Status: Completed
Psyche
4
He’s not Chinese. He’s not Mexican. He’s Filipino. Technically half, the other being Portuguese, but no one cares about that.
Back when Girlie was a substitute high school teacher, she’d write that on the board and then kids would ask, “How do you say ‘hi’ in Filipino? Wednesday? Can you write my name in Portuguese?” (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 reaches 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.” She ties her hair into a ponytail and the action makes her seem so worn.
He used to think she was his mom the same way his birth mom was. It wasn’t until he was six she explained she was only his aunt. Sometimes he calls her mom; other times just
Girlie because it feels more right. 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. 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 Ryan Kean, 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 pale, yellowish skin and chubby cheeks, with floppy hair that’s never 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, just barely bubbling, 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.
Back when Girlie was a substitute high school teacher, she’d write that on the board and then kids would ask, “How do you say ‘hi’ in Filipino? Wednesday? Can you write my name in Portuguese?” (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 reaches 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.” She ties her hair into a ponytail and the action makes her seem so worn.
He used to think she was his mom the same way his birth mom was. It wasn’t until he was six she explained she was only his aunt. Sometimes he calls her mom; other times just
Girlie because it feels more right. 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. 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 Ryan Kean, 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 pale, yellowish skin and chubby cheeks, with floppy hair that’s never 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, just barely bubbling, 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.
♠ ♠ ♠
The beginning sentence was inspired by a subsitute teacher I had once in English class, who wrote on the board, I'm not Chinese, not Korean, but JAPANESE.