All About You

Sixteen

“W e’re having dinner at the Salvadors tonight!”

I choke on my saliva. Or is it the banana bread I’m eating for breakfast? I’m not too sure.

“Tonight? At the Salvadors?” I question.

I’m still blinking the sleep from my eyes. Marlon and I stayed up pretty late last night, bingeing through almost six episodes before he declared defeat from exhaustion, and I’d tried to ignore my disappointment when he said that.

Mum walks into the kitchen, her footsteps hurrying against the timber flooring. She’s late for work again, having spent the last twenty minutes on a phone call with Tita Regina. She doesn’t seem to be all too bothered though, telling from the grin on her face.

“Yep, that’s what I said.”

She pops a piece of banana bread into her mouth, before sauntering over and placing a kiss atop my forehead. A bread crumb falls down the bridge of my nose.

“What time?” I call out as Mum heads toward the door.

“7pm! Plenty of time to freshen up when you get home,” she responds.

I get a text from Marlon on cue.

We arrive at the Salvadors just a little past 7pm. For some reason, my parents thought it would be the best idea ever to walk to their house, instead of driving there, like any normal person would do.

“The evening air is nice,” Dad insists, “And it’s still a little light out. Come on, it’ll be nice.”

The so-called ‘nice evening air’ Dad spoke of seemed to prove him very wrong. A slight chill hung in the air, hinting at the foreboding cold that was in-store for us this autumn. The wind tangled itself in my hair, and by the time we arrive at the Salvadors from our twenty minute brisk walk, I’m looking like Sadako from The Ring.

Tita Regina opens the door, greeting us with her usual, cheerful smile.

“Welcome, welcome!” she exclaims, pulling my Mum first into an embrace, then my Dad, then Ria and I.

She lingers on me a little longer.

“My dear Jaslene,” she coos, before meeting my eyes, seemingly unfazed by my horrific appearance. There’s a twinkle, the same twinkle that I saw in my Mum’s eyes, when she first suspected that there was something between Marlon and I.

I return the sentiment, greeting her warmly with what I hope is matched enthusiasm. We take our shoes off at the front door, as always, before stepping through the threshold. Instantly, I’m embraced with a house I’m all too familiar with. Yellow walls coat the entrance hallway, with hung photos of the Salvador family. Marlon is an only child, so there are many baby pictures of him. As we continue forward down the hall, his photos age with us.

It’s a face I’ve grown up with, yet instead of the angelic smile he seems to exert in these photos, my memory reminisces mostly on the mischievous smirk he always held, followed by a childish prank. Emerging from the hallway, we’re led to the quaint living room space, where his awards are displayed in a cabinet.

“Marlon, Danny, they’re here!” Tita Reg calls.

I occupy myself with Marlon’s many achievements, my eyes tracing the lines of the trophies he’s won over the years. Basketball trophies from when he played competitively in high school, along with academic awards from end-of-year schooling events. A door hinge squeaks, and I turn, greeted with Marlon and Tito Daniel emerging from the hallway.

Marlon is dressed more casually than I’m used to as of lately; he’s wearing a cotton blue shirt that hangs oversized over a pair of denim jeans. His hair gleans, hinting at a recent shower, the wet strands sticking to his forehead. Something in my stomach jumps at the sight.

The two of them greet my family one by one, and when Marlon reaches me, he plasters a sweet smile.

“Hey sweetie ,” he coos, and only I can detect the teasing undertone in his voice. I slap at his stomach softly, but enough to cause an oof.

“Hi.”

Ria makes a noise that’s something between a groan and a chuckle, covering it up with a steady cough. I glare at her, but she doesn’t meet my eye. As Tito Daniel approaches me, I beso him, before he claps his hands together.

“Okay everyone, tonight we are having the Daniel & Regina Salvador special. Pork sisig and adobo fried rice!”

All of us erupt into cheers, my stomach grumbling in response. My family move themselves toward the dining table, and I begin to follow suit, until I feel something, or someone presses down on my heel, causing me to stumble a little.

I jerk back, and glare as Marlon saunters past innocently. Maybe he hasn’t grown up afterall.

The dinner begins smoothly, and I immerse myself in Tito Daniel and Tita Regina’s cooking. I’ve always loved their dishes, and in the recent years in which we’ve stopped going to their house so often, I’d actually missed it the most.

The last time I remember us sitting around the dining table like this, eating as the Salvadors and Garcias was for a small Christmas gathering around 6 years ago.

“So Jaslene, how has film school been?” Tita Regina asks.

I swallow my serving of sisig first, before diving into my first couple weeks of film school, of learning very briefly the ins and outs of the industry and how I’ve met two close friends already. I recount the events of today, of how Kiara had to pitch her idea, along with others in the cohort, for an upcoming short-film assignment.

The question carries onto Ria, who informs them all on the woes of being an 11th grader, about all the homework and test papers she’s been burrowing herself under. She tells them all about her closest friends Jessica, Monica and Xavier, who act as her light of hope. She seems particularly happy when asked about her music major.

Dad offers the same sentiment to Marlon, and he dives into his ventures at business school, how he’s been finding it much less difficult than he anticipated, and more details I soon drown out.

Afterward, our parents catch up amongst themselves, exchanging workplace gossip. Ria, Marlon and I eat quietly, too busy enjoying the sisig to engage.

That is, until Tita Regina chirps, “So, Marlon, Jaslene. Tell us. How did this start?”

I glance up from my plate, and am surprised to see that all five of them were glancing our way, even Ria, her eyes swimming with amusement, curiosity, and a hint of worry. Swallowing the portion of rice I’d popped into my mouth, I kick Marlon lightly under the table.

He twitches the slightest at the sudden contact, before clearing his throat.

“Oh yeah. So um, it all started. I guess you could say that, well, it was a long time in the making -” Marlon begins, and I think, good. A vague timeline, implying that it’s always been there.

I’m about to take a sip of my water when I feel Marlon’s foot step on mine. My turn. I resist the urge to glare at him, but instead I just smile sweetly.

“Yes, I would say it’s been a long time coming,” I add, “But it really started when Marlon started talking to me suddenly. On text. About a month or two ago.”

Our parents seem to love this detail, glancing at each other and clapping their hands together. While they're distracted, I glimpse at Marlon, who’s looking at me, eyebrows furrowed. Then, a smirk graces his lips. Oh no.

“That’s right,” he continues, “I wanted to talk to Jaslene more, just the two of us, but privately, you know? Soon I realised that Jaslene very enthusiastically returned those feelings. She texted a lot.”

My jaw tenses at the last detail, resisting the urge to glare pointedly at Marlon. That’s when I press down hard on his foot with mine, and I feel his leg tense.

“And then Marlon started to flirt with me,” I say, and our parents squeal, cooing teasingly at Marlon, “The courting started over text first, because he was too shy to do it in person. That’s when I told him to step it up and be a man.”

Marlon shakes my leg off, but I keep going before I lose my trail. I look at him this time, holding his gaze in a challenge, “He kept texting good morning, telling me I’m beautiful -”

“And she kept mentioning how cute I looked, and when we got home from Tita Lucillia’s birthday, when we sang karaoke, she told me how much she loves my voice -”

“And he told me how much of a better singer I am than him -”

“Wow!” Tita Regina’s squeal breaks us out of our battle, and we both turn to her.

Our parents are gazing at us, that same twinkle in their eyes, as if Marlon and I were exchanging I love yous instead of trying to one up each other.

“You must both really like each other,” Ria interjects, pointing her spoon at the both of us.

Marlon and I stay silent for a moment, beats passing between us.

It’s Marlon who breaks it, “Hm, I guess we do.”

He reaches forward, interweaving his fingers with mine. I inhale sharply. His fingers feel warm.

Ria’s face scrunches, turning away while our parents chorus an awww .

They continue their chatter afterward and I expect Marlon to let go of my hand, but he doesn’t.

Not once. So I don’t let go of his.

After dinner, Marlon and I’s parents move onto tea.

They let us know that we could hang out elsewhere if need be, but to leave Marlon’s bedroom door open if we hung there. I’m glad the bile stayed rested in my throat.

“I’m fine out here,” Ria proclaims, settling herself at the Salvadors’ family piano. She quickly loses herself in the tunes she’s been practising all week, so I decide not to push her further.

Marlon and I head down to the end of the hallway, to his room. He pushes the door open, and leaves it like that.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in here, back when we’d play on his Nintendo Wii. Or, at least, the days I would watch him while he hogged it.

Not much has changed, and strangely, it comes as a relief.

A tattered poster of Assassin’s Creed still hangs beside his mirror, just as I remember.

Opposite his bed, there’s a small TV atop a wooden unit, where his PS5 is perched, along with some Transformers figurines. A vague memory, one of me stealing his Optimus Prime from the same unit as revenge for his attack on my Barbies, resurfaces. It’s still in my trunk, to this day.

On the wall beside his bed, there are new posters I haven’t seen before: one from the anime Attack on Titan, one from the game Cyberpunk and lastly, a small array of fanart for media that’s unfamiliar to me.

He has an LED lamp atop his desk, beside his monitor, and of course, he has one of those light up RGB keyboards I see on social media.

It’s all Marlon, old and new, but what screams out to me most is the old. Because it means he’s still the same Marlon from my childhood and my teenagehood. He’ll be the same Marlon entering my young-adulthood too.

Nothing has changed, when you strip away the pretence of our ruse.

Marlon pops himself down on his bed, patting his stomach.

“Oh, I am full with a capital f .”

I chuckle, fingers skirting the Bumblebee figurine.

“How was today, really?” I ask, because last night before we slept, Marlon told me he was planning to see Christine.

I hear his body shift atop his bed sheets.

“It was normal,” he claims, nonchalantly. I wonder if that’s how he truly feels. “Christine and I got some lunch before her afternoon class, and we were able to catch up a little. We’re quite awkward right now, but I think the fact we’ve been chatting more lately has made it…not as awkward as I thought.”

I turn my head, glancing at him. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“When will you see her again?”

“I asked her if she’s free for dinner tomorrow. I’m just trying to get us comfortable again, in person. I’m taking her to her favourite restaurant in the city.”

I focus my attention back on the Bumblebee figurine.

It must be nice to have someone remember your favourite things. I get up and head over to his desk. Beside his keyboard, there’s a sketchbook open. I peer at it, and to my surprise, see a detailed and intricately sketched piece of Sailor Moon.

My lips part, “You drew this?”

At that, Marlon sits up.

“Wait -”

I hear footsteps, and soon he’s beside me, reaching for his sketchbook. There’s a tension in his brow I didn’t expect.

“Sorry, I don’t really -” he lets go of the drawings, “I haven’t shown many people my drawings before. I forgot I left it out.”

Why is he apologising? My eyes drift back toward the sketch. I reach forward, tracing the lines softly, my fingers just hovering but not quite touching it.

“Marlon, this is amazing,” I say, honestly, “Why are you saying sorry, and why would you hide it? This is gorgeous.”

I peer back at Marlon and see the slightest tint on his cheeks. Marlon flustered? It’ll always shock me.

“I like to draw in my spare time. It’s become one of my biggest hobbies.”

I never expected this from Marlon. I’d always assumed that Marlon’s hobbies revolved around basketball and gaming.

“Can I see more?”

I’m expecting him to refuse me, and I’m ready to accept if he does. I can empathise with the anxiety that comes with sharing a creative work with someone else. It’s a daunting thing, and requires a lot of vulnerability.

He’s looking at me now, as if wondering whether he can trust me. Then, to my surprise, he reaches for his mouse. Unlocks his desktop, before clicking on a folder labelled ‘sketches’ .

Once opened, I’m greeted with numerous files, drafts of his drawings I’m assuming. He rolls his chair back, and gestures for me to sit.

“Go ahead,” he says, “But don’t laugh and don’t judge. Just, maybe stay quiet when you’re looking.”

I give him an assuring smile, and click on the first work. It’s one of Nobara from Jujitsu Kaisen, done so in digital style.

“I haven’t been able to draw much lately since starting uni up again, but I do sketches here and there.”

The next is one of his parents. Then, one of Ryuk, digitised with colour this time. I click through each work, all of them different renditions of his favourite pop culture characters. There’s even one of Christine, dated almost a year ago.

I turn to Marlon, who’s watching me carefully.

“Did you ever show this to Christine?” I ask, softly.

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

“How come?”

“I-I don’t know. Too nervous, I guess? Too shy?”

He’s fiddling with his hands.

“You should, she’d love this.”

I linger on the portrait of Christine, an odd coating of emotion settling over me. Jealousy? Yearning?

“You think so?”

“Any girl would love to be someone’s muse.”

Marlon only hums in response.

Once I’ve reached the end of the folder, I turn to him once again and break into the widest grin. I pour all my genuinity into the smile, so he doesn’t mistake it for sarcasm.

“As much as I hate to admit this,” I begin, “These are amazing Marlon. You’re seriously so talented. Like, wow . You could genuinely, like, earn money from commissions and stuff. Or start small, by posting your artwork online.”

Marlon sits back down on his bed, looking thoughtful.

“I’ve never posted my artwork online, so I don’t know. Maybe.”

I rise from the chair, and sit down beside him, the bed dipping where I perch myself.

“You’ve got great talent that shouldn’t be hidden. Have you shown your parents?”

Marlon shakes his head, “I’m not sure they’d be entirely supportive of it, of how much I like it. At least, if I were to pursue it professionally. They want me to be in business, remember?”

His voice drifts off at the last word. I totally get it. Within our culture, creative ambitions were less regarded than medical or scientific ones. While my parents expressed support for my writing ambitions, for Marlon, it might not be the same situation. It’s why he’s taking a business course. Still, it doesn’t mean he can’t post it for the world to see.

I place my hand atop his leg, patting it.

“Start small. Post it online. Let the world see your talent. It would be a big shame for all of that to be hiding on your computer.”

Marlon holds my eyes for a moment, before his mouth stretches into a grin. The same cheeky grin, as always. Same old Marlon.

“You’re actually complimenting me Garcia,” he says, “What has the world come to?”

I chuckle, pinching him on the knee.

“Do you still write, by the way? Your story about how your friend pitched today, how come you didn’t do so yourself?”

I’m surprised at the question, and more so at the fact that Marlon remembers such a detail from my life.

“I’m flattered you remember about my writing,” I laugh.

“How could I forget, when Mum kept gushing over how you won writing award after writing award,” he says.

I tangle my finger in the fabric of my pants, “I don’t write as much as before,” I confess. I’d stopped writing original creative works during the HSC, when I had little to no time at all. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost the motivation, and the confidence.

“But I’d like to. I’m still finding my footing this semester, though.”

Marlon leans back, watching me thoughtfully.

“Well, I’ll throw back exactly what you said to me Garcia. The world deserves to see your writing,” his mouth twists into a smirk, but it’s not as irritating as I once found. It’s almost comforting.

“I used to sneak peaks at your english notebooks when we used to study together, and it was good.”

I gasp, slapping his arm.

“How dare you sneak a glance at my work,” I exclaim.

He pokes at my side and I lurch away from him, before falling beside him on the bed, both of us giggling.

It feels good, actually, to talk to him about my art. I can talk about this with Kiara, and Diane of course, but it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t directly in my industry too. Someone in my culture. Someone close to me.

“Whenever you start writing again, share them with me, okay Garcia?”

He lifts his pinky, and I hesitate before intertwining it with mine.

“Okay, sure. It’s a deal.”

That night, once I’m home, I actually get the sudden inspiration to write again. Something original, and entirely mine. I write a little love story set in the library, a meet-cute between the characters. The piece is only a paragraph long, but I’m happy to say it belongs to me. I can’t believe that Marlon, of all people, had inspired me to write again. I share it with him after, before closing my eyes to sleep.

He was right. What on Earth has the world come to?