doesn't ask, but it doesn't take away the fact that she's curious about what happened on that dry little rock decades ago.
She guesses it's her mom's and dad's turn now. For some strange reason, they had been adamant about sending her and her younger sibling to Ohio. It's not like she didn't expect it to happen what with their parents talking and thinking that both of them were fast asleep. But she didn't expect it to be so soon. Then again, that incident with Samuel Miller did put her whole family on the edge. But then again, they should have flown together, not separately. It just doesn't make sense. They're always together.
That's what's making her tick. She hates this. The unknown. She wants to know why.
Groaning, she lifts a hand to that spot on her skull. Her eye twitches instinctively, hearing chaotic yells and the distinctive sound of a bat clinking against cement. Then she hears sirens ringing in the distance and all too soon the red and blue lights flash behind her eyes.
Thud.
Jolting at the sudden appearance, her eyes shoot open. Echo's cheeky grin is the first thing that she sees.
"Nice job. Get all the dust bunnies under the couch while you're at it." The younger girl's foot juts out from under her crossed legs to pat her sister's stomach. The sight of her mismatched socks causes the older girl to laugh.
Kenai plucks her sister's ankle from the air and chucks it away, earning herself an indignant squeak when another body connects with the floor. "Not my job, goober. I mop, you sweep. That was the deal."
Peeling herself off the floor, she positions the pillow back into its original place before ambling toward a painting near the box television. Pride swells deep within her chest when she realizes that her mom's every-other-day lessons have paid off. Next to her, Echo tilts her head, mouth hanging open. "What's it called?"
She rolls her eyes. "It's called close your mouth before a fly lands in there." She ignores the small pain in her side after the shorter girl elbows her, calling her rude. Her eyes sweep across the artwork as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. A dark-haired woman sat, perched on a chair with her old-fashioned dress cascading down the length of her legs; she was facing away from the man as her arm lent on the balcony. The man, on the other hand, wore traditional white, his back facing the audience, seemingly weighed down by the strain on his mind as he stared outside, all alone with his musings. They weren't facing each other, brooding in their miserable way. Sulking, you'd say. "Tampuhan." That was the name of the painting. Only then does she realize that the answer wasn't even heard and that the questioner has completely disappeared from her side.
Typical.
"Marunong ka?" You know how?
She swivels around, eyes flitting over to what's across the room where the replica of Juan Luna's painting resides and to what gained Echo's interest. Kenai's eyes crinkle with amusement, finding that - yes - what a cliche indeed. It was like a Filipino's wet dream: a piano.
The bench already had leather cushions, but their grandmother insisted that there should be a blanket for more comfort. It's the piano that's never played, but treated with care. It's just there, but the family only ever goes there out of curiosity or boredom, thinking that they could bust out a jam out of nowhere.
"Marunong? Lasing ka ba?" Do I know how? Are you drunk? Kenai only ever went there for peace of mind back when she was around five or six, interested in the sounds after she'd press the keys, attempting to find a rhythm. "Bakit?" Why? "You wanna show off?"
The tan girl smiles, remembering full well that Echo used to play A-Tisket, A-Tasket when they were much younger. Nonstop. She used to play it on a baby piano back when it was tucked into the corner of their childhood room. She'd play that thing right when Kenai was on the verge of falling asleep so that she could wake her up.
Cheeky little shit.
"I haven't played in a long time. Nakalimutan ko lahat." I forgot everything.
"'Buti nandito tayo. Pwede ka mag practice kahit kaylan mo gusto." Good thing we're here. You can practice whenever you want. Kenai tells her, encouraging it. Hobbies are a great distraction. She straddles the bench, facing her sister, studying the way Echo hesitates. The older one turns her head the other way, a small smile grazing her mouth, having an inkling as to why Echo wasn’t playing. From the corner of her eye, she watches her sister move, brushing her fingers on the keys.
"Kenai. Nene."
They both whirled around to the source of the voice. Nanay Tilda stands at the doorway with her perfect hair and all, not a single strip of gray hair to be seen, but there were laugh lines that did no justice to how much the matriarch of the household loved to burst with laughter.
"Yes, Graham?" The eldest replies, eyes sparkling and a grin in place.
The woman steps forward, eyes drifting down to their feet. They settle on Echo's and her smile drops into a frown.
Kenai's brows scrunch together, following her gaze. She winces when she notices the flats that were still on her dear sister's feet. Kenai had already disposed of hers at the shoe rack — a well-learned habit.
Gulping, she quickly opens her mouth, hoping to get out of this talk before she becomes a witness, "Nanay, pwede po ba ako lumabas?" Can I go out, please? "Gusto ko kasi maglakad-lakad." I want to go for a walk.
"I so hate you right now." Echo mumbles under her breath, glaring at her older sister which has the spectacled girl shrugging.
There's a painful pause that has Kenai seriously doubting she'll be going out at all. But then, "Hayo. Mag-ingat ka lang." Go ahead. Just be careful.
Kenai jumps from her seat with a yip, knocking Echo's shoulder obnoxiously who tries to push her back (failing) before bolting over to her grandmother to give her a tight hug. "Okay! Madali lang ako!" I'll be quick! She jogs over to the shoe rack, only bothering to shove her feet in as she pulls her sneakers up by the notch. She waves a final goodbye and then a much ecstatic one when her eyes connect with Echo's. The younger girl's only response is to hide her hand against her chest, flicking up her middle finger.
Echo narrows her eyes. And they're saying: FUCK YOU!!!
Snorting to herself, Kenai shuts the door and locks it. With her hand still on the knob, she presses her shoulder into the door five times, making sure that it isn't going to magically open. When that's done she applies pressure on the doorknob, turning it harshly until her fingers whiten. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. That's enough persuasion for the eldest Talamantes child before she jumps down the stairs, entirely skipping the four steps with the gracefulness of a natural dancer, still minding the slight throb in her digits.
Hit the road Jack and don't you come back
No more, no more, no more, no more
Kenai has a bounce in her step as she sings the tune under her breath, snapping her fingers with liberating gusto and her head shaking from side to side before she spins on her feet in a full three-sixty.
The spectacled teen didn't go that far. She's a walker. It's become her thing ever since she began going to that school outside the rez. Thirty minutes back and forth. Maybe forty tops if it was snowing.
Now, to the situation at hand.
From her own certainty, she was definitely in Lima Heights considering the massive houses and luscious yards.
The sign outside also said so.
About ten minutes into the neighborhood she comes across an empty playground. The keyword being empty. There she takes a seat on a bench near the extensive yellow slide and is still thinking about how empty it is. Where the hell was everyone? If she were back in Oregon, a place like that would have been crowded, but who was she to complain? Her?! The biggest introverted homebody in the family! She'd rather stay indoors and lock herself in her room for hours, perhaps even days.
Kenai stares up into the sky, the dawning sun putting her in a trance.
Who was she kidding? This move was a godsend as if whoever the hell she prayed to listened to her improvised (pathetic) begging, including all the snot and boogers that she managed to gather in the entirety of her attendance at Millard Fillmore High School. Crap school. And much crappier students.
So you ask, why was she so thankful?
Well, for one, she can have a fresh start and hopefully, the people at her new school aren't as pea-brained as those classmates who didn't even give her a chance. No one would know her, but her sister would have her back and she'd have her sister's. Secondly...was there a second reason?
...oh, right!
She has a particular condition. Her doctors call it being intersex. With a secret like that, you can imagine how everything went when the entire school found out. A lot of colorful names.
Her hand digs through her silky tresses, tenderly stroking the left side of her skull. She clenches her eyes together, scrunching them tightly when she recalls the impact that plays over and over in her head.
Brown eyes reappear when a particular noise drags her out of her daze.
Cautiously, she stands. She eyes the cement, doubt flooding her senses or feasibly, paranoia because of how she just imagined the rough ground forming into a sheet of wooden floorboards — the ones that creak under one step. (Many thanks to all those horror movies that she's been watching.) Peeking out from behind the shiny slide, the nervousness that shelters in the strings of her chest pitches downward into the depths of her stomach.
A blonde girl sits across the other side of the playground right under a metal bridge where she supposes a tiny bench connected to two red pillars on either side of her.
An all-black shoe retreats, the owner definitely not brave enough to advance. Kenai catches her train of thought, pinching the back of it before it goes any further. To what? Offer comfort? To a stranger no less? That was a no-no.
Ma would be disappointed if she found out that she talked to a stranger. (But it's a girl around her age?) So?! Girl, boy, old, young. I don't care! A stranger is a stranger! Get away from her!
BUT!
If it were dad, then he'd say to go for it. Come on! You need a girlfriend. When you were growing up, I was scared about you getting a girl pregnant, but then that went away. Now, I'm scared you goin' to turn into a cat lady! Vámonos, mija!
The blonde sniffles again. Kenai can't bring herself to turn around and leave her alone. In her head, she'd imagine scenarios like this. A just-in-case because socializing has never been her thing. So when the moment comes such as now, it doesn't leave her looking like a fish out of water. She planned for it and everything! Still! Here she was, head up her ass and still uncomfortably uncomfortable.
Kenai rolls her shoulders back, feeling the tiny cricks in the upper part of her back. Forcing herself, her hand reaches into the pocket of her jeans, searching for the thing - aha! Found it! It was mostly for preparation. So she can drop it and run away, no matter how stupid she looks doing it.
Brushing around the metal barrier, she waits nearby, thinking of a way to announce her presence. Which she now deems is a horrible idea because only does she realize her resemblance to a freaky masked man like Jason Voorhees: creepy and hulking and alarmingly silent.
Licking her lips, the fleshy edges of her mouth open up to inhale. Only, she sucks in some dirt particle that has her coughing and — GOD! SHE'S STILL COUGHING. Christ, now her eyes are watering. She leans her weight on the pillar, her fist pounding into her chest. Why?! In front of a girl too?
The spectacled girl almost jumps when a hand touches her back, patting her as if her dumbass didn't just waltz up so she can start dying of all the mucky airborne shit floating in the atmosphere.
What a way to go.
Sniffle. "Are you alright?" The blonde asks once the ugly hacking has subsided.
Kenai laughs. "I came here to see if you were alright." Lifting her gaze, she gulps and the breath in her lungs feels like it's blocked. Oh, wow. "Here." She manages to say, but it comes out as a low whisper as she offers her turquoise handkerchief.
She once read that eye contact was a sign of respect. Her eyes drift downward. The multiracial girl can't help it, she wants to respect her, but WHOA. There's this thing about the blonde's eyes that are so intense and profoundly disarming. I feel so naked! Hazel continues to burn into the side of her head and it has Kenai curling in on herself, attempting to look smaller despite being taller than the other girl. Feeling her lips drying up, she licks them again. Damn her mouth. Chappy Jaws.
They're at a standstill. And she hates it and loves it at the same time. The warmth in her ears are raging, stretching and descending towards the collar of her T-shirt. The space between them was way too small, and the hand on her back was unmoving. It was too friendly that it should bother her, but it doesn't. Usually, she'd be stepping away at least an arm's length, but here they were. Close. Packed in. So intimate that they were quite literally breathing in the same expanse of air.
Behind black-rimmed glasses, a set of dark brown eyes take their time to trail their way up a white dress that hid underneath a conservative yellow cardigan. Her head tilts to the side when the cross shines for a moment as if winking at her. Finally, she works her way up the slopes of the blonde's neck. Pale. Slender. Then the chin. Lips. Nose. Eyes.
"Here." She repeats herself, her white-knuckled grip on the hanky relaxing before she delicately stows the fabric in the hazel-eyed girl's upturned palm, a tingle inching up, starting from the pads of her fingers, to the inner part of her wrist, to her forearm (goosebumps bursting and small hairs shooting upward), to her bicep, to her shoulder, to the nape of her neck, then to her ears which have already been prickling with the warmth that the blonde had caused to begin with.
"I really hope that you feel better."
Those puffy hazel eyes blink back, going from the hanky to the antsy girl whose glasses have slid low on her nose. The blonde lifts a hand, a delicate finger sticking out. It closes the distance. To where she has no clue. The finger is cozy against the bridge of Kenai's nose, attentive to the way that she pushes up the girl's visionary instrument.
"Thank you." The passage of the spectacled girl's throat is taut and rigid. And like that, she's gone. Her body moves fast, so embarrassed and propelled by a conviction for tranquility, a purpose to slow down her racing heart and to alleviate the ache in her shoulders from cowering in the company of a very beautiful girl.
Hazel eyes gape at the retreating form of the girl, so fast and hasty to escape. [Idiot! She probably thinks I'm a nutjob!] What has gotten into her? She probably shouldn't have snuck that bottle of wine into her room. Although, she's not at all surprised. Her decisions have been causing her tremendous headaches lately.
The blonde plops back down, fingers digging into her forehead, peeved and feeling heat rush into her head.
"I didn't even get to say thank you."
Delicate fingers smooth over the turquoise fabric.
"Whoever you are."
Hic!
The blonde’s hand shoots up to cover her mouth.
Oh yeah. She should not have drank before going there.