2  

eight years ago

Somebody’s heart kept my sister from seeing me. It was a massive thing after

all, made of red construction paper and trimmed with shiny ribbon. It dwarfed any

other card I had seen that Valentine’s Day, but it was left ignored by the door of

Isabella’s homeroom class, a wounded warrior that had gone all out and still failed to

score a knockout against its intended recipient. High school was teaching me to be

grateful for life’s little defeats, because that sorry heart provided good cover while I

sat on a bench and waited for my older sister.

No spying. That was one of the rules Manang Isabella and I had come up with

even before I started in the same high school she did. We giggled our way through

most of the list while we were making it (which was filled with gems like Sisters hide

sisters’ bad grades and No textmates, no eyeballs, no unwanted murders), but I knew

Manang Isabella was dead serious on every count.

But I wasn’t there to spy on my older sister, I reminded myself. It was just that

I had to wait for her so we could go home together, and she didn’t seem in any

particular hurry to leave today of all days. I was just waiting outside her homeroom,

cross-legged on the ground and preoccupied by a new bracelet project that I was

hoping to give to my best friend. If she happened to talk a little louder than usual or

mention someone’s name a little too often, then it was all her fault. I was a fly on the

wall, hidden by a giant heart.

“Good, you’re still here,” I heard a voice say, a little out of breath. I turned to

see Paolo Atienza jogging up the steps of the main hall, a small white box in his

hands.

For a moment, I entertained the wild thought that St. Gregory’s golden boy

was coming to confess his undying love for me. A sophomore fly on the wall. On

Valentine’s Day. Even sweat made him look handsome. “Me?” I squeaked.

  3  

“Yeah. Your sister hasn’t come out yet, right?” he asked.

Ah. That explained things. My cheeks felt warm, some biological reaction

caused by embarrassment or disappointment though, I belatedly told myself, I didn’t

really care about Paolo Atienza as much as I did about Orlando Bloom. We barely

spoke ten words to each other on campus, although he didn’t seem to have a

problem talking to me whenever I answered the phone on Isabella’s behalf. He had a

nice voice, sounding as if he was genuinely happy to talk to whoever picked up the

phone. But of course he was looking for my sister.

This was something I knew from the beginning: In small towns with small

schools, honor students ruled. Not the mean girls from the Hollywood movies or the

jocks from high school musicals. At least, not quite. Because in small towns with

small schools, the honor students were also the mean girls and the jocks, the band

geeks and the teachers’ pets.

Paolo and Isabella were the perfect students. They were both seniors and

bound for the big city. They always managed to be 1 and 2 on the class standings

(my sister had the lead at the moment). They both had their extra-curriculars: Paolo

was editor-in-chief of the paper while my sister was president of the student council.

They had their names bannered across the school gate because of one

accomplishment after the other. 1st Place, Regional Extemporaneous Speaking

Contest. 8th Place, National Science Fair. Most Valuable Player, Inter-Division

Basketball League. Paolo and Isa were the type of kids who ate pressure for breakfast

and shat glory for the school.

I was nowhere near their league.

“There was a regional debate at the capitol,” he explained, coming to lean

against the wall behind me. “Who arranges these things on Valentines, anyway? I

thought I was for sure going to miss Isabella.”

I shook my head. “She’s still in the classroom.” I paused. I was a bit unsure if I

was expected to reply further now that I had done my informant’s duty, but I forged

on. “Uh, did you win?”

Paolo looked rueful. “We got decimated in the finals.”

“Congratulations though,” I told him.

  4  

He laughed, a little derisively. “We lost.”

“You made it to the finals. That counts.”

Paolo turned to me with a thoughtful smile. “You know what? Yeah, it does.”

We stayed there in silence. I was itching to get back to my work so I finally

repeated myself, “Manang Isa’s still in the classroom.”

Paolo leaned forward, craning his neck to look past the giant heart and peer

inside. Even if I had told myself that I wouldn’t spy on Isa, I couldn’t help but peek,

too. I saw her sitting on her desk while some guy was sitting on her chair with a

guitar. Beside her was a paper bag stuffed with roses and chocolates. A bunch of her

friends were gathered around them, laughing and giggling as the guy tried to sing

about wonderlands as well as John Mayer did.

“Naaah,” Paolo said, leaning back against the wall. “Caloy’s there. I think I

am a little too late.” His tone sounded light, but my eyes were level with his hands,

which were clutching the box tightly.

“Was that supposed to be for her?” I asked shyly. “I could give it to her.”

Paolo shook his head. “I should be the one to give it. Well, if I still felt like

giving it.” He looked at the box, shaking his head in amusement. “Four hundred

pesos from my measly allowance, and I asked a cousin to buy it for me from Manila.

Sheesh. Now I feel stupid.”

“You’re only stupid if you throw that away,” I began, about to remind him that

Isa wouldn’t turn him (and four hundred pesos’ worth of chocolates) down when he

started opening the box. “What are you doing?”

“Eating my allowance,” he said. “You want some?”

Here was his heart, semi-sweet and about to melt. The chocolates were fancier

than anything he could have gotten here in Correa. A dozen chocolate balls sat in

brown and gold cups, each a different flavor. One looked dusted with chocolate dust.

Another shaped like it could have almonds or macadamias inside. I picked the

nearest one, which oozed strawberry liqueur when I bit into it.

“Sorry, you were doing something,” Paolo said politely, as we were already

halfway through the box.

  5  

I shook my head. “Just a little bracelet for my friend’s birthday next week. I

was just killing time waiting for Manang. Chocolates help pass the time.”

“What, no manliligaw to pass the time with you?” he teased.

I tried to laugh and look cool but inside I was cringing. Isabella had the lock on

the suitors. I was the shy girl from Section 2: smart enough, pleasant enough,

ordinary enough. No manliligaws for me. “No Valentines chocolates either,” I

replied, hoping I sounded nonchalant. I didn’t know where my confidence was

coming from. I guess Paolo was one of those people who make conversations seem

effortless and easy.

“You know, I didn’t think you liked me much,” he admitted. “Your manang

says you always have your head in the clouds, and you don’t always seem to want to

talk to me.”

“She said that?” I dropped my eyes to my bracelet and started playing with it

idly. I wished I could tell him how much I resented that remark. People around me

said it often enough—Isa, my parents, my Auntie Salve, even my best friend Nicole.

“I’m just shy.”

“Hey.” Paolo said, making me look up at him. “You don’t need to explain. I

was just worried that maybe you didn’t like me or something.”

I reached for another chocolate. It felt so cheesy to respond with “I like you,”

so I just shook my head and pretended to chew. Awkward technique, but effective

sometimes.

“I could just give these to you, but it doesn’t seem right to give any girl her

sister’s leftovers. Oh wait!” He frowned then dug into his pants. He pulled out two

pieces of mint candy. “It’s got chocolate inside,” he explained with a grin. “Happy

Valentine’s Day.”

I held out my hand and he dropped them onto my palm. From four hundred

peso chocolates to candies less than two pesos, but I didn’t care. It was the first

Valentine’s anything that I had gotten from a boy who wasn’t related to me.

“Thanks, uh, Nong Paolo,” I said, adding the honorific because that was what every

underclassman in our school called the upperclassmen, as if we were all part of one

family.

  6  

Paolo grimaced as if he didn’t like it, but he didn’t correct me either. He

handed me the box instead. “Here, one for the road. I think I’ll take off after this,” he

told me. “Pick a good one.”

I shook my head and held one candy up in the air. “No, thanks. I’ve got this.”

He grinned. “Best one of all.” He started jogging backwards. “See you around,

Sandy. And don’t tell your sister I was here.”

Nope. Not on my life. Here was my heart, I thought, minty-cool and easily

given away. But as I watched him disappear down the stairwell, I vowed that this

moment was something I was going to keep for myself.

The next day, Isa came home with a bunch of silver and red balloons from

Paolo. No chocolates, I noted. The following day, I helped her bring home a huge

teddy bear from Caloy that was even bigger than our aunt’s dog. It became a bit of a

pissing contest, actually, and I tried to rally to Paolo’s side because he won points for

doing the one thing that my sister’s other manliligaws forgot — woo the rest of the

family — and he did it with a lot of sincerity.

A week after, she announced that she had a new boyfriend. When Caloy with

the guitar started showing up at our house, Paolo with the nice voice stopped calling.

But it wasn’t Caloy with the guitar who greeted my parents and patted my little

brother Julius’ head whenever we ran into him at church. It wasn’t Caloy who

dropped by to say goodbye before going to college in Manila. And it wasn’t Caloy

who texted me at one in the morning the night that we lost Mama.

  7  

Chapter One

Nobody bothered the dead. Well, unless they were necromancers on a Good

Friday quest or grave robbers desperate for something to pillage and sell. But for the

most part people left the dead in peace. It was enough for me to envy Mama

sometimes. Sometimes.

No, I wasn’t suicidal. This was just a curious little what-if that cropped up

whenever I felt overwhelmed, which was often. I’d entertain the idea briefly, then I

would end up feeling incredibly guilty and blasphemous so I tried to squash such

thoughts whenever they threatened to emerge.

Take today. I was already in a hurry to leave school because I had to pick up

the chocolate cake, arrange for my sister’s ride, and head home for last-minute preps.

But my route from the faculty room to the main gate was filled with countless

obstacles. One minute it was the mother of my fourth-grade class

president/overachiever, the next it was the art teacher worried that my diorama

project was enticing some students to bring home some art supplies. I was sure I

looked properly offended and outraged at his insinuation, enough for him to back

down with an apologetic mumble.

I was—finally—clearing my desk when the school registrar’s secretary, whose

office was near the main entrance, knocked on the faculty door. “Your brother is

here,” Mrs. Ruiz announced, looking straight at me.

“He is?” I asked surprised. Julius was a sophomore at the regional science high

school, which was located at a different part of town. I remembered belatedly that I

had asked him to drop by so we could run our final errands together. Manang Isa

was due to arrive in four hours. I reached for my phone, but it wasn’t on my desk. I

realized that I had left it inside my bag and hastily retrieved it. Three missed calls

and two messages. I could tell he wasn’t pleased that I was late. “Is he at the gate?”

  8  

My question was answered by a muffled voice. “I’m right here.” Julius stepped

into view and I gasped.

He looked like someone’s makeup project gone wrong. His face was a mess of

colors. There was a cut on his lip and a yellowing bruise just below his right eye.

There were splatters of dried blood on his shirt. A step behind him was his best friend

Uno, who looked just as bad. “What happened?” I demanded.

Uno looked sheepish. “Nothing serious. Just a little—” he cleared his throat,

“—scuffle.”

“Julius…” I said threateningly, though my heart was breaking at the sight of

my little brother in that condition.

It hadn’t always been like this. Julius was a tall, quiet boy, a year younger than

most of his classmates. He wasn’t the type to get into fights or arguments, though

recently I had begun hearing hints that things weren’t all that peachy. When things

involved my baby brother, spying was always an option.

“Some of the Section 4 kids weren’t too happy that Julius remembered seeing a

bunch of them when they cut classes last week,” Uno supplied.

“The teacher asked me and I didn’t lie,” Julius told me, unblinking.

I bit my lip to hold myself back but I was shaking with fury. I had always

taught him to tell the truth. But high school came with so many different rules and

nuanced scenarios that it was hard to get it all down for him. “And they came at

you?”

“Some of them were suspended so they were a bit pissed,” he said. “It was

nothing. Just pushing and shoving.”

“And probably a fist to the face!” I added. “Look at you! Who were those

students? Did anyone tell the teachers?”

Julius exchanged looks with Uno, who shrugged. “Well, lesson learned,” my

brother said wryly. “Let it go, Nang. It’s okay.”

I was still angry. “I really ought to talk to your teachers. I know some of them;

I bet if you reported it—”

“Manang. Let’s drop it. You’ll just make things worse,” he told me. He jerked

his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I would’ve cleaned myself up more before

  9  

coming here but you were in a hurry so…” His voice trailed off, as if the subject were

closed. “You are still in a hurry, right?”

How did he seem so wise and so innocent at the same time? To me, he would

always be my parents’ miracle baby, born ten years after me. I remember him trailing

after Mama when she arrived from school or playing on his xylophone after dinner

or showing off his knowledge of multiplication tables at five. He used to sneak into

my bed after Mama had gone, crying for a bedtime story because Papa didn’t know

how to tell him one and Manang Isa had already left for Manila. In many ways, I felt

that I had raised him and I felt this incredible guilt that I had somehow failed to

equip him for this part of his life.

“Yes,” I finally said. I took a deep breath and grabbed my bag. I tried to sound

professional. “All right, bakeshop first to pick up the cake. Uno, are you coming with

us?”

“It’s okay, Nang Sandy, I’m going to head home,” he replied as the three of us

walked to the lobby. The registrar’s secretary gave me a concerned nod as we left. As

we approached the gate, Uno turned to Julius and said, “See you tomorrow, ‘pod.”

So that left Julius and me. I didn’t want to start our afternoon together with a

lecture so I let my mind wander to other things. It was an unusually warm

September afternoon. Orange birds-of-paradise sprang up in wild clutches beside the

road. The day had sweated itself over us, but the humid air slowly cooled as the sun

dipped towards the horizon. The trees cast long shadows over Julius and me, as well

as over the thin brown cow that refused to give us right-of-way. We had to step

around him (and the little spot of the road that he had clearly marked). Usually the

road would be lined with tricycles and cars picking students up, but since it was late,

the road was left to stragglers like us.

I just hoped everything was perfect for Isabella. She deserved a nice, relaxing

vacation. She didn’t come home often even if Singapore was just a mere three and a

half hours away by plane. Ever since she had left two years ago, she had only been

home once. I could sense from her occasional Skype calls and emails that they were

working her to the bone. I didn’t want to add to her stress.

  10  

Papa rode a motorcycle. We used to have a car but after Mama passed away he

said it didn’t feel right to go to places without her so we ended up selling it. Picking

Manang Isa up on the motorcycle was out of the question.

I was flipping through my phonebook when I heard a soft beep. Julius and I

turned around to see Paolo Atienza waving from behind the wheel of a silver

Toyota, looking every bit as handsome as he had back in high school. His smile was

an invitation I had to RSVP right away. “You done for the day?” he called out.

“Yeah,” I nodded. Over the years, we had kept the light friendship we’ve

established since high school, running into each other at parties, commenting on

each other’s messages, sending an occasional text. “What brings you here?” St.

Gregory’s wasn’t exactly in the downtown area. It was located in an inner

neighborhood of narrow roads and cockpits and overgrown fields.

“Just came from an ocular,” Paolo replied. “They want to build a new home ec

wing and they asked our firm to do it. My uncle’s still talking to the principal and

Mr. Lacsamana back there.” He patted the back of passenger seat. “C’mon, I’ll give

you guys a ride.” He nodded to my brother with that easy manner of his, not calling

attention to my brother’s disheveled appearance. “Hi, Julius.”

We approached his car. Julius chose the backseat, leaving me to sit up front

with Paolo. He laughed as I got in. “You really ought to pay more attention, Sandy.

I could have run you down.”

“Except that you wouldn’t,” I retorted, buckling myself.

“So home?” he asked as we drove off.

“Actually, I was going to ask if you could drop us off at Susie’s Bakeshop. I

was going to pick up a chocolate cake,” I told him. “Manang Isabella’s. She’s

coming home today.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” Paolo replied. He glanced at me then laughed. “Don’t

look so surprised. Isabella called me and told me she was arriving. I’m actually on

my way to pick her up.”

  11  

Chapter Two

It figures. Figures that they kept touch. Figures that he would offer to pick her up. They

would still make such a perfect pair anyway. I studied his profile as we drove to the

airport. He had a light dimple on his right cheek, which deepened whenever he

smiled. His hair was cropped close to his head but instead of making him look

menacing, it balanced out his younger-looking features. At twenty-five, he was the

youngest architect at his uncle’s firm. When I had asked him about it, he said he was

just lucky that he had someone to mentor and endorse him before he took on his

licensure exams, brushing it off as if it weren’t such a big deal. (It was.)

He was just Paolo now, never Nong Paolo. He insisted after his graduation,

during that awful summer when I had lost my mother to an aneurysm and my older

sister to Manila. Now he was regaling me with his impression of Mr. Lacsamana, the

school engineer and Work Education teacher who had been there even before

Paolo’s time.

“You’re mean,” I told him, trying not to giggle.

He scowled like a little boy. “You’re the only person who tells me that.”

“I can’t help it if I’m the only one who’s honest with you.”

“Now who’s being mean?”

One thing that I regretted was that the drive to the airport was going to be a

short one. Our house sat on the highway leading up to it, just a short two kilometers

away. Julius had decided to stay home and get cleaned up before Papa and Isabella

could see him, so it was just Paolo and me.

The provincial road ran west to east and cut through Correa, dividing our small

town in half. The southern side was filled with rows of rice fields that eventually gave

way to swamplands and seashores that faced the bay. The north side, where our

house was located, was filled with even more rows of rice fields that surrounded the

provincial airport. Around our fence, a wild clutch of bougainvillea vines bloomed

  12  

magenta and white flowers all-year round, clamoring for attention. I loved that there

were no tall buildings around to block my view. From my bedroom window, I would

look out to a sea of green that turned heavy with gold tips at least twice a year. My

line of sight would only be broken by the occasional cluster of mango trees and

coconuts allowed to spring up in the middle of the fields, hiding a handful of farmers’

homes. And then much deeper back, a solemn grove of trees stood guard.

But my favorite part of Correa was the small dirt access road that traced the

boundaries of the airport property. They were separated only by a chain-link fence,

which were hung with faded ‘No Trespassing’ and ‘Danger’ signs, though I didn’t

know anyone who had ever been arrested just for standing by that fence to watch

planes take off and land. Sometimes I would get my bike and just head there to

think. It always gave me that peace of the dead that I craved, a chance to daydream

about my day or mull over a new project. I had been feeling more and more antsy

lately, wanting more time to myself and getting none. I was hoping that I could ask

Papa about turning our old rice storage building into my own place. Maybe then I

would feel a little less constricted and I’d find fewer reasons to drive out to the access

road.

If I had been driving, I definitely wouldn’t mind going around that dirt road

first before heading to the airport’s arrival area. But I wasn’t behind the wheel; Paolo

was. He was from downtown so he probably didn’t even know that little road. And

since he had already been kind enough to chauffeur Julius and me around as we got

things ready for Manang Isa, even helping me prepare dinner. I didn’t think it was a

good idea to ask him for any more favors.

Paolo turned to the airport road and we were greeted with large billboards,

ticketing offices, busy restaurants, and souvenir shops. A few of the airport porters

turned to look at us as we drove past, probably hoping that we were passengers who

would need help carrying a balikbayan box or two. Some of them I recognized; they

were neighbors and friendly faces from Correa. But I shook my head with regret and

they went on their way, peering past us and into the next vehicles.

The exchange didn’t go unnoticed. “They know you,” Paul mentioned,

sounding surprised.

  13  

“Some of them,” I acknowledged cautiously.

“Are you here often?” he asked.

I rode past the airport every time I went to the access road nearly every day. “I

guess you could say that,” I replied, but volunteering no other information.

We found a parking slot by the edge of the small lot. “Sandy…” he began, then

paused. He killed the engine but didn’t make a move to step out so I didn’t either. “If

you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Julius?”

I sighed. “You don’t know half of it, Paolo. He’s been getting into all sorts of

fights lately. Sometimes I feel that he’s too young to be in high school. The kids pick

on him. I know his know-it-all attitude can’t be a good thing sometimes, but he

refuses to let me help.”

“I know you care about him, but maybe having his older sister meddling in his

affairs isn’t going to help him any,” Paolo advised me.

“Am I just going to sit by and not do anything? I can’t afford to transfer him to

St. Gregory’s,” I fretted. “The regional science high school is still the best place for

him, especially with our finances.” Papa built and rented out spaces for small

businesses downtown, but since the past year, rent hadn’t been coming in as steadily

as before. He was close to retiring, too, and I wasn’t sure how long our savings

would hold up if Julius studied in a private school.

“Look, I can talk to him,” Paolo offered. “I mean, I’m not going to have the

urge to run to his school and beat up his bullies, so maybe he’d open up to me. I still

know what it’s like to be a teenager.”

I made a face. “Oh, and I don’t?”

He laughed. “You think everything should be sunny and rosy and when things

don’t go your way, you get this look on your face that guilt-trips the rest of us. No,

but seriously, Sandy, I think Julius just needs an older guy to talk to.”

“Thanks, Paolo,” I said softly. We didn’t have a lot of male relatives, especially

not a lot who were Julius’ age. He was so much younger than us that he belonged to

a whole different generation. He had a few nephews who were a few years older but

they weren’t close, and I knew he wasn’t going to talk to Papa about this. “You’ll

stay for dinner?”

  14  

“Are you cooking?”

“Yes, I’m using Mama and Manang Isa’s recipes,” I told him.

“If you promise not to poison me…” We laughed. “Seriously, I’m just glad to

help. I worry about him, too.” Then Paolo checked his phone. “Hey, Isabella said

they boarded about ten minutes behind schedule so we have time to kill. I bet it’ll

take her even longer to get her bags.”

I grinned. “I can’t believe you have her number.”

“It’s her Singapore number. I took a trip there last year and got in touch with

her. But mostly we just email and video call. She complains that you guys don’t use

technology much,” he teased me. “If you did, you’d probably know how to contact

her now.”

“We talk plenty,” I defended myself. But not much these days, I knew. When

she first moved to Manila, we would always text and send each other inspirational

messages. I cringed at the memory. But once she said it was nice to just know that

someone was there on the other end of the line. When she moved to Singapore, we

tried the video calls during the first few months, but it was hard for me to convince

Papa to stay up and wait for Manang Isa to call and it was a challenge to pin her

down during the weekends when she was out on some dance class or brunch with

friends. On the rare times we’d be online at the same time, we’d talk about old times,

pretending we were still in high school and whispering in our beds even after

midnight. I thought nostalgia took courage, a brazenness to take the past for what it

was and to move forward. But maybe what it really took was a kind of forgetting.

Paolo grew serious. “Hey, Sandy, I’m not sure when you last talked to your

sister but—”

“Is this a lecture?” I asked in surprise.

“No, just—” He trailed off. It was already early evening and in the dim purple

light, it was hard to read his features. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” He

looked at his watch then turned to me, all grins. “Do you want to wait outside? We

could stake out a spot by the arrival gate.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure what he was about to say, but a part of me was already

grateful that he didn’t say anything more.

  15  

When I was seven or eight, I got lost. It wasn’t one of those episodes when a

salesclerk will take the crying child by the hand and lead her to her anxious mother.

This one was much more whimsical (or more sinister, depending on whom you

asked).

It must have been a weekend, because it happened one morning we weren’t in

school. Manang Isa was studying at the dinner table, completely ignoring my pleas

to come outside and play. Eventually I must have given up or found other playmates,

because I was running between the rice fields, carefully not to fall into the deep

trenches used for irrigation. When I tried harder to recall the details, I’d find a kite

floating into memory or a schoolyard chant. No, not nostalgia. This was the other

kind.

By the time I found myself in the shadow of the great trees, I was all alone. I

knew the path back; I could actually see our house and our rice barn. But it was hot

out and I didn’t want to leave the comforting shade. Someone took care of me and

braided my hair and sang me a song. She looked a bit like Mama when Mama was

younger. But when I said I wanted to go home, she asked why I was in such a hurry.

“Alexandra! Alexandra!”

I turned around when I heard my older sister’s frantic cries. I couldn’t recall

much after that, only that it wasn’t too hot to return anymore and that the sky was

pink and that my stomach was growling. Maybe we napped. Maybe I had gotten the

time wrong. Maybe I played too long in the sun.

Then Manang Isa hugged me. “I did battle for you and won you back,” she

whispered to me fiercely. That part I remembered.

They told me that I had been gone for half a day. They even said that my father

and uncles scoured the nearby fields and trees but never found me. They said I must

have fallen asleep. But no one was mad at me; they all seemed grateful and relieved

when I returned. Mama cried a lot. Isabella, on the other hand, never left my side

  16  

until after dinner (which felt like forever to my younger chronologically-impaired

self).

Maybe Manang Isa and I had been playing a game all along and I just forgot

the real story. People always said I never had my feet on the ground anyway. But I

could swear that as we walked home, my sister’s skin was like starlight.

That was a lifetime ago, but as I hugged my sister home, in her travel cardigan

and her leather boots, I knew the parts of her that still shone.

Glossary:

Manang – older sister

manliligaw – suitor

balikbayan – refers to Filipinos residing abroad; from balik (meaning to return) and

bayan (meaning country)

Last Call Café is set in the fictional town of Correa and is the latest work-in-progress from author Chris Mariano. To get more updates, visit her blog at ficsation.blogspot.com or follow her on www.facebook.com/ChrisMarianoAuthorPage.