CHAPTER 1
YELLOW
Marikit. Filipino. adj. Pretty. Usually attributed to stars, fine ladies, and a small girl with thick, wavy hair, constantly running under the sun in old, remodeled clothes.
Marikit Lakandula was nearly ten and very much certain that shadows didn’t blink. Shadows didn’t have eyes to do so. Shadows only trailed beneath her soles whenever she ran around the dusty, unpaved roads of Barrio Magiting. Yet when she stooped down to survey the sand caught in her rubber slippers, she had to scrub her eyes and pinch her cheeks two times over. It was there. A shadow, swelling with its dim shade, gaping at her with its big, sun-washed yellow eyes before it closed one of its peepers.
She looked around and wondered if the other kids had seen it. Sixteen heads with the scent of the sun and sticky air bobbed in front of her, and twenty-four more behind her occasionally rose on their tiptoes and mumbled, “Is it open yet?” All of them had been standing in front of a yellow gate that reflected the scorching heat of the cloudless April afternoon. The sun had smothered itself on the tall coconut trees and made shadows of the many leaves, filling the dusty path with many shades of black, under which they took refuge.
“It must be the leaves.” Marikit slouched down to look closely at the shadows, blacks upon blacks, swaying at the movement of the wind. The only other reason she could think of was that she was Na-engkanto. Enchanted. Spell-casted. Made an unknown spirit angry, and for that she was cursed.
The crowd of yellow-wearing kids let out a scream, and she jolted back—did they see it? But Marikit, upon looking up, only saw two people coming through the yellow gate, carrying a many-tiered yellow cake, passing under a large, yellow banner, on which was written, “Welcome to Jana’s Superfabulously Splendid 10th Birthday Party.”
“Come inside, children, one by one, and don’t push,” ordered a lady with shoulder-length permed hair and a yellow gingham dress, waving her manicured hands as she bid the young guests in. One by one, the busy, buzzy crowd followed, stepping over the threshold as the woman examined them before giving them a yellow party hat. Not all came through. Many times, she stopped a child, pushed them back, and turned them away.
“Not enough yellow,” Mrs. Solomon told a girl with tiny yellow rings on her bright pink dress. “Not yellow enough,” Mrs. Solomon told a boy who wore a shirt with thin beige stripes. The celebrant’s mother was very particular about the yellow on the garment, and the closer Marikit got to the gate, the more she forgot about the shadow.
What she feared now was to be found out that her dress wasn’t yellow.
If one observed closely, Marikit’s party dress used to be white. The A-line frock was a hand-me-down from her mother, with a Peter Pan collar, droopy lace sleeves, and a fake pearl button. It used to be pretty.
That was what Marikit’s name meant. Pretty.
But like people, things grew old. They shriveled and sulked and cracked their bones and lost their glow. Marikit’s dress did. Rust and moth-dusts had clung to its skirt; spatters of yellow stains sloshed all across its corners. How unfortunate that Marikit had no other yellow clothes!
And so, when it was her turn, Marikit closed her eyes and stepped forward, nervously awaiting her judgment.
“Come in,” Mrs. Solomon said sharply.
Marikit couldn’t believe her ears. “Ma’am?”
She opened her eyes. Mrs. Solomon, instead of surveying Marikit from head to toe, was more preoccupied with her own bright-yellow manicure with French tips, whining about one of her nails chipping. The lady took a quick glance at Marikit, turned her head away, and by the grace of Bathala, only beckoned, “Next!”
Without a second thought, Marikit skipped happily through the gate.
* * *
Jana Solomon’s Superfabulously Splendid Tenth Birthday Party was almost entirely yellow. The Solomons’ sprawling garage was decorated with big, yellow balloons that hovered behind yellow-ribboned chairs set around yellow gingham–covered tables, each of them hiding yellow bags that served as party favors. The center table featured a three-tiered birthday cake enveloped in buttercream and drizzled with golden confetti. Beside it was a mouth-watering lechon that had a golden apple underneath its snout. There was a glass barrel of mango juice with real mango bits, a large platter of pancit, different kinds of yellow puto topped with cheese, overflowing spaghetti, two tubs of mango ice cream, and hot dogs on sticks embellished with yellow marshmallows.
Marikit sat at the end of the celebrant’s table, where a wobbly little stool was left empty. Her seatmates, unfortunately, were sharp-eyed, gossipy little guests who took pride in their Actually Yellow outfits: yellow blouses with gold buttons and sequined pockets, tulle skirts with glitters, and yellow corduroy pinafores paired with preppy yellow shirts. Sharp little eyes made it obvious that Marikit didn’t deserve her spot.
Ah, poor Marikit! She felt more out of place when the girls pushed their chairs together, far away from her, leaving her outstanding in her pale, discolored dress.
They’re laughing at me, Marikit thought.
And she was right.
* * *
Text copyright © 2022 by Caris Avendaño Cruz
Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Alexis Young
