“Need a ride home?” he asks, glancing nervously back at the school like someone’s about to sprint outside, grab us by our collars, and drag us back to class.
“Nah.”
It’s a clear spring day. Sunny, but not so hot. Too nice to match how I’m feeling.
I keep walking. Much as I want to be alone, Seth stays with me. Soon we’re beyond the parking lot and the practice fields, then in the neighborhood surrounding the school. As we pass the two- and three-story homes with their manicured lawns and two-car garages, I can’t help but remember those photographs of the drug war. It seems impossible that a place like this and a place like the Philippines exist at the same time on the same planet.
“You’re not actually sick, are you?” he asks eventually.
“There’s so many terrible things that happen in this world,” I say, measuring how much I want to reveal, how much he’d care. “But, like, nobody’s even paying attention.”
He shrugs. “Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with, man.”
“Like what? What do we have to deal with, Seth?”
“Finals, I guess. College.”
I scoff. “But what does that stuff even matter?”
“So we can get a good job, man.”
It’s the same answer nearly anyone would give. The same answer hardly anyone ever questions. The same answer I would have given just a few days ago. But now it feels like bullshit because I think of my family. My parents, my aunts and uncles—all of them have good jobs but none of them took care of Jun.
“Look, dude,” Seth says, “you’re clearly in some kind of funk. Maybe you’re feeling late-onset senioritis. I don’t know. But look at it this way: you’ve only got to survive a few more days and then it’s spring break. We’ll play so many video games that not only will this stress fade away, but your eyeballs are going to fall out of your skull. And then after spring break, we’re basically done with high school.”
We reach an intersection. No cars are coming, but we wait at the light because the glowing red hand tells us to. Seth punches the walk button several times.
“You’re starting to scare me, dude. I know we don’t usually talk about stuff like ‘feelings’”—he puts air quotes around the word—“but if you want to talk, I’m here.”
I start to speak but hesitate. The light changes, but we stay on the corner as it counts down to zero and changes back to the red hand.
“My cousin died,” I finally admit. A rush of fresh pain fills my heart, but I hold it in.
“Shit, dude. Sorry.” He’s quiet for a few moments. “No wonder you’re getting existential all of a sudden. If you don’t mind my asking, how?”
I tell him what my mom told me.
“Whoa.” He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s wild. Were you guys close?”
Yes. No. Yes and no. I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t, only shrug and then cross against the light.
Seth follows. “I’ve read about that guy Duterte. He’s crazy as hell. Back before he was president, when he was mayor of some city, he had these death squads that went around killing people they thought were criminals. He even shot a few people himself and, like, jokes about it now.”
I keep walking, annoyed that Seth knows more about what’s been going on in the Philippines than I did before yesterday’s research session.
“Man,” he says, shaking his head, “I forgot you’re Filipino.”
“Huh?”
“You’re basically white.”
I stop, stung. “What do you mean by that?”
“Sorry, dude,” he says, backtracking. “Never mind.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitates.
“Seth,” I urge.
“I don’t see color, man,” he says. “We’re all one race: the human race. That’s all I meant.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. And even if it is, that’s kind of fucked up. First, to assume white is default. Second, to imply that difference equals bad instead of simply different.
“Promise you won’t get offended?”
“No. But tell me anyway.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I just meant you act like everyone else at school.”
“You mean like all the white kids?”
“Dude, our school’s all white kids, so, yeah.”
Except it’s not. The majority are, for sure, but his generalization—spoken with such confidence, such ease—makes me feel like he’s erasing the rest of us.
Seth goes on. “You talk like everyone else. You dress like everyone else. And you, like, do the same stuff as everyone else. That’s all I mean. Chill.”
“What would you expect me to do?” I ask. “Walk around draped in the Philippine flag?”
Seth rolls his eyes. “You promised not to get offended.”
“No, I didn’t.” I walk away, regretting that I opened up even as little as I did.
“Where you going, Jay?”
“Home,” I say without looking back.
“You want me to come with you?” he asks, like he doesn’t understand why I’m upset. And that’s a big part of the problem. He doesn’t. He can’t.
It’s a sad thing when you map the borders of a friendship and find it’s a narrower country than expected.
LET ME GO
I sleep the rest of the day away. And then on Tuesday Mom lets me stay home because I tell her I’m not feeling well. I’m certain she knows I’m lying since she’s a doctor, but since she’s a mother, I’m certain she knows that I’m telling the truth.
I’ve tried asking Dad about Jun a few more times, but he claims to know nothing beyond what he already told me. And I keep doing more research online and coming up empty.
But in the afternoon, I’m binge-watching old episodes of Steven Universe and cycling through my social media when I get a DM on Instagram from an account I don’t recognize. The message only contains a link, but I’m not about to click on it because it’s probably virus city.
The profile pic is a low-res shot of some Filipino guy, and the handle’s a nonsense string of letters and numbers without a bio. Dude only follows me, has zero followers, and has posted exactly zero times. Definitely not clicking on this link.
A minute later, I’m thinking about setting my account back to private when I get a second message from the same number with another link.
My finger’s hovering over the Block button when he sends a third message—this time it’s a photo.
My breath catches. I sit up.
It’s a picture of Jun.
He’s sitting on a curb and leaning back on his hands in front of a wall plastered in faded advertisements. He’s got a stubbly goatee and a few tattoos snaking around his left arm—telling me he’s way older here than in any photo I’ve ever seen of him.
What. The. Fuck.
When was it taken? Who took it?
Where did you get this??? I message, heart racing.
This is your cousin, no? Manuel Reguero?
Who are you?? I ask.
No response.
WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?