Choco Chip Hips

By Agay Llanera

Sixteen-year-old Jessie, a baking aficionado, is shy, overweight, and worries too much about what people think. But one summer, a family emergency makes her realize that life is too short to live it on autopilot. Taking her life by the reins, she embarks on a journey that involves ditching the apron for her tank top, as she hip-hop dances her way to new friendships, stronger family ties, and into her school’s most elite club.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Agay Llanera
• Release date: Jul 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311378811

Agay Llanera

Agay Llanera is a freelance writer for television and video based in Manila, and a published writer of children’s books.Her children’s book Sol is available online, and can also be read at http://www.canvas.ph/about_Sol.htm.Email her at [e-mail].

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Choco Chip Hips

Agay Llanera

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Agay Llanera, 2015

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design for this edition by Gerry Isaac

For Maharlika and Astrid, forever in my heart

Prologue

The stage lit up just as the music began. The dancers whirled around, smiles framed with glossy red-orange lips, eyes heavily outlined, hips swaying right-left-right-left for eight counts. They jumped, arms raised above their heads, landed with right knees bent forward, and did the body wave backward—that exact move my Tito Joey did when mimicking macho dancers, which never failed to crack up my dad.

It used to crack me up too, but I’d watched this grainy, scratchy video for at least a thousand times for the most of my sixteen years. By now, I’d gotten used to the weird things. Like the colorful outfits that were so hip back then. If worn separately, a neon-pink off-shoulder top, a short and flouncy purple skirt edged with lace, and a pair of lime green tights would be forgivable. But worn all at the same time? If someone walked down the street today wearing that same outfit, people would think she escaped from the asylum.

I didn’t notice right away that I was holding my breath. I exhaled slowly through my nose—a calming technique I learned from my best friend Kim, whose mom was a yoga teacher. The video timeline at the bottom of my phone screen was nearing 2:53. Almost time for the magic to happen.

The camera cut to the only dancer in the group with short hair. I showed the video to Kim once, and she made a sound that was somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. I really couldn’t blame her. The dancer had bangs sprayed into stiff spikes at least two inches high. Kim said they looked like detachable deadly weapons that could be aimed at the enemy like poisoned darts. And because I was a good sport, I giggled along with her.

But for me, the porcupine bangs weren’t the most significant part of the dancer’s hair. When the dancer snapped her head to the side, I’d look at the video more closely, my nose nearly touching the screen. Then I would see her hair halfway down the gentle slope of her nape, the ends curling inward, like bottoms of the letter J. And each time, my heart would do a body wave of its own as if it recognized a long-lost friend.

The camera would cut to a wide angle, and the dancer blended back with the group. But to me, she always stood out. I devoured all her tiny details. The way her body looked extra curvy when she jutted out her hip. The way she did that one-two step, her right heel lingering for a fraction of a second on the floor. The way she always tossed her head before transitioning to another series of steps.

Some people drank their glass of warm milk and others counted sheep; but for me, the thing to get me to sleep was to watch this barely four-minute video of my mother taken years before I was born. And after I had turned off my nightstand, I would always wonder how it was possible to miss someone I had no memory off so, so badly.

Chapter 1: Butterscotch

"Smells wow!"

It felt exactly like a bull had rammed into my side, causing my right hip to hit the kitchen sink.

Dad!

Sorry. Dad’s eyes were closed as he sniffed the pot I was stirring. I forget that we can’t fit in here at the same time. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we did.

I turned off the heat and stole a sideways look at him. So . . . time to diet?

He squeezed my shoulder. We could do that. Better yet, we could just expand the kitchen. Much easier.

I shook my head, smiling. Diets were something Dad and I were good at. Correction: starting diets were something we were good at. When the urge to lose weight hit either of us, Dad would go all out with the home-cooked meals—assembling salads and baking and steaming things instead of frying them. But like clockwork, exactly a week later, one of us would cave and order a triple-decker burger or a family-size meaty pizza, ending another one of our short-lived dieting attempts.

So what’s this? Peanut butter squares? Revel bars?

Carefully I added the dry ingredients to the pot and started mixing. Butterscotch.

"Ah. Dad nodded approvingly. A classic." The recipe for butterscotch bars was the very first baking recipe he taught me. I was only eight years old then, blown away by the fact that butterscotch, an entire flavor, was made with just two simple ingredients: butter and brown sugar.

Don’t forget to put in walnuts, he said before slipping out. Save me some.

If there’s gonna be any left! I called out, adding the eggs. I’m meeting Kim later!

After snagging a pack of chopped walnuts from the pantry, I carefully folded them into the batter, which I scraped off into a baking pan. The walnuts dotted the surface like tiny islands.

I carried the tray to my favorite part of the house, the source of all those sweet, delicious smells floating around the house. At this time of day, the baking station was really busy. Aluminum pans clanged, electric mixers whirred, oven alarms went off, and one or two bakers were always belting out to the song playing on the radio.

This area was also the main reason why our kitchen was so tiny. It took up almost the entire first floor with its industrial ovens and cooling racks that nearly reached the ceiling.

I plunked down my tray next to the others waiting for their turn in the oven. I’d become an expert in identifying the gooey messes, which—once baked—they’ll turn into glistening batches of lemon squares, fudge walnut brownies, and caramel bars.

Can this piggyback in the oven? I asked Ate Mila, our senior baker. She smiled her yes, and my eyes flew to her head, where a hairnet peeped out of her white baker’s cap. Oh my G! I totally forgot to wear a hairnet. Dad would go nuts if he found my hair mixed in with the bars. It wasn’t hard to spot the strands of my curly—most times, frizzy—hair.

Coiling my hair up in a bun before sticking a pencil into it, I pushed open the door that led to the adjoining shop and soaked in the sweet air conditioning.

You can’t go wrong with our milk chocolate cake. Dad had his back turned to me, blocking my view of the customer. We’ve patterned it after the Milky Way bar, so it’s really creamy and smooth, with a soft caramel center.

He tapped on the display chiller, pointing to the cake right beside it. "But if you like something less decadent, I suggest our dark chocolate cake made from pure tablea sourced from Davao . . ."

As Dad rattled on, I walked to the other side of the wall and adjusted a framed magazine article on Manila’s top five sweet shops. Earning the third spot, which I highlighted in yellow, was The Baking Spoon. The writer described Dad as an innovative sweet freak, inventing mouthwatering desserts that don’t scrimp on ingredients but are surprisingly affordable.

I can’t decide, the customer whined. Excuse me, miss? What do you think?

I was so surprised that I almost knocked the frame off its center again. I turned and eyed the woman, who looked like she had just snuck out of the office, judging from the figure-hugging pantsuit she had on. Even with light makeup and hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, she looked beautiful. In fact, I could imagine her on an issue of Cosmopolitan, showing how to rock office wear that was both formal yet feminine.

In short, she looked like a dark chocolate girl, who counted calories and dutifully burned them at the gym. She badly needed some flab in her life.

Definitely the milk chocolate cake.

She smiled at me, revealing a row of blindingly white teeth, and then swung back to Dad. Milk chocolate, it is.

Dad gave me a wink. My daughter has good taste.

As he wrapped up the cake, the woman fumbled inside her designer purse. I’m sure it’s delicious. As a rule, I don’t buy from bakers who aren’t fat. I mean, big eaters are great cooks, right?

I sharply drew in my breath, watching Dad. He still had his smile on, though now it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Be careful. I ate the last person who told me I was fat.

The woman doubled over, laughing so hard that I half expected some knee-slapping action. When she finally recovered, she turned to me and gave me the once-over. And I’m sure you’ll grow up to be a great baker like your dad. With cake in hand, she slid through the sliding glass doors, her spicy perfume lingering in the air.

I stood stock-still, unblinking in the wake of the woman’s words, which had sliced through me.

The next thing I knew, Dad had his arm around me. Some people . . . He sighed into my ear. Don’t mind her, Jess.

I felt a lump rising up my throat, threatening to erupt into tears. It took some time to push them down, way down to the bottom of my stomach. I shrugged off Dad’s arm as gently as I could, suddenly disgusted at how soft and doughy he—we—both felt.

It’s okay. I casually strolled toward the door even if the tears were screaming to get out. I even managed to smirk at Dad over my shoulder. Guess it’s time for another diet.

Chapter 2: Cheesecakes

Music was my therapy. Hip-hop music, in particular, which was honest, unapologetic, and in-your-face—all the things I wished I were most of the time. How cool it was that I could bop my head to music that rapped about a lot