One Wish

Happy birthday, dear Rhea, happy birthday to you....” Silence penetrated the room.

“Make a wish,” my mom said in a sweet, half-whisper. Her eyes glittered above the white cake. Was she crying? It tore at my heart that she still looked so sad, now that everything was over. I looked around the room filled with my friends, cousins, uncles and aunties, and then finally my mom and dad standing right next to me. I couldn’t help but smile.

I wish...

The December morning breeze brushed my long, black hair as I stepped towards the large russet doors of Hagenberg High. It was my first day of school. There were students all over, trotting around with heavy backpacks, slamming lockers and running to catch up with old friends. I wondered who my friends would be. I was a bit anxious because I was starting school two-and-a-half months late.

In first period English, Mrs. Farley immediately put me on the spot.

“We have a new student.” Heart pounding wildly in my chest, I managed a weak smile.

“So, what school are you from?” Mrs. Farley asked, tilting her head.

“A... school in the Philippines,” I replied softly, my voice rising slightly as if I were asking if that was the right answer. Only two weeks ago, my parents and I migrated to America, hoping for a bright new life. At that awkward moment in class though, I silently prayed that I would snap out of the bad dream I was in and wake up to the sounds of the sea back home.

“How long ago did you move here?”

“Uh... two... two weeks ago.” I had never stuttered before, but there I was, sounding as if I learned English only last week.

“Welcome to America... Ree-ya?”

“Rhea.”

“Ra-ya.” Mrs. Farley made herself a little note on the roll sheet. Why hadn’t my parents just named me Ashley? Or Mary? All I wanted was to be normal. I wanted to be somebody.

At home, my parents spoke to me in Tagalog, and I didn’t have any friends yet who spoke to me in English. But what was I worrying for anyway? In the Philippines, I had many friends, all the teachers knew me, and I had been getting excellent grades.

Walking through the locker-lined hallways, my dreams shattered like broken glass around me. I was alone, roaming the halls like a lost little kid. I unknowingly avoided interacting with anyone because I was afraid they’d laugh in my face. When my English was better, I decided, I would finally come up to people and maybe manage to say, “Whussup?”

Finally in gym class, a friendly brown face. She almost looked like me, only happier. Her name was Caroline. At lunchtime we found ourselves enjoying the bland cafeteria food. She wanted me to meet her friends. “Don’t worry Ate Rhea,” she assured me, calling me “sister” in Tagalog. “You’ll fit right in.”

And I did. It was as if some foreign soul entered my body and made me do things against my will. I found myself drinking beer, smoking cigarettes and skipping school. I didn’t even like the taste of beer. The moment it touched my tongue I felt like I had to spit it back out. But I didn’t. I couldn’t afford to look bad and lose my new “friends.” I began to miss at least one day of school a week to hang out with them. Then I missed two, three, even four days in a row.

But while I was out having fun with my “friends,” inside I was full of conflict, unhappiness and regret. I stopped practicing my English sentences in front of the mirror and instead practiced, “I don’t know why the school called, mom. It was probably a glitch in the system because I did not miss school today.”

One day the school counselor called my mom at the house while I was already at school, and the truth came out. I pushed open the heavy doors of the counselor’s stuffy office, dreading the situation I had to face. When my mom lifted her tearful eyes and saw me, I knew I failed her.

“Why, anak ko?” she cried. Why, my child? I stood there, swallowing the lump in my throat, but I had nothing to say. I wished she would yell at me, embarrass me or tell me what a bad kid I was. But she didn’t. She cried like her only daughter was lost and had run away. My dad flashed me an accusing glare. I looked down — I couldn’t bear the hurt in their eyes.

I was so depressed that night — I was sure I had lost my parents’ trust and love. But when I was at my lowest point, my parents came through for me, and I realized just how much they loved me, no matter what. My mom was just worried... so worried in fact that she looked older, as if the years of raising me had drawn lines on her lovely face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” I cried. I wanted to say I was sorry for the failing grades, for all the arguments... for all the lies. But a feeble “I’m sorry” was all I could muster.

“It’s okay, honey. Everything will be okay,” my mom whispered. My dad ran his fingers tenderly through my hair. Nothing else mattered at that moment. Not the laughing jokes at school, not my friends... not even the familiar teenage longing to be somebody. I was somebody in my parents’ eyes.

My parents didn’t change how they viewed me, despite everything I had done. They still loved me as their daughter, and I welcomed the forgiveness, understanding and unconditional love in their warm embrace. And now, staring at the yellow candles on my birthday cake, I only have one wish: That someday, somehow, I can repay my parents for raising me the way they did and for loving me no matter what.

My mom’s voice roused me from my thoughts. “Have you made your birthday wish yet, sweetie?”

I looked at her, and then at my dad, tears of love and gratitude brimming in my eyes. “Yes, mom.”

Then I hugged them both very, very tightly.

~Rhea Liezl C. Florendo

Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul: The Real Deal School

http://www.chickensoup.com/