“Mano Po, Lola Marcy,” Krieger said, bending forward and placing his grandmother’s hand on his forehead, then straightened and gave the woman a hug. “Sira Rell, this is my father’s mother, Marcy Littleton most respected of the balyan of the Kalagan people in Missouri.”
“Mano Po, Lola Marcy,” Sira said, doing as she had practiced with Krieger, whom she knew felt silly playing the part of a respected elder.
“Well, this is the first time he has brought his girlfriend to properly greet me.”
“Lola,” Krieger sighed. “She is my first girlfriend and be nice, Lola.”
“How is this your first girlfriend, ever? You’re not gay,” Marcy’s brother, Al, who was very much gay, asked.
“Behave,” Greg Richter, Al’s husband, laughed. “You look positively wrecked, my boy. Sit down before you fall down,” he said, shoving the boy and his green girlfriend into the folding rocker, and handed him Al’s beer.
Marcy considered the pair and handed them Al’s plate too. Al understood the mission: go fetch more plates, and maybe Krieger’s parents.
“Thank you,” Krieger said, handing a lumpia to Sira. He thought he got a look of approval from his lola, but with her you never could tell. She was as likely to hug as she was to smack you in the back of the head with a slipper for some slight you didn’t even know you had made. He took a siopao and wished he hadn’t; someone’s Thai wife had made these. “We just came from the neural interface language training.”
“He did really well. I can last only about an hour; he did over two,” Sira said with pride. She took the beer and drank, then passed it on. He had explained the rules of tagay to her as well.
“This is my Tita Mae Mae,” Krieger said, knowing that until last month, it had been Tita Ellie Mae, but then her husband, a Marmaduke of questionable humor according to her, named their baby boy Jethro. Krieger still hadn’t been able to track down the reference, and she wouldn’t say. Maybe if Lola Marcy got enough gin in her, she might provide the answer. “She is Dad’s youngest sister.”
“Mom,” Krieger said, starting to stand.
“Sit, no one except Alice is sober enough to drive you to the clinic if you fall and smash your face.”
“Can I drive them back to the camp and stay the night?
“No,” everyone who had seen the twelve-year-old girl on the go-kart track said in unison.
“I will be fine if that is the only plate of food Al is bringing; otherwise, I might be in a food coma before dark and have to sleep on the couch since you gave away my bed.”
“The couch is taken, too,” Alice said, having wanted to give up her bed for the couch in front of the big screen.
“Where are the other V’ren?” Krieger asked, forming a small rice mound and stuffing kinilaw in it before stuffing it in Sira’s mouth. “This place seems a little empty. What’s up?” he asked the Kalagan elders, who would tell him to shut up if he was treading into private matters.
“Ernie and Carter took the kids to the pool,” TJ said as both father and datu showed the V’ren girl how to eat kamayan-style.
“And your poor sister had to stay behind and help the revered elders make food instead of making friends.”
“You mean making out with that helpless V’ren boy,” Krieger laughed.
“We have seen the pictures in the socials,” Sira said, laughing at the expression on the girl’s face, and accepted the beer passed to her.
“You have phones now?” Alice asked, very much wanting to talk to more cute boys.
“I have his,” she said, pulling it out, holding it out for face recognition, and getting a selfie of the two of them, before scrolling through the pictures like she had been doing this her entire teenage life.
“The first twenty thousand arrived this afternoon,” TJ said, glad not to be on the flight schedule. Sundays were too important for his people and family. He would have done it, had Matt asked, but Matt too was Lumad so would not.
