Chasing Jackfruits
Excerpt from Chapter One
copyright 2005-2006, Zarina N. Docken
Perhaps today he'd find their eyes.
Dakila Dajao stuffed the last of his homework in his bag, content with what he'd done for the night. He'd been working on this book report for the past two weeks, had done as much as he could to make it good, and was ready to turn it in tomorrow morning. Writing book reports had always been a strong point. That and Mathematics, neither of which helped complete his most important project, the one he kept in a special black box.
He got up from the living room floor and headed to his bedroom. The box was in his closet, on the top shelf where he stored most of his old projects. Every project box was labeled save for the black one. For what label could he put on it? It was an unusual project, after all, one he'd been working on for the past three years. One that had no end in sight. He remembered the day he started, shortly after Christmas in '99, when he was just twelve and content in his isolated life, obsessed in a dozen different hobbies, hungry for wisdom that only came with age. But this one, this topped it all. This was the ultimate quest. Dakila grabbed the box and headed back to the living room. He was ready to start.
He opened the box and gathered its contents: pictures of a hundred different faces. Each one had been chosen for a distinct trait: the right nose, the right lips, the right tone of olive skin. None of them, however, were the right pair of eyes. But tonight was another night, a new chance at discovery.
He'd collected a new set of materials. Books. Magazines. Newspapers. Stuff he'd gathered from the second-hand bookstore and the Uni-Mart, the Filipino supermarket on Clark. He flipped open the first magazine. A black-haired teen flaunted a shirt-dress by Yves Saint Laurent. Japanese. She was likely Japanese. Beautiful in her milk-like skin, but she was not the one. Dakila turned to the next page, focusing solely on the eyes this time. He rejected photograph after photograph. Blue. No. Hazel. No. Brown. He paused. Yes. What he sought were brown eyes in a shade so dark that that they were almost the color of the fake leather couch on which he sat.
Dakila took the scissors and cut the picture. He was off to a good start. He continued on to the next pages, skipping over articles, searching only for those eyes.
It was unusually quiet tonight. Even with the windows open, he did not hear cars or people passing by. It sickened him. He hated reminders that he was alone. Had hated them since he was young. Or younger. He supposed to some, at fifteen he was still a child.
He could turn on the television or the radio; those could at least drown the silence. Those might even calm him down. For he always felt nervous when he did his search. Something told him that it was wrong, although he could not imagine why. As far as he could tell, his little project did not hurt anyone. He was a collector, that was all.
He didn't turn on the television or the radio. Instead he continued to search, unwilling to stop. Unable to stop. He cut pictures of those that were close enough. Close enough in that they were the right color. Or the right shape. But none of them had the right depth. None had the right soul. He stuffed them all in the box anyway. Close enough was not his goal, but close enough was progress.
Light beamed through the open windows, and a car engine stopped. It was Maddy, his mother. Dakila checked the time. It was early for Maddy to be home. Was something wrong? Dakila gathered the books and magazines, hid them in his bag, and then took the black box back to his room. When he came out again to greet his mother, his knees weakened, and he reached for the wall to keep from stumbling.
For standing by the door, right beside his mother, was the girl with the pair of eyes he sought.
