Psalm 22

Chapter 10

“WHAT’S UP, FRANCESS?” asked Henrich as he stood beside me. We are in the kitchen and I just finished baking. 

“You want some peanut butter cookies?” I said as I took out the pan from the oven. 

“A baker,” he commented as he picked up one only to put it down because it was still hot. “Looks delish.” He watched me set aside the cookies on a plate.

“`Took me a long time to perfect this.” 

I was craving for something sweet this morning. Took it out of my mind but by noon I couldn’t help myself but remember the ‘a las tres things’ that goes on in our household. My mother would always cook or bake something sweet for me and my cousins when we were still a bunch of harmless, little pricks. She would order my father to buy soft drinks for everyone. When all are set, we would gather around the living room to watch a movie. 

When I decided to live separately from my parents, I asked my mother for her bomb recipes. She was never the type to write it down so we’d do it over a video call where she’d see me make a mess. Remember the two chicas I was living with? For a while I was the designated cook in our house. For a short period of time I enjoyed learning different recipes from mom or from the Internet. But then I noticed I’d do all the work once we’re done eating. The two girls would slowly crawl back to their own confinements while making small talk, saying s**t like the dinner was great, the dish was delicious, hearing it made me happy so I would be fine cleaning up every time I’d cook. Not only that, they would rely on me to buy everything in the grocery when they ask me to cook for us three. 

But this time, I’m making my mother’s cookies for the people I truly vibe with. If they want another batch then sure, I’ll make another one. Just don’t disappear while I’m making them, it gets really boring in the kitchen. I’m pretty sure I nailed this batch of cookies. Thank God for passed down through the generation kinda recipes.

“The scent of your chewy cookies would bring about the whole block,” Henrich commented as he tried to downplay the burning sensation from his first bite. 

“I accept orders,” I joked.

“Hey, it’s good,” Henrich said as he took another bite. 

“Hmm.” I took one from the plate and blew it before biting into the peanut butter delight.

“I smell cookies!” someone exclaimed from the door. It was Anaé who quickly grabbed one from the plate, followed by the others who joined us.

When every piece of cookie was consumed, we all stayed in the kitchen and others began cooking for everyone. Some made drinks, hot and cold. It’s a good thing the kitchen was big and could house a group. I like that everyone is talking over someone but not in a rude way, it’s just the way people exchange stories in a kitchen, you know? You could stand during the whole conversation and not complain about it. 

Pindet was there and he stood beside me. “I heard CJ wants you inside the studio.”

“I heard that, too, but I declined.” I wasn’t comfortable talking about it. It’s not really me, you know? I’m not a songwriter. Their experiences compared to mine are embarrassing. I don’t want to go there half-assing everyone about my so-called ‘experience’ or ‘knowledge’. 

“Maybe one of these days you could show someone your work,” he added.

“I don’t know, man. I should concentrate on creating the book but so far, nothing’s really happening. We’ve narrowed down the history of everyone and paths that were carefully chosen. Right now, Anaé and I can’t write more than what we know. I religiously write about my day here so that I won’t miss a thing. And so far, all we’ve done is eat and drink and eat,” I said.

“That’s why being inside the studio won’t hurt,” Pindet insisted. “Right, Henrich?” He even asked for someone’s help to back him up.

“If you want a story,” Henrich was talking to her. “Don’t limit yourself. I know your process. You interview everyone. You don’t want to hinder us by visiting during rehearsals, brainstorming, or just purely lazing around. I get that. We want you to write every thought process, the details that solidified a song. We want you there and tell the audience that this is what happened before x song was created. It will be fun.”

I nodded. “Do I still have to show my work?” 

“The lyrics? ‘Course, babe,” said Henrich. 

I tried to get his walls down by staring at him long and hard when I heard him address me ‘babe’. The gall of this six footer to call me that. The way the word rolled in his tongue sent chills down my spine.

“Not right away, at your own pace. But the sooner, the better,” he continued.

“I understand,” I began. “I need to be brave again, I guess. I let myself forget that I loved songwriting. But what if I can’t bring about the end of the dry spell you, guys, are having inside the studio? What if you laugh at the way I construct phrases? Most of what I wrote stemmed from the dark days of my teenage years. Super cringy now that I think about it. So, what I can do tonight is look over the files and edit it. Who knows? I can get inspiration for the novel that I’m writing. Oh, it’s about you, Pindet.” I winked at him.

He was confused by what I said.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t explicitly write that it’s you. But I based my character on you,” I explained.

“But why me?” He looked surprised. 

“Why not? You helped others rise in this industry because you’re built like that. It’s an innate characteristic of you. Why you built like that, though, hmm?” I teased.

“You talk like an influencer,” he countered. 

I faked my disbelief.

“Seriously, Iska? That’s your thoughts on me?” he asked as if he couldn't believe what he heard.

I shook my head up and down. “Yes, seriously.”

“I can’t wait to read this novel of yours.” Pindet smiled.

“I don’t want to sound jealous,” Henrich cut in. “But aren’t we all subject to your inspiration? Maybe in the near future you could write about me as well as your male lead. I prefer to be the antagonist, put that on your notes.”

I rolled my eyes. “And then what? The six footer couldn’t be bothered. He’s tall, he’s manly. I can’t think of anything else to put.”

Henrich’s eyes twinkled. “Tall, manly, six footer? Miss Writer, a little bit more then I’m inclined to think that somehow you are attracted to me.”

“Attracted to your warcries,” I countered. 

“Oh?” was his and Pindet’s reaction.

“Battle cry. Rallying call. You’re a man of substance. You fight for the people, not just for your benefit,” I explained.

Both men smiled at her and didn’t make a comment.

“What?” I asked in disgust.

“Relax, we’re teasing,” said Henrich as he tapped my shoulder.