Hungry Hearts Read online

DAY 4, SATURDAY

  Today’s Ansella’s big day. I had a message from her on the blog this morning.

  Dear Dr. Ishq,

  It’s Saturday. The day I finally take that big step and tell the object of my affections how I really feel. And it’s all thanks to you. If you hadn’t pushed me to take the grand ishq adventure challenge—which I’ve enjoyed immensely—I would never have done this. No matter which way this goes, I’ve changed for the better. And for that, I’m so grateful to you.

  I have another favor to ask: Would you consider coming to Mallow Park at one o’clock today before I take this big step? It would mean so much to me. I’ll be the one on the bench by the Yarrow River wearing a yellow hat.

  Ansella

  I talk to Henrietta after I read the e-mail. We have a long chat, during which she keeps saying she thinks it’d be a good idea for me to “foster self-efficacy” by meeting Ansella. Going up to this reader and seeing the good I’ve done in the world, she says, will “greatly bolster your shaky self-concept.”

  Henrietta has a PhD in philosophy and a masters in library science (the first black woman at her university to get that distinction), she looks like Halle Berry, and she’s married to a judge who looks like Idris Elba. Sometimes I feel like the world’s biggest underachiever.

  Anyway, I finally say, “Henrietta, I’ve always been anonymous. I think my readers really need to feel like I’m this nameless, faceless, omniscient person who’ll never lead them wrong. I don’t want to shatter that illusion for them. What if Rowbury teens everywhere go into an existential crisis because they realize I’m just as human, just as fallible, as them?”

  Henrietta looks at me, her mouth twitching a little. “Thank you for that impassioned speech. I can see this means a lot to you. But just think about it, will you?”

  I sag in my seat. She isn’t taking me seriously. She doesn’t get why I don’t want to do this. Things with Prem are at a complete standstill. I need to know that this one thing in my life, this thing I’m so good at, will stay good. I don’t want to meet Ansella and completely ruin everything.

  Sighing, I stand. “Okay, fine. I’ll think about it.”

  Henrietta smiles. “Hey, Neha. You already know you helped her. If you meet with her in person, you can really see the effects of what you’ve done, right?”

  “I guess,” I mumble as I walk out. Except I don’t. I really don’t need to see it. But who am I to argue with Henrietta?

  * * *

  After I clock out at the library, I head down to Pepper Street. I’ve been saving the best for last. Today I’m going to eat at the nameless carinderia run by an eccentric woman people swear is a witch. Apparently, her recipes are all really spells in disguise, able to infuse the eater with great confidence. I’m not sure if I believe that, but I’m willing to try it because her food is said to be so delicious, people talk about it for weeks after eating there.

  As I walk past the hardware store, my messenger bag banging on my thigh (regular-size bags always hang really low on me, thanks to the fact that I’m vertically challenged), I think about Prem. Not a surprise, really, because I’m constantly thinking about him. This standstill we’re at now . . . what if it’s completely artificial? What if it’s just because neither of us is being brave enough to take charge?

  I mean, I know it’s not just me. We did have a really . . . electric connection the other day at Manijeh’s. I think about Ansella, about to be brave and do something really, really scary, even without me there. She thinks I’m her mentor. But what kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t take my own advice? Eating alone has been really good for me, but isn’t it time to face my real fear? Isn’t it time to take matters into my own hands, to tell Prem how I feel before life leads us down divergent paths?

  If Ansella can do it, I can too. I don’t want to look back on this and regret it. I’m tired of standstills. I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my jeans and take a deep breath. Yes. I’m gonna do it today. And maybe this food can help me.

  * * *

  In the carinderia, I wait patiently in line, looking at the comments on my phone. So many people have said they’re excited for Ansella to take the next step, and I respond to tell them thanks.

  I’m not going to tell anyone about my own plan to confess my feelings to Prem. If he says he doesn’t feel the same way, I’ll need some time to crawl away and lick my wounds. Besides, Dr. Ishq is supposed to have all this stuff figured out. People don’t want to hear about my love failures.

  Then it’s my turn to order, and the old woman who’s rumored to be a witch looks at me, her gimlet eyes sparkling, her wild and wavy hair about a foot thick on each side of her head. “Boy trouble?” she asks before I can even say a word.

  I blink and slip my phone into my pocket. “How did you—”

  “Soup Number Five,” she says, nodding. “That is what you need. It is an aphrodisiac, you see.” She smiles at me like she’s got a secret, and I find myself smiling back.

  “Okay then. Soup Number Five it is,” I agree, handing over some cash.

  I take a seat by the window and wait for my food. It’s not awkward, sitting here alone, because a lot of other customers are also eating by themselves while they read or play on their phones. I people-watch, the hustle and bustle of quick-stepping young folks with dogs on leashes or (slower) retired men and women running errands reminding me of a swarm of busy ants. I wonder what they’re thinking about as they walk, whether they’re lucky enough to have someone they love waiting for them at home.

  “Your soup.”

  I look up to see a young, familiar Filipina girl setting a bowl on my table. We probably went to high school together. “Thanks,” I respond, and she waves to me and disappears back into the kitchen.

  Picking up my spoon, I dip it into the broth, making sure to get pieces of the small, fatty meat. I close my eyes and eat my spoonful, marveling at the rich, savory flavors. It’s like beef broth, only heartier, and the meat has this really interesting texture. Before I know it, I’ve devoured half the bowl.

  “You like Soup Number Five?”

  I look up to see Lola Simeona, the old woman from earlier, standing by my table, watching me. “Oh, yes,” I say, patting my mouth with a napkin. “It’s delicious! What is this meat? It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted. And I feel more . . . energetic already, sort of like I can take on anything.” Like Prem.

  She smiles knowingly. “Yes, yes, Soup Number Five is magical.” After a pause, during which her smile morphs into what can only be described as a mischievous grin, she says, “The meat is bull testes.”

  I stare at her for a long moment as her words filter into my brain. I set my spoon down carefully and take a sip of water. “Bull . . . testes?” I ask in the most neutral way I can.

  “Yes! It’s an aphrodisiac!” She pats my shoulder and walks off to another table. I think I can hear her cackling.

  I look down into my bowl. I just ate a bunch of chopped-up bull balls. For a moment I wonder, in a very detached way (is this what being in medical shock feels like?), if I’m going to throw up. But then the moment passes, and I realize they’re really delicious. And Soup No. 5 works. I can feel the potent mixture wending its way through my system, infusing my blood with confidence and desire. I eat another big spoonful.

  And that’s when I look out the window and see them.

  I blink several times, because I’m not sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. Maybe it’s some weird hallucination caused by whatever’s in bull testicles. Maybe I’m under-caffeinated. The bull testes lodge in my throat like a block of stone.

  It’s Prem and a girl with chocolate-brown hair and pale skin. They’re over at the falafal stand across the street, both of them laughing at something. Prem’s eyes are crinkled in that way I adore, his black hair mussed and falling in his eyes. His arm is around the girl, and she’s leaning into him in this incredibly comfortable way, like she knows him really well.

  I swallow and look down at my
bowl. My blood, on fire just a few minutes ago, now feels like it’s been doused with whatever that foamy stuff is in fire extinguishers. Even bull testicles can’t help me now.

  So we weren’t at a standstill after all. Prem just . . . Prem just doesn’t feel the same way I do. And obviously I can’t do it now. I can’t tell him how I feel when he clearly . . . he clearly likes someone else. So all that connection I thought I felt? I was wrong. I was stupidly, totally wrong.

  My phone dings, and, ignoring the rule of the grand ishq adventure challenge, I pull it out of my pocket. I have another twenty-two messages on my blog, all from people telling me that they’ve been doing the challenge themselves.

  STEMGirlinSF says it’s made her more confident than she’s ever been. FilmFan2020 says she and her boyfriend have both been doing it separately, and it’s boosted their relationship because it’s infused their lives with adventure. ComicBoyR says he’s found so many great restaurants and cuisines his art feels like it’s blossoming as a result. And on and on and on the messages go.

  I set my phone down on the table. The grand ishq adventure, I realize fully for the first time, is not just about me or Prem or even Ansella. It’s so much bigger than that. It’s about daring to do what you’re most afraid of doing, knowing that it could very well result in spectacular failure. It’s about looking life right in the eyes and deciding to embrace it—all of it, good and bad—because to do anything less would be a waste of its gift. It’s about being brave, whatever that means to you, however you define it.

  I eat another big spoonful of Soup No. 5 and pat my mouth with my napkin, staring off into the middle distance. Something’s shifting. I feel a swell of confidence as a bell of epiphany rings through me. I know what I’m going to do now. I’m going to meet up with Ansella after lunch, to wish her luck. Because she needs me. And because I need to see her shining, hopeful, courageous face. And then I’m going to tell Prem how I feel, even if it means being utterly rejected. Because I am Dr. Ishq. And because my life is too brilliant to waste on cowardice.

  * * *

  I arrive at Mallow Park right at one o’clock. My heart is racing, half in sympathetic fear for Ansella, and half because I’m terrified for myself. I texted Prem and asked him to meet me here in twenty minutes, but he hasn’t responded yet. I don’t want to think about whether the brown-haired girl has anything to do with his silence.

  As I walk farther into the park, I can see the Yarrow River glittering like a big sparkly blue ribbon in the distance. And on its shore, sitting on the same bench I was sitting on when Lila Manzano handed me the concha, is someone in a bright yellow ball cap. Their back is to me, but I head over in that direction, smiling.

  “Hi,” I say to her back as I approach. “Ansella?”

  She turns. But the person’s not a she at all. Suddenly I find myself face-to-face with . . . Prem.

  I stop short as he stands, unfolding himself, his eyes careful. “P-Prem? What, um, what are you . . . doing here?” I glance at his yellow hat, confused. “Where’s Ansella?”

  “I have a confession,” he says, biting his lip and taking a deep breath. “Um, do you want to come sit?” He gestures to the empty spot on the bench.

  I walk over, my legs feeling like rubber, my brain screaming a million things at me, none of which make sense right now. He sits after I sit and turns to me so our knees are almost touching. “What’s your confession?” I ask finally, thinking how the glittering reflection of the river sparkles so prettily against his brown skin.

  “Neha,” he says, and takes another deep breath. I take one too, feeling nervous. He looks directly into my eyes. “There is no Ansella.”

  I frown. “Yes, there is,” I say, beginning to pull out my phone. “I had a message from her today.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Prem exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “Um, I’m Ansella. It’s a play on Ansel Adams’s first name.”

  My hands still, my phone forgotten. “You . . . you wrote to me on the blog?” Prem, as library staff, knew who Dr. Ishq was, of course.

  “Yeah. I didn’t want you to know it was me, though.”

  “Why not?”

  Prem glances down at his feet for a long moment. Then, looking back up, he says quietly, “Because I’ve liked you for almost a year now. In private, in secret, without knowing how I was ever going to tell you how I felt. You’re . . . you’re a little intimidating, you know.”

  “I intimidate you?” I ask, trying not to laugh. My heart’s singing a merry little melody that goes something like Prem likes you! He’s liked you for the better part of a year! La la la la la!

  “You’re Dr. Ishq,” he says, shrugging. “The love expert. The one with all the answers. On the blog, you always know precisely what advice to give, how to fix any love problem. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t tell how you felt about me.”

  “But . . .” I clear my throat. “I saw you, just a little while ago at the falafal stand. You were with a girl. . . .”

  “Jordan?” he asks, frowning.

  “Jordan? As in, your roommate?”

  He nods. “I was eating the last meal in the grand ishq adventure challenge, and she stopped by to thank me for the print. I finally got Henrietta to help me access the storage room and left it for her at our place.” Then, reading the expression on my face, he smiles gently. “She’s, ah, like a sister to me. Very annoying, but someone I care for in a very fraternal way. Her dad fell ill recently, and I just wanted to do something nice for her.”

  I see the truth in his eyes and relax. Feeling suddenly shy, I look down at my hands. “So . . . you like me?”

  He leans in just a touch closer. “I like you,” he agrees. “A lot.”

  I look up at him, smiling a little. “I like you, too.”

  He stares at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Really?”

  “I’ve liked you for a long time. Actually, I was going to . . . to tell you how I felt today. Even though I was sure you were going to shoot me down, because I thought you and Jordan were an item.”

  “Why?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why would you tell me if you thought I liked someone else?”

  “Because . . . because I want to live bravely. I want to wear my heart on my sleeve, even if it means I’m going to get hurt. I want to be the girl the Dr. Ishq readers think I am.”

  Prem grins. “Oh, you are,” he says, putting his hand on mine. “You already are.”

  And then we’re both leaning in at the same time, and this time there’s no mistaking it—the electricity is undeniable. We’re about to embark on our very own grand ishq adventure.

  Sugar and Spite

  BY RIN CHUPECO

  Fifteen is an appropriate age to test for seasoning. It is not a complicated ritual, but it is an unusual rite of passage and not for the fastidious. It’s a prick of a finger. It’s five drops of blood. It’s drizzling the blood onto sinigang—a heady soup of tamarind broth, with a savory sourness enhanced by spinach and okra, tomatoes and corms, green peppers for zest. Lola Simeona prefers stewed pork, and so that was chopped into the broth, a perfect medley of lean meat and fat.

  The old women leaned close to breathe in the aroma while you nursed your wound, squeezing your fingertip. From your perspective they resembled Macbeth’s witches—witches of Old Manila rather than of Scotland. Lola Simeona would undoubtedly take offense, despite knowing neither Macbeth nor Shakespeare. “Can they predict futures greater than me, hija?” she would have challenged you, in her sharp accent. “Are their curses better, aphrodisiacs stronger?”

  They passed out bowls and ladled your blood-spiced soup into generous portions. You’re not the first teenager they’ve supped on, though supply has been waning over the years. Very few children carry on old Filipino magic nowadays. Very few parents allow them the burden.

  Lola Simeona had the honor of first sip. She rolled your essence in her mouth, lips puckered, tongue tasting. A wide smile spread across her wrinkled fa
ce. “Asaprán,” she said. Saffron: the most expensive spice, the rarest witch. “You are made of asaprán. Just like me.”

  * * *

  Lola Simeona had known you were special for the longest time. The ice cream on your halo-halo that you helped prepare as a child always tasted sweeter on everyone’s tongue than when your mother prepared it alone, the puto bumbong chewier if you steamed it in place of your father.

  But your lolas took offense at being called witches. That is an Amerikano term, they scoff, and that they live in the boroughs of an American city makes no difference to their biases. Mangkukulam was what they styled themselves as, a title still spoken of with fear in their motherland, with its suggestions of strange healing and old-world sorcery.

  Nobody calls their place along Pepper Street Old Manila, either, save for the women and their frequent customers. It was a carinderia, a simple eatery folded into three food stalls; each manned by a mangkukulam, each offering unusual specialties:

  Lola Teodora served kare-kare, a healthy medley of eggplant, okra, winged beans, chili peppers, oxtail, and tripe, all simmered in a rich peanut sauce and sprinkled generously with chopped crackling pork rinds. Lola Teodora was made of cumin, and her clients tiptoed into her stall, meek as mice and trembling besides, only to stride out half an hour later bursting at the seams with confidence.

  But bagoong—the fermented-shrimp sauce served alongside the dish—was the real secret; for every pound of sardines you packed into the glass jars you added over three times that weight in salt and magic. In six months, the collected brine would turn reddish and pungent, the proper scent for courage. Unlike the other mangkukulam, Lola Teodora’s meal had only one regular serving, no specials. No harm in encouraging a little bravery in everyone, she said, and with her careful preparations it would cause little harm, even if clients ate it all day long.

  Lola Florabel was made of paprika and sold sisig: garlic, onions, chili peppers, and finely chopped vinegar-marinated pork and chicken liver, all served on a sizzling plate with a fried egg on top and calamansi for garnish. Sisig regular was one of the more popular dishes, though a few had blanched upon learning the meat was made from boiled pigs’ cheeks and heads.