by Tuesday Pil
monkey bars;
the monkey bars have rubbed calluses into the tops of my brown palms; my father stays in his spot next to our dingy gray Honda; he is lighting a cigarette and the smoke curls from the corners of his lips; the Florida heat and the Florida sweat has climbed into my shirt and hugged my innie belly button; i am swinging with my Skechers kicking freely; my Skechers both have names; Tara and Sara; they are both sisters and they don’t really like each other; i wished for a sibling once and my wish came true; my mother looks beautiful hugging her belly; sometimes she calls
herself unkempt, only in her native language; i haven’t lost my native language yet; instead it hides; it hides between the loose laces of my Skechers, Tara and Sara; and i kick Tara and Sara up and up; i grasp the next monkey bar; i look up and pretend i am grasping the clouds; i look down and pretend the playground is made of lava; my father whistles and he throws the cigarette under his heel; he twists the ash under his peeling sole; he has not named his shoes; he says it’s time to go; it’s time to go, tara na anak; you’ve had your time on the monkey bars; let the next kid have a turn; next time na lang.
prayer circles;
the prayers i mutter get lost in the campfire at my feet; maybe if i pray to God he will tell me to become a nun and stop liking the smart boy in my class; i play soccer with him at recess sometimes; i don’t like soccer, but he does; i like that he likes things and it makes me feel stupid; now we are at Christian summer camp with our knees pressing together; the campfire is all warm near my chest; he is all freckles and dark hair; i am all brown and sins of my past; lies and cheating at chess; i finish my prayer and i am looking at him; i don’t know if he likes brown girls but maybe i can convince him; he takes out his DS and snaps a picture with the pixelated camera; i punch his shoulder; tell him to get that away from my face; you’re a weirdo; i know that boys are mean to the girls they like but what if i am a girl that’s mean to the boy i like; i wonder what the universe says about mean girls; my mother says boys love sweet girls; quiet girls; smart girls; i am not sure if i am any of the above; but i try; i smash my knees again against his; i read in a book once that physical contact is a sign of flirting; he looks at me scathingly; ow! what the heck was that for? sorry; sorry; sorry; i thought that would work.
mothers;
my mother’s dry fingers are not meant for braiding hair; three-strands are too much; she could do a ponytail instead; i show her a tutorial on the internet and she gives up after two huffs; i call her back to the bathroom and hand her the brush; she starts at the scalp; she wrestles with my strands and curses when it knots; i cry that she’s too rough; bahala ka sa buhay mo; she snaps; bilis; hurry; you are going to be late for school; i pull on my striped jumper that has a hole at the top; i put on my black uniform shoes and my mother pats my baby hairs back; she smooths my
forehead with my favorite blue headband; she packs my lunch; later i don’t eat the lunch; the kids always think it smells funny; and i don’t like being embarrassed.
red pens;
my first creative writing teacher doesn’t know anything about writing; she must not; she tells us that the best books in the world don’t use too much dialogue; i know that is not true because books mirror the world; people speak all the time and that is all they do; there is no such thing as too much dialogue for God’s sake; i tilt my head until her glasses look funny; she wears hot pink frames that make her look like a cat lady; she is not a cat lady; she told us that; instead i think she is a bitter lady; she must be; because she’s scratched a red D on the top of my first story; when
she handed it back she looked like she enjoyed seeing my frown; i went home later and stashed that story in the bottom of the trash; hopefully my parents won’t see it when they take out the bags.
wasps;
i am the king of the world; my neighbor’s playground is one-two-maybe seven feet off the ground; it feels like a hundred; it’s a struggle going up the climbing wall each time; the blue tarp has a hole in it; it has been chewed through by a squirrel; i am the king of the world; i repeat it until i believe it’s true; my neighbor chimes along; a buzzing passes both of our ears; our eyes become wide and bug-like; wasp! wasp! wasp! i scream and fumble my way to the slide; my neighbor pushes me in fright; we tumble down and down until we crash onto the prickly grass, sun boring down on our backs; the wasp crawls into a dent in the wood; it sneers at us; there must be a hive inside, my neighbor says; we fetch tennis rackets and an adult; her father sprays
the wasp hole with bug killers; we swat the air; i am still the king of the world; i whisper it now because the invader is gone; my imaginary crown feels heavy on my head; and i love it.
banana pudding;
the gas station reeks of something sour; my father tells me which color button to press and the gas pumps into our car; my brother and mother are inside; they use matching neck pillows; we are six hours into our road trip; new jersey is a world and a half away; not as far as my overseas cousins; i am meeting them for the first time soon; it is our first and last full family reunion; my father asks are you hungry; he trails behind me to the store; he picks out a coke and i pick out a cup of something yellow; spoon attached; i scoop it into my mouth; banana pudding; this is banana pudding? my world is forever changed; if i was allowed to curse i would’ve; i find a nilla wafer on the bottom; i finish it in five minutes; the wafer melts on my tongue; i find another cup of banana pudding; i stuff it under my shirt and my mother catches me; she tells me i don’t have to steal; she could pay for it; though there’s already one in my back pocket; later i open it in the back of the car; the next half of the ride is spent listening to a song i can still recollect.
Tuesday Pil is currently a student at North Carolina State University pursuing a B.A. in English Creative Writing. Originally from the Philippines, she writes primarily Filipino-American inspired stories, and is currently working on a middle grade fantasy novel inspired by her culture. When she is not writing, she is reading, eating mangoes, or playing Dungeons & Dragons. She has previously been published in Windhover Literary and Arts Magazine, Atlantis Creative Magazine, and Zindabad Zine. Details of her shenanigans and her other published works can be found on her blog: tuesdaywrites.wordpress.com.