“Absolutely,” I promise, keeping a straight face. “It sounds fun.” In my head, I say in flawless Alex Band imitation, This is my calling: I’ll go wherever you will go, babe.
When I read the new comments on my site, I am not surprised that most of them are about Queenie Cooper. Apparently, she brought Nathan to her friend’s formal debut as her date, and photos of the two of them dressed to the nines and partying the night away in an expensive club are posted for everyone to see on her Multiply page.
This is an outrage, Chrissy! She is not even half the girl you are. Oh well. It’s Nathan’s loss.
I am intrigued. What does Nathan see in her? I mean, I know she’s gorgeous and popular and everything. But I always thought he saw beyond all that—I never thought he could be so superficial.
For lack of a more original derogatory term, let us call her a Ho-Bag. She doesn’t even deserve a more creative insult. So not worth your time or tears. We’re rooting for you, Chrissy.
I reply, Hey, everyone. It’s nice to know that you’ve all got my back, and that you all think Queenie Cooper pales in comparison to me. I appreciate your comments because I know you are just trying to make me feel better. But let’s cut Nathan some slack. I’m sure he likes Queenie Cooper for a reason; maybe she has some secret redeeming quality that won him over. Whatever. I couldn’t care less, really. Thanks, guys. I love you all.
You see what I just did right there? I approached the issue in a very straightforward, objective manner. I just told them off for being mean to Queenie Cooper, and I was very diplomatic about it, too. Queenie Cooper should be thanking me for this. (Yes, in case you haven’t noticed, she is one of those people whose full names you have to keep calling them by.) You’re welcome, Queenie Cooper. Take good care of Nathan, okay?
Rule number 8:
Pay attention to technicalities.
“Dude!” Nico exclaims, slapping a tall, very handsome boy several times on the back. It is past five AM on a Friday holiday, and it feels like we’ve been standing outside the airport waiting for hours. Enzo has toned arms and muscular legs, striking eyes framed by perfect eyebrows, wavy dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, lips that can totally bag him a Chapstick ad, and caramel skin that, from where I stand, looks like it has no pores and produces zero oil. In short, this guy is way prettier than me. Hello, insecurity. Fancy running into you here.
He slaps Nico on the back too, then turns to me. “Hello, Chrissy,” he says, smiling his megawatt smile at me. “It is so nice seeing you again.” He says this like we are long-lost friends, but he offers his hand for me to shake like we are complete strangers meeting each other for the first time. His piercing stare and solid grip make me uncomfortable, and I hope Nico doesn’t notice that my cheeks are burning. I pull my hand away and compose myself enough to be able to blurt out, “Hi, Enzo. Welcome to the Philippines!”
Enzo laughs. “Still funny, huh?” I think, when was I ever funny to you? We don’t know each other well enough for you to be able to say that I am “still” funny, or “still” anything, actually. I really do not remember having any other form of interaction with him aside from his thirteenth birthday party, which Nico dragged me to, and I admit it is not a very pleasant memory because of the grape juice, which he may or may not have spilled on my new white sneakers on purpose (okay seriously, I have to let that go). Maybe he’s just really, really friendly? Guys who are very good-looking tend to either be super aloof, or super feeling-close, and maybe he’s leaning towards the latter.
At the crowded arrival area, waiting for Nico’s driver to pick us up and bring us to his place for breakfast, I wonder if the three of us look like we’re all related, or if we look like a small barkada, or if I look like the girlfriend of one of them. I wonder whether or not I’ll pass for twenty-one, and whether or not I’ll pass for Enzo’s girlfriend. Of course, in my glamorous attire of jeans, flip-flops, and oversized faded sweatshirt, I think I already know the answer. And then Nico spots his car and grabs my hand as we weave our way through the throng of balikbayans, and I think I feel better.
They load Enzo’s luggage into the trunk, and I stand there unsure whether to get into the backseat or ride shotgun. This is the problem with being part of a trio and not knowing exactly who the third wheel is. On one hand, Nico and I are sort of an item. On the other hand, Nico and Enzo are cousins, and I am just tagging along. I do not want to assume that Enzo is the odd one out, but I’m iffy about volunteering myself as well. So I stand there and wait for directions. Finally, to my relief, Enzo declares, “I’ll stay in front,” and opens the back door for me. Thank you, Enzo. I guess I forgive you for the grape juice now.
Over breakfast, Enzo tells us about college in New York, being an exchange student in France, and his modeling stint in LA. I am impressed with how he rattles off his achievements but manages to come off sounding so humble and down-to-earth. His parents separated when he was twelve, and since then, to assuage the guilt of a failed marriage and to distract their son from the abandonment, they’ve provided permission and finances for his shuttling back and forth among different relatives in various parts of the globe. “The trade-off hasn’t been easy,” he says. “If you ask me now, I’d still choose a happy family over all these experiences any day. I miss seeing my parents together. But I don’t know, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”
“Well,” Nico says. “You’ve still got family right here.”
“I know, man,” Enzo grins. “So, what’s the game plan for today?”
“We’re on the VIP list for a party at the Rockwell tent tonight,” Nico replies. “Mama’s designer friend is launching a new collection, and she needs, quote-unquote, young people to attend the event. I promised we’d show up, but we can always leave if it gets boring. And since the folks are both out of town for the long weekend, we can stay out as late as we want to.” I yawn, and Nico continues, “But for now, I think Chrissy needs to go home and sleep. You should get some rest too. Your stuff’s in the guest room upstairs. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Enzo says, standing up and stretching. “I’ll see you later, Chrissy.”
I’ve never been a party person, and if this were a regular weekend, I would have rather stayed at home catching up on my reading, or spending time with Justin, or watching classic FRIENDS episodes on DVD and swooning over the timeless love story of Rachel and Ross. But hanging out with Enzo basically ups the potential coolness factor of a night out, and I am actually looking forward to getting dressed up and wearing heels and having a few drinks and maybe even dancing. “Later,” I say, more excited than I would care to admit.
I hop around my room on one foot, howling in pain. Mom calls out from the kitchen, where she and Dad are preparing lasagna for a potluck party at her office, “Honey, are you alright?” and I yell back, “I’m still alive!” I was busy practicing my dance moves to Britney’s “Womanizer” (I always knew she’d be hot again), and have just stubbed my big left toe on the ancient wooden cabinet. My poor toe is bleeding, staining my cotton candy pink-polished toenail a deep red, and I sit on the edge of my bed to inspect the damage. I take a Band-Aid from the box on my dresser drawer and wrap it around my toe. I guess this means I won’t be wearing my new open-toed kitten heels tonight. Hmm. Now what? I am wearing a royal blue minidress that would have looked fabulous with them, and I stare at my shoe rack willing it to magically produce a pair that would hide the ugly Band-Aid and still look presentable for a night out. I wish I had unlimited footwear options, or at least predicted this would happen so I could ask Rickie for help. I am considering wearing my purple Chucks and pretending that I am making a fashion statement instead of hiding a bloody toe, but suddenly, a glimmer of hope presents itself to me, literally. At the very bottom of my shoe rack, a silver box sparkles, and I remember—it contains a pair of black pointy pumps that I only wore once and swore never to touch again because they made walking hell. Those pumps would make my legs lo
ok amazing, and would match my minidress. I tentatively slip them on, take several quick steps, and start yelping. Ouch, ouch, OUCH. But I really don’t have a choice, because my phone starts ringing, Nico’s name flashing across the screen, and I grab my purse and head downstairs. As long as I walk slooooowly enough, I can travel a few meters without fainting, and I guess they’d have to do. “Mom, Dad, I’m leaving,” I announce, peeking into the kitchen. “We’ll be back from our party by two AM,” Dad says. “Make sure you’re home and in bed at least thirty minutes before then.” I nod. Fair enough.
Black pointy pumps are sexy, but not when the klutz wearing them is hobbling around and grimacing in pain. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Nico asks as we pull to a stop in front of the party venue and he helps me out of the car. I wince and nod. It’s not like I’d change my mind and ask him to bring me home. At least I know the rest of me looks great: My hair has been ironed into submission, I have managed to put on mascara and liquid liner without getting raccoon eyes, my lips are still glossy, and my cheeks and shoulders have been carefully bronzed. If I can get away with sitting down the whole night, nobody has to notice my unsightly limp.
Fortunately, we find an empty table, and Nico and Enzo sit on either side of me. They both look gorgeous, and when Nico reaches for my hand, I think, We are holding hands in front of everyone. Who cares about stubbed toes? Enzo glances at us and actually winks at me, and I laugh. “Hey, I’m the only one who can’t walk properly,” I tell them. I am doing this to prove that I am not KJ or uptight—just because I can’t have as much fun as I expected doesn’t mean I have to ruin their evening. “You guys go and mingle. Or whatever it is you’re supposed to do at parties like these.”
Enzo looks at Nico, and Nico nods. He lets go of my hand and tells me, “We’ll be back.”
Enzo grins. “Don’t run off anywhere.”
I laugh again. “Go, seriously. Don’t let me cramp your style. Go mingle and be single.” I sound like a cheerleader, only instead of cheering them on to run faster and score better and make the perfect shot, I’m cheering them on to, well, go mingle and be single. Way to go, Chrissy. That’s very generous of you.
Nico doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t say, I don’t want to be single, or Technically, I’m not single. He stands up, ready to jumpstart their Friday night. They head off to the bar to take advantage of the free-flowing drinks, and I sit back to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: people-watching.
If the designer’s goal was primarily to bring in “young people,” then she can consider this event a smashing success. The guests are mostly in their teens and early twenties (or at least they look like it), are dressed to kill, and are all having a fantastic time. A runway is set up at the center of the tent, and the air is buzzing with anticipation. A perky host in a gold cocktail dress welcomes everyone, makes pa-cute for a few minutes, and finally chirps, “Let’s get this party started!” Electronic music begins blaring from the speakers, and models appear one by one to work the catwalk. The outfits are a tad too high-fashion for me (think bold prints and over-the-top patterns), but they are brimming with novelty and creative energy, and the entire collection is art in its less accessible form—you can appreciate it, but you don’t pretend to understand all of it. Then, the finale: the lights dim, a silhouette flashes against a white backdrop, and a very stunning Queenie Cooper comes out to strut her stuff on the ramp. The dress is cut so low I can almost see her belly button, her legs go on for miles, and she is skinny and curvy in all the right places. The crowd applauds approvingly, the designer takes her bow, and the show ends on a high note.
Enzo comes to check up on me, and I assure him I’m fine. I do not ask him what Nico is doing, but I do ask him to send food my way. “I’m starving,” I explain, and he replies, “I’m on it.” I smile gratefully at him. A server approaches me with a large tray full of hors d’oeuvres, and I transfer about one-fourth of it onto my plate. He offers me some red and white wine, and I think, Why not? and he asks, “Which one, Ma’am?” and I say, “Both, please.” I accept the two glasses he sets down in front of me, he tells me to enjoy, and I proceed to polish everything off in five minutes flat. When he returns to take away my empty plate and glasses, he does not ask if I want anything else. But I scan the room for any sign of Enzo or Nico, and from the corner of my eye, catch a glimpse of Queenie Cooper schmoozing up a storm in her fancy-schmancy gown. Right now, it is no longer a question of whether or not I want anything, but of whether or not I need anything. I wanted to come here with Nico and Enzo. I wanted to dress up and dance and party like a pro and be grown-up and glamorous. I wanted to act like I belong, but now I need to forget about the fact that I just don’t. I put on my most charming voice when I ask Mr. Server, “Would it be possible for you to bring me a whole bottle of red wine? It’ll spare you the hassle of all those refill trips,” as if we were talking about bottomless iced tea instead of liquor. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and I hastily add, “Oh, it’s not just for me. Siyempre hindi, ‘di ba? I have, uh, friends who... just went to the bathroom. They’ll be back here in a jiff.” He does not seem thoroughly convinced, so I resort to regression: “Come on. Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar and sprinkles on top?” He gives in and says, “Yes, Ma’am. Right away.” Thank you, Kindergarten strategy, for still being effective in the adult world.
Here’s the thing—I have never, ever had more than two glasses of wine in one sitting. The first and only time I tried tequila, I practically had to pour a pitcher of water down my throat afterwards to get rid of the taste in my mouth. Once, I got tipsy after a single mug of beer and started talking to a tree (Rickie and Anna caught the whole thing on video). And if tolerance really does increase with practice, then I am dead meat because the last time I had anything alcoholic was last year, during Noche Buena. I have just consumed three-quarters of the bottle of wine in less than an hour, and I can feel my throat burning and my head pounding. I might as well have hooked myself up to a booze IV and let it all seep right into my system.
I stand up. Whoa, huge mistake. The room is spinning, and I just need to find either Nico or Enzo so one of them can bring me home. I should not be out in public like this. The good news is that the alcohol has rendered me numb to the pain in my toe. The bad news is that I wobble with every step I take, and I am obviously, embarrassingly drunk. Wait, I can call them. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I fish my phone out of my purse and dial Nico’s number. It rings and rings but he doesn’t pick up, probably unable to hear it over the booming music and the steadily rising noise level of the guests’ chatter. I try Enzo, praying he had enough common sense to maybe put his phone on vibrate mode. No answer, either. I have to sit again, and I plop down on the nearest chair, earning dirty looks from the guy and girl beside me who look like they were about to start making out. Well, excuse me for interrupting. Don’t mind me. Carry on, then.
My eyelids feel exceptionally heavy, and I think, Maybe if I just doze off for a while, things will be better when I wake up. My head slumps forward, and for a moment there, I don’t even know where I am. And then I feel a strong, warm grip on my arm, and I allow myself to be pulled up. “Chrissy, open your eyes,” the voice says. I obey. And find myself staring at Nathan’s very concerned, very worried face.
“Hi, Nathan,” I say, giggling. “Why are you here? Wait, nope, don’t tell me.” I actually cover his mouth with my hand. “You’re here with Queenie Cooper aren’t you? Awesome finale, by the way, she is a very sexy lady, and you are a very lucky bay-behhh!” He pries my fingers off and tells me, “Let’s get out of here,” and I giggle again and say, “Alrighty-o, Nathan, you’re the boss!” I even stand up straight to salute him. True story.
Out in the parking lot, I tell him, “Hey, guess what’s up? My left toe is bleeding, and I cannot feel a thing! Isn’t that just wicked?” I laugh so hard I have to lean against him for balance, and he says, “Take off your shoe, Chris.”
“WHAT?! No way!
” I yell. He looks at me exasperatedly, crouches down, puts my hands on his shoulders, and removes my left shoe for me. My big toe is red and raw and still bleeding, the Band-Aid is peeling off, and poor Nathan looks like he’s about to throw up. Before I realize what’s happening, I am hanging on to his neck and he is carrying me to his car. In my wasted state, it occurs to me that this is The Most Romantic Thing Anyone Has Ever Done for Me, and I wonder if this can be categorized as cheating. I mean, technically, I’m single and can do whatever I please. And technically, Nathan is so not the villain here—is it still considered cheating if you leave behind the neglectful, MIA guy to drive off into the midnight with the good guy who rescues you? He gently props me up on the front seat, opens the glove compartment, and hands me a bottle of water. “Drink up,” he orders. The last thing I recall is me wanting so badly to kiss him. And then I pass out.
I wake up to an insistent tapping on my shoulder and a sharp, throbbing pain in my left foot. The sun shines brightly through my window, and I want to reach out and grab it by its collar and turn it off. I also want to scratch my eyeballs out and cut my head open to extract the weight concentrated right in the middle of it. I hear someone clear his throat. A male someone.
I sit up so fast the weight in my head feels like it has doubled. The sun shines directly into my eyes, and I squint. Justin is poking my shoulder repeatedly, like I am a defective toy that refuses to work. “Finally someone wakes up,” he grumbles. “Kuya Nico’s here.” He stomps out, leaving the door open, and Nico sits beside me.
What is going on here? Why is Nico in my room, and why do I have a feeling something is very, very wrong? And then it hits me. Last night. The party. The drinking. The bloody toe. The drive home. With Nathan.
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.
Nico puts a hand on my back. “Hurry up and get dressed, okay? We’re going.”
Every Girl's Guide to Boys (Every Girls Guide) Page 6
