There Will Come a Time Read Free Page B

didn’t speak Tagalog much. The aunties said I’d regret it when I gotolder, but I figured I’d regret lots of things by then, so add it to the list.
    But music is the perfect language because everyone can speak it. It’s not hindered by words. There’s no room for misinterpretation. There’s only the essence, the emotion of what we communicate to each other. Take sadness or anger or even joy. We try to explain how we feel, but there aren’t always the right words, or the words we have fail. But with music, you can hear a piece and say, Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly how I feel . Especially jazz. I love how it can make you feel really laid-back or even sad, but not feel despair.
    Today the music I’m playing is all minor chords.
    I sense someone in front of me and open my eyes. Jenny smiles at me.
    â€œWhat?” I say loudly before remembering to take off my headphones. “Sorry, Jenny.” I put the bass down next to its amp beside my bed.
    â€œNo problem. You hungry?”
    â€œYeah.”
    She hands me a fork and a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.
    â€œIt’s cold,” I say, but eat it anyway.
    â€œIt’s almost noon.” Translation: Get your butt downstairs earlier for breakfast . “You up late?” she asks, watching me eat,leaning against my desk with her arms crossed in front of her. She’s still got on her workout clothes—black leggings and a gray T-shirt—so it’s probably been a slow morning. Jenny’s in great shape, and works hard for it five mornings a week at the gym.
    â€œYeah,” I say with my mouth full of bread.
    â€œMmm-hmm.” She reaches out and touches my shirt. “Sleep in your clothes again? Didn’t I buy you new pj’s a week ago?”
    She waits for me to answer, but I put some more food in my mouth. Jenny’s not stupid. She cuts through the bull, but she’s got a gentle touch. There’s not much you can pull over her. I like that about her. You know exactly where you stand. This morning she’s hovering between I’m going to speak to your father and You can talk to me. I’m here for you .
    â€œYour dad left early. Someone called from the store.”
    Dad works as a district manager for a chain of department stores. He’s always being called into work. It’s cool because I get free clothes all the time. But it keeps him pretty busy, especially the past few months.
    â€œHe’d like us to have dinner together. You have plans?”
    â€œI was going to hang with Sebastian later. Maybe get some practice in.”
    â€œI’m making chicken piccata.”
    â€œOkay, yeah, that sounds good.” Jenny’s best dishes are alwaysItalian, probably because that’s her background. She’s got tons of secret family recipes that she and her sisters fight over.
    The first year Jenny lived with us, she tried to cook Filipino food, which Dad thought was cute. Grace reminded her each time that we didn’t just eat Filipino food, which was true, but it was our comfort food.
    Jenny started with adobo . Now, everyone knows that each family makes adobo differently, some with chicken, some with pork, some more dry. Jenny found a recipe that called for coconut milk. Mom never used coconut milk. I know she was trying to please us, but yeah, it didn’t come out right.
    I will say, Mom makes a perfect adobo , better than the aunties’, though I’d never tell them that. Sometimes I’ll order it at a restaurant. It’s never the same. I explained it once to Jenny: adobo ’s like Italians and their pasta sauce. She stopped trying after that. The aunties taught her how to make awesome lumpia , though, and she’ll make that every now and then.
    â€œGood. Dinner’s at six p.m.,” Jenny says.
    We’re discussing food, but we’re not talking food. Jenny’s subtext is, We’re worried about you. We