Page 7 of Smile for the Camera

After I slice three mangoes in half, I lay them out on a plate. A lot of times it feels like my parents don’t rest, and I want them to save some energy.

I gaze at the living room. Tacked above our TV is the flag of the Philippines. There’s a rectangular window with floral curtains cinched on the sides, closed blinds draping over the glass. Two brown leather couches surround the coffee table like an L. Hung across the walls are photographs of me and my family, each one bordered in gold frames. I’m staring away in all of them.

I was only a baby when my family moved from Manila to Sunlight. Aprilette was seven. For several years, we lived with Tita Maricel, my mom’s sister. My dad first worked as a nursing aid while my mom washed dishes at a Filipino restaurant. Once my dad passed his exam for his RN license, he started working two jobs, one at a hospital and the other at a nursing home. My mom went back to school and earned her certification in phlebotomy. Eventually, we paid Tita Maricel rent money, then started living in apartments. Once my parents saved enough money, we bought the one-story house we have now, and we’ve been living in it since I was eight. My mom still works as a phlebotomist, and my dad works one job at Simpson Community Hospital.

The three of us sit at our round glass table. Our ceiling lamp hangs over us like an upside-down umbrella and drowns everything in light—my reflection’s clear in my plate and silverware. First, we pass the mangoes, then the rice.

My mom spoons a pool of sinigang, then dumps it into her tiny bowl. “Emilyn, how did finals go?”

“Exhausting, but I think I aced them all,” I answer.

My dad grins proudly.

After my mom hands me the bowl of sinigang, she claps in her signature style of fingers excitedly tapping against her palm. “Galing mo, anak!”

I shovel a portion of sinigang—broth, salmon fillet, and onions—and pour them into my bowl. “Salamat po. But in my AP U.S. History class, everybody finished their final early. I stayed until the bell rang. It was so embarrassing.”

My mom squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed. You were just taking your time.”

“It’s not the speed that matters,” my dad adds. “It’s the thought you put into it. Your Atè always puts lots of thought in everything.”

“I’m still nervous, though,” I tell them. “I hope I didn’t get anything lower than a B in all of my classes.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” my mom assures me.

“You were studying every day,” my dad reminds me. “You probably earned higher than a B.”

I smile at both of them. Nerves still jitter within me, but it’s nice to hear some reassurance.

“Everything you’re doing is especially important in college,” my mom adds.

“Speaking of colleges,” my dad begins, “have you decided where you want to apply?”

I scoop another pool of sinigang as I ponder over my response. Answering my dad’s question should be simple—apply to a UC and major in bio. But the truth is I’m not interested in college, especially the ones they want me to attend. Whenever I called Aprilette, or visited her in Berkeley, she was always at her desk, highlighting lines from a textbook or writing notes in their margins. Sometimes she was genuinely interested in whatever she was studying. Other times, though, she’d yawn, or her eyelids would flicker open, and that was always when she was studying for a class she was required to take—history, English literature, sociology—in order to graduate. Even now she doesn’t remember what she learned in those classes. According to Aprilette, she had to take them because the school wanted their students to be well-rounded.

But I wonder what’s the point of taking those classes when all the information leaves your head anyway. Still, everyone I know who’s attended a traditional university, my Atè included, has earned jobs that pay them well, and they can afford their own apartment, feed themselves, and buy whatever they want. What if I can’t have what they have? What if people see me as a failure?

As I pour my sinigang into my bowl, I reply, “Yeah. UC Riverside’s campus looks nice and chill. I also heard the city is a lot like Sunlight, and I wouldn’t mind living in another suburb. I might also go to UC Berkeley like Atè since they have one of the top biology programs.”

My dad nods approvingly at these choices.

“Maybe I’ll apply to Sacramento State, too,” I add. “They have this cool photography program where you can learn about the art and history...” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

My parents stop eating to look at me. No nods of approval for this choice. My dad says, “I thought you were only taking photography for fun. Isn’t it only supposed to be an elective?”

I open my mouth, but nothing spills out.

“Anak, your college degree is very important,” my dad says. “A lot of employers are going to look at your credentials to see if your degree will be useful. They need someone with skills that will be helpful in their workplace. Your Atè got a job at Empathy Health Hospital when she graduated because hospitals look for people who are knowledgeable in chemistry.”

I dwell on this, and my stomach tightens. My mind flashes back to Aprilette, how she threw away her fashion design dreams because there are few jobs seeking people with skills in creating clothes. She chose chemistry, and now she has her own apartment in a city she loves. Are there any jobs that could find value in someone with a photography degree? Then again, I don’t think many employers list photography or camera skills as their required qualifications. Still, I can’t stop thinking about what Ms. Choi told me.

“Don’t forget about tuition,” my mom says, concern tinged in her voice.

“There’s always financial aid and scholarships,” I say. “Ms. Choi told my class about this photography competition. The winner receives a full-ride scholarship to Jansen School of Arts. My favorite photographer is a professor there.”

My dad arches an eyebrow while my mom looks at me like I’m an aswang, jumping out of Filipino folklore and shape-shifting into a mythical creature.

“But, anak, that might be too much work for you,” my mom says. Her voice rises in pitch like a flute hitting a high note, which only happens when she’s especially worried. “You might fall behind on all your work.”