His hand twinged.
Every flex of his wrist, every brush of his still-healing burn over the cold metal of the mixing bowl sent a dull wave of pain through Vicente's arm. Kneading the pineapple pastry dough and watching it flow through his fingers, he imagined his thoughts draining out through his hands, mixing into the dough and rising it into a delicious pastry.
Yao looked over at him and with a swift motion swiped the mixing bowl out of his hands. "That looks good enough, Vicente. Can you get the pineapple filling for me?"
Part of him wanted to protest, to grab the bowl back and shape the dough himself. He'd read the recipe a million times, in both English and Chinese, and it was practically engraved in his memory. But Vicente held his tongue, went to the small refrigerator in their kitchen and reached up on tiptoes to take out a heavy frosted tray of rich, sour-sweet pineapple filling. His hands shook as he carried it back to the kitchen counter.
"Thanks." Yao had already turned away from him, busy rolling little handfuls of the crumbly shortbread dough into balls. "And scoop out some of the filling too, please."
He obliged, listening to the boisterous chatter of Leon and his friends in the living room. Their shouts and jokes, occasional sentimental comments about Leon's departure felt disorienting, like the idle buzzing of a fly hovering around him. I wonder, Vicente thought to himself, if any of my friends will come over before I leave Taipei.
A sharp tap to his shoulder snapped him back to attention. Eyes returning to stare at the glossy amber of the refrigerated pineapple jam, Vicente began passing Yao handfuls of the gloopy filling and tried to clang his spoon against the tray as loudly as possible.
Not long after, the first batch of pineapple pastries was baking away in their little oven, and the ruckus outside had grown louder. The tray of filling was halfway gone and the dough almost depleted, and Vicente sat down on a small, hard stool by the kitchen counter while listening to the ticking of the oven's timer.
When a mere five minutes remained for the pastries to be finished, the scent of it, sweeter and more alluring than any type of perfume, began to waft around the kitchen. Butter, pineapple and winter melon combined to create a fragrance that was bound to escape the kitchen and send a troupe of hungry boys storming in. The very thought of eating the rich, delicious pineapple pastries made Vicente's mouth water.
And sure enough, the door banged open just as Yao was pulling the hot tray out of the oven. Leon and his friends plodded into the kitchen, still talking among themselves, until Leon piped up, "Brother, are you making pineapple pastries?"
"That's right!" An amiable smile already plastered in place, Yao slipped the steaming pastries onto a cooling rack. "Now, let's wait for the pastries to cool down, and they'll be ready to eat."
Leon's friends tittered excitedly, their eyes on the golden pastries and the tendrils of aromatic steam curling off of it, and it was clear that none of them had noticed Vicente. He gathered up some courage and quietly asked, "would any of you like some water?" But Leon excitedly talked over him by accident already:
"Hey, I think we made some lemon tea the other day, let's get some!" Leon opened the refrigerator door and grabbed the heavy pitcher of lemon tea, deftly carrying it out of the kitchen. Clearly ignored, Vicente jumped on a stepstool to grab a few glasses from the cupboards.
He left Yao to tend to the rest of the pineapple pastries and went outside to the living room, where Leon and his friends were poring over a brightly-coloured poster of what Vicente guessed was one of their favourite books. He set the glasses down and ran back to the kitchen before any of them could say anything.
The next batches of pineapple pastries came out just as tasty-looking as the first, arranged daintily on a not-so-dainty metal plate and taken outside. Soon, the entire bowl of dough and the tray of filling were depleted. Yao looked at the clock and instantly his cheery demeanour vanished. He grabbed the mixing bowl, whisking it towards the sink before grabbing the tray. "Quick, let's clean up before Mother and Father get home!"
The harsh washing detergent stung Vicente's hands and the scalding water left them an angry, inflamed red. He envied Yao, who worked quickly enough that his hands never looked as burned as Vicente's. The gauze that protected his burn scar soon dampened from the water, and he grimaced, reminding himself to replace it afterwards.
The doorbell rang.
Yao slammed the cupboard door shut and dried his hands on his trousers. He shooed Vicente out of the kitchen and raced for their apartment door. Vicente sat down clumsily at the dining table, and grabbed the nearest book he could reach, flicking it open to a random page.
Peering up from the pages of the book, Vicente watched as his father disappeared to his bedroom and his mother joyously greeted Leon and his friends. Yao was busy pouring glasses of iced lemon tea for them, even though the expression on Leon's face was clearly one that pleaded, "please go away.". Luckily, their mother didn't seem to question the plate of pineapple pastries that had seemingly come out of nowhere.
Again trying to block out the cheery conversation in the living room, Vicente turned his eyes to the book in his hands.
Its cover read English Grammar 101 - Junior High, Second Year. The exercises on each page were completed in Yao's neat handwriting, and a quick check to the answer key told Vicente that he'd gotten nearly every question correct. It was obvious that Yao had been preparing for their leave for Arlingdale that would take place two weeks later.
An explosion of laughter nearly made him drop the book. In the living room, Leon was doubled over with snorts as he retold some sort of funny story to his entranced audience, punctuating his performance with wild, windmilling hand gestures and satirical impressions of the people involved.
Vicente realised with a jolt that they were chatting in flawless English. Their exchanges were lightning-quick, terrifyingly fluent and almost alien to him. And all his prior wishes for Leon to talk to him were shadowed by a horrible realisation - he couldn't want it anymore, not when he could barely speak in English.
Shame rippled through him. Being outdone by his younger brother, his popular, outgoing younger brother, felt humiliating. He felt like he was in school again, standing in front of the class holding a complicated-looking English passage, reading it out too quietly and trembling from head to toe.
If I can't even do well in English speaking in class, how will I talk in it every day?
He turned to the next chapter of exercises in Yao's book. It might as well have been in Arabic, German or any other language he hadn't been painstakingly trying to learn.
Two weeks suddenly seemed to be awfully close.