The long-awaited Chapter Six. xD
I swore to myself I wouldn't tinker with Mater and Holley, but here it is. :/ Well, what can I do? xD
Chapter Six
(Vivian's POV)
So, my parents are also invited to stay in the Bernoulli home as I am to celebrate with their friends for the first time in years, really. They have called my Uncle Mater and his wife, Holley, to tell hem we wouldn't be home for Christmas, just for this year, they suppose. My uncle was, of course, crestfallen, but nonetheless, it was only for about a week or two. Ercilia and her parents stay as well, because the Bernoulli home is big enough to support even the whole of Radiator Springs. And yes, maybe my Aunt Marlene offered her cousin a room or two to stay in, just as me and my parents were offered to do so. In the night I've spent talking with the two cousins, now considered my new friends, I have known a few things about them.
In the home, now that Franco is old enough, it is Franco who is the breadwinner—or at least a part, since his father is still in the team as crew chief, in honor of his 'father', Giuseppe Motorosi, who has happily retired. He also has taken over most of the chores in the home, like things in the kitchen, rooms, garage, and so on. Their 'helper', Arianna, comes by to do a few he can't handle, like the bath or the carpets, but everything she does is at a minor or smaller scale than Franco, who is grateful for the help. The reason for this is because his parents want to prepare him for the days he'll have to leave and live without them. Seems odd for a 25-year-old, right?
Not really. Ercilia's mother had come in to be some sort of chaperone—but she didn't have to because Ercilia is such a tattletale, but even so, she is a great storyteller, telling us things from the Philippines, what happens there, why she left, things in her experience. And in the Philippines, it is customary for them—or at least, in her household—for the children to start early on learning how to be independent. At least, that was what her parents taught her. Before anything else, she had to do things as usual—do the dishes, fix the room, do as much as she can and do as she's told—before she can go and play. She had recommended this upbringing to my godmother Marlene, and here Franco is, with a well-rounded personality.
Ercilia is sweet and active. She takes after her mother in terms of personality and interest, and takes after her father in terms of physical appearance, having pretty green eyes and long, dark brown wavy hair. She can be very childlike despite her age at times(she's nineteen) like when she's toying around with her cousin, but is also has a very mature head, thinking independently and creatively. She loves tinkering with her parents' cars—an Audi A10 cabriolet, which is the family car, her mother's silver Ferrari 458 Italia, and her father's retired golden racing grand tourer in which no one can really identify its make and model. Her forte in academics is language(not necessarily literature, but she loves to read) and science in general. She is affectionate with her family, especially her cousin.
Gianfranco isn't much on English, but adores Italian, although he is fluent in both languages. He's more into Physics than in any other field of science. He's equally creative though, because of the few original cookbooks he's published(he's got a few in his room, too!). He takes things in a scientific approach like his cousin. He ay drive and cook and look like his father, but he's got the brains and eyes of his mother. So generally, they both look like brother and sister, because they have the same green eyes. I was startled to really see the similarities as they sat there, me scrutinizing every little similar detail. It was cool.
As for me—well, after Ercilia and Franco used their way of knowing what I'm good at—(they say)I'm more creative, even if I do want to be a lawyer like my mother. They recommend a fine arts program or course. My mother, being a lawyer, is a critical thinker, but my father is sort of more crafty, sneaky and creative.
Want to know what sort of test they do? They say it's not official though, but it's a small basis, really, and that you shouldn't really believe in it, but most of the time, it's really true. If you can draw something well, like a dragon or a building, they you're artistic. If you know how to use a wrench better than a simple spatula, then you're somewhat mechanical or technical. If you like figuring things out, you're still technical, because you can solve problems. What you do everyday contributes to what you want in the future, as well as who you are. At least, that's what the two of them say.
I sleep in a different room from everyone else except Ercilia, to save space, you know? I mean, even if the house is more like a palace with a twenty rooms, the Bernoulli's believe in conserving energy. You know, eco-friendly thing? Not really bad, though; I could use her company. She's an even better friend than those in my batch.
"So, how do you like it here?" she asks.
I almost forgot: even if she was born in Spain, has more blood or lines of a European, she speaks with the voice of a Filipina, or a female Filipino. In the English language, I have heard that when a Pinoy speaks it, it's kind of loose and not high-strung like your usual American. Not with rolling r's or with big 'o' sounds, but just like any other English speaker that's not necessarily American. It's hard to explain. Her mother is a perfect example.
"It's better than back home, I guess." I brush out my hair. "There's nothing much to do back in RS." A question pops into my head. "So, how does it feel to have dual citizenship?"
She's not uninformed about that. "Well, it's nice, I suppose. But I don't even get to use it." She grins as she, too, brushes her wet hair.
I smile with her. "have you seen what it's like in the Philippines? Is it better than Spain?"
"Well, not necessarily. It's hotter down there, in the lower northern hemisphere, the lowest you can get in the city should be about 26 or 29, in Celsius. Mama says it's much, much better in Europe, although she's had to deal with allergies to the cold for a few months or so."
Eww. I hate allergies.
"Well, so does Mama," she says.
I nod. "And back in your dad's place?"
"It's kinda warm," she says. "I mean, it's southern Europe, for crying out loud. It shouldn't be any warmer there than here in Italy. It's cold, that's for sure."
"Have you seen snow?"
"Yup." She stares at me. "My mama hasn't seen snow until at least her twenties, you know that?"
"What?" I gasp. That's impossible!
"Nothing's impossible," she shrugs. "I mean, most of the poor people we saw in the Philippines don't even get to see snow, much less see or hear of it in the movies or elsewhere."
I gape. No way.
"Yeah," she agrees. "My mother's not too fond of snow, though."
I cock my head to the side. "Why not?"
"Cold, remember?" she reminds me.
I nod, understanding. "But Spain doesn't have snow, right?"
"The hell it does," she exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Sorry; I'm not a jet-setter," I snap.
"I didn't mean to offend, but I was just surprised," she replies. "Come on; even you were surprised a lot of people don't really see snow in their entire lives."
I nod. She has a point. That's another thing about Ercilia: she can convince you in just about anything, with just the right amount of proof and research.
"So, any third language?" I ask.
"Filipino. Just a little. My mother taught me the basics."
"Is it any harder than learning Spanish?" I ask.
"Sort of. It's like any other foreign language: there are many forms of a verb in every situation." She grins.
"When did you learn?"
"Since I was able to speak and understand, I guess." She makes a face. "I think I was about ten or something." She looks at me. "What about you? Any second language?"
"Nope," I say, ashamed. "American all the way."
"Any dreams to do so?"
"Not really."
She eyes me. "Italian?"
I give a sheepish chuckle. "How'd you know?"
"'Not really' is not the same as 'no'." She grins. "And besides, you love my cousin, remember?"
I grin and throw a pillow gently at her. She squeaks in laughter. "Shut up," I say, smiling shyly.
She hoots as she sees my flushing cheeks. "So, what about him, huh?" She lays her front on the pillow I gave her, chin on her hands as she looks at me with interest.
"Only if you promise not to tell," I condition seriously. "I want to tell him myself."
"I'll likely forget," she swears, and I start.
"Well, he's sweet and understanding, really." The words come pouring out as I think of the man with green eyes. "He knows what he wants, that's for sure. He won't take no for an answer. He's smart. He's a great dresser," I add, and she laughs. "He cooks like a real, world class chef, and probably has the taste buds of one. He knows more things than I do," I admit shyly. "And in my opinion, he's more loyal than my other…friends."
Her ears prick at the pause at the title, and I tell her my sad story. She nods.
"My mother told me things like that once," she says. "She hasn't many friends in her school years; just about two or three or so. It's only when Franco's mother introduced Mama to the rest of the family and friends, and…I guess that's when she and Dad met…or somewhere along that time." She looks up thoughtfully, then confirms it, still unsure.
I give a chuckle. "Do you have any friends?"
"Well, there's you," she starts. "A lot of people think I'm loud as I take after my mother, remember? So they don't really…like me that much, but I'm an accepted batchmate." She shrugs.
I nod. I'm learning so many things I've never even heard of before. Like friendship.
"So, any thought of you and Franco?" she questions.
She laughs as I pretend to be offended. "We'll see," I say. She doesn't know.* "I mean, you remember my story earlier, right?" She nods. "Well, it's a littler hard to even be with a friend, so I think I'll weigh my chances first." She nods again in understanding, and silence ensues until another question comes to mind. "How come you speak English like an American when you've learned Filipino and Spanish, or even if more than half your blood is Spanish?"
She stares at me with thoroughly open eyes. "My mother is Filipino. She speaks it back in her home very much, yet she speaks English like it's her first language." She shrugs. "Practice, I guess."
I grin. It's amazing.
The door bursts open, and Franco's head pops in. "Not sleepy yet?"
"No," Ercilia says, rolling over onto her back like a puppy. Another childlike moment. "Can you stay with us?" she asks in a squeaky, pleading voice.
He laughs. "No."
"Pwease?" She flashes her pretty green eyes.
"Oh, fine," he says, and runs off to come back with a pillow. "But you have to move over."
"Yay!" she squeaks as she makes room in the twin bed. He settles in beside her. The beds are to the walls, so she picks the far side, to the wall.
"What have you been talking about?"
"Nothing!" she blurts out immediately. "Just family lines, whatever."
He grins as she gives him a hug. Did I mention we were all in pajamas and not nightgowns? Thank the Lord I didn't bring any of that; I'd cry then and there.
"Now go to bed," he says, "and not another sound. It's late."
"After a party, it's always late," she says, turning to the wall as Franco dims the lights a little. "Well, good night, Viv."
"G'night," I reply, then turn to Franco. "She's amazing."
"Thank you," Ercilia says, and her cousin nudges her gently with his foot. She murmurs and ouch, and he rolls his eyes.
"I know."
It's nice in the room. For one, it's quiet. And it only adds to the beauty of his voice. I mean, it's like a mix of an Italian voice in an English one, and it's amazing, just like Ercilia's mother. It's soft and flowing, not stopping like any foreigner.
It's quiet for a moment, as I don't know what to say.
"I heard you earlier," he murmurs. "About me."
I blush, and I can see he sees it. "Sorry," I apologize immediately.
"What's to be sorry about?" he says. "I liked it." He grins at me.
I smile back, shyly, and settle down onto my pillows. "Oh, I believe you have an extra pillow there."
He slaps Ercilia, and I can hear his pal connect with hers sharply. "Whaat?" she groans.
"Give back her pillow," he growls, and she shoots it over the space.
"Thanks," I say.
"I love you, too," he says, and I can see him smiling at me, lips over his teeth this time.
I smile, and take heart to that as the lights go out.