by Wilde, Ora
“Specifically suggested?” I mockingly repeated. “He didn’t suggest anything, Emmy. He ordered me to take twenty-five units.”
“I’m sorry, Hayden. I wasn’t aware of that,” she clinically said, devoid of sympathy and warmth.
“Twenty-five units! Do you know how heavy that is? That’s like forty class hours per week. Per week! If I’d obey his... suggestion... I’d be listening to my profs even in my sleep! I might as well share the bed with them!” Not that it hasn’t happened before, but that’s a story for another day.
“Well, your dad just asked me to tell you that he isn’t pleased with the meager number of units you took for this semester, Hayden,” she continued with her emotionally detached tone.
“Well, you can inform my father that if he wants to say something to me, he should man up and tell it to my face.” My voice was so loud that I was practically screaming. My muscles tensed up and I was breathing heavily, subconsciously trying to catch my breath. It was only then when I realized how angry I really was.
I heard Mrs. Walters clear her throat.
“Hayden, off the record... we’ve known each other for so long.” The change in her voice was remarkable. Gone was the cold, monotonous tone that sounded like a recording. It was replaced by a voice that was caring and affectionate and kind. “You’re a good kid. So wherever this rage is coming from... I beg you... please fix it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, Emmy,” I snapped back, slighted by her last statement. “I don’t need any fixing.”
“Nothing may be wrong with you,” she continued to say, “but your relationship with your dad is less than ideal. I’ve been a daughter and I am a parent, Hayden. I know how devastating that is for both parties. So please... be the better man... fix it... fix it before things get damaged beyond repair.”
I responded with silence.
“You’re a good kid, Hayden,” she added. “I know you know what should be done.”
And with those words, she ended her call, and I was left clinging on the phone for a while before putting it back inside my pocket.
“Problem at home?” Donnie asked. He has been an unwilling audience throughout that conversation. It wasn’t the first time, though.
“No big deal,” I said, assuaging his concern. “My father just found out about the number of units I got for this term.”
“He isn’t too pleased, I bet.”
“I wouldn’t know. He didn’t have the guts to call me. He asked his secretary to do it.”
“He must be really busy... as usual.”
“Funny. He’s so hands-on with everything, but when it comes to his own son, he couldn’t even spare a few seconds to tell him what he wants to say.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“I’m used to it. He wants me to finish my degree in five years.”
“You should’ve finished it in four. You should be graduating with me this semester.”
“What’s the hurry? College is fun.”
“Fun? Bro... I’ve known you for four years now, and I wouldn’t dare use the word fun in the same sentence as your name. More often than not, you seem... distant. You seem... bored.”
I laughed at his comment.
“Do I? Idleness is a natural phase in anyone’s life. But I have my means of... amusing myself.”
“I bet you do,” he replied, tittering.
“Speaking of amusement, lunch is almost over,” I said after glancing at my watch.
“And?”
“I have to go.”
“Go where?”
“Arts and Letters building, remember? The freshie? Our wager?”
“Ah.”
“By this time tomorrow,” I sternly proclaimed, “that freshie will be mine for the taking.”
Chapter 8
PHOEBE
“So, what do you see in this picture?”
The professor’s question, coupled with an image of two flawlessly preserved skeletons lying on the ground and locked in embrace which was projected on the white screen behind her, won the full attention of the entire class. It was a photograph of the skeletal remains of two lovers who were buried by the ash and molten stone that rained on them during the most devastating volcanic eruption in history many, many centuries ago.
I looked closer at the image.
Then I realized that they didn’t look like lovers hugging each other. The man was a little more elevated than the woman, and she seemed like she was clinging to his hips.
She looked like she was wiping something off from his body.
Oh God... I hope it wasn’t vinegar!
Hours have passed since that very humiliating accident during my chemistry class. I haven’t seen Hayden Summersmith since then, much to my relief. Aside from the apologies that I blurted incessantly, I didn’t know what else to say to him. His absence made the embarrassment more bearable for me.
“Pompeii’s famous lovers... or what remains of them at least,” the teacher gloomily said. She actually giggled with her addendum. “Embracing each other... entwined for all of eternity. Class... what does this tell us about love, in the context mostly used by poets and fictionists?”
“That love is unbound by time,” one of the students recited.
“Good, good... what else?” the professor continued to seek for more answers.
“That love is greater than death,” another spoke.
“Excellent. Are there more views you may want to share?”
“That love, much like death, is inevitable,” someone declaimed.
“Well... that’s a novel view. Good, good. What else?”
The entire class was deep in thought, trying to find more meaning to the image that was still flashed on the screen.
“That there’s such a thing as love at first sight,” someone suddenly said aloud.
All of my classmates expressed surprise. They quickly turned their attention to the person who suggested that shallow, almost nonsensical interpretation. I followed their gaze, and then...
I saw him.
Again.
He was standing at the door, wearing a black shirt that time around. I wasn’t used to seeing him like that. He has always been an intelligent dresser who preferred to mix and match semi-formal clothing with casual attire. But at that instance, with him wearing a top that practically invited scorn (Skilled In Every Position? Really?), he looked so... laid-back... so relaxed... so ruggedly attractive...
I snapped out of my astonishment and noticed something peculiar. He was holding something in his hands, wielding it with strenuous pride that was tainted with hints of uneasiness.
A bouquet of flowers...
Roses...
White and fresh and fragrant...
Oh shit!
“Come again, Sir?” the professor asked him, curious about what he just shared.
“Love at first sight, Ma’am,” he repeated with what has become his trademark smirk.
Most of the class laughed at him. Some, however, were still too busy gushing over the sudden presence of our mystifying visitor... and I was certain they were all females.
Instinctively, I bit my fingernails... a habit I always exhibited whenever I was stressed and nervous. He was there, in my class, with a dozen or so roses. The only reason why he went to my room was to see me, to win the bet that he and Cindy’s cousin made. I never, ever expected him to make his move so... so... publicly.
“I’m sorry, Mister....” the professor made the last word linger in her mouth, hoping to solicit an introduction from the unexpected guest.
“Summersmith,” he answered. “Hayden Summersmith.”
The people around me immediately began to whisper.
“Well, Mr. Summersmith, I don’t see the connection,” the professor said. “Ill-fated lovers and love at first sight? Are you sure you’re in the right class, Sir?”
“Actually, I just came to deliver these,” he replied with a smile that many would’ve found adorable... but I knew be
tter. He was being cocky. He held his hands above his abs - those amazingly unbelievable abs - clasping the beautiful arrangement of flowers that glistened under the lights.
As if on cue, all the girls purred in frolicsome delight, imagining perhaps that they would the recipients of his amorous intent.
He started to walk past the teacher, past the front row, before stopping as he spoke once again.
“It’s just a photograph of remnants that merely suggested what was and what could have been,” he explained. “But the fact is... none of us were there. None of us felt the fiery air that signaled an impending doom. None of us felt the hopelessness in Pompeii... when their world was burning and the possibility of escape was nil. None of us were there when the skies turned red and their city drowned in screams of horror and despair.”
“And your point is?” the professor asked quite impatiently, visibly challenged by this stranger who - instead of answering her question - decided to mistrust the merits of her query.
He continued to walk towards the second row, with calculated steps that demanded everyone’s notice.
“My point is... we don’t know,” he answered. “We can only assume. What if those bones were of a couple who were trying to strangle each other to death because they have grown tired of the rigors of married life? What if those bones belonged to a pedophile and his very young mate, and he held her tight... not out of care... but merely to preserve his property? What if those bones belonged to a man... and a woman who was giving him a blowjob?”
The entire class laughed. Surprisingly, the professor smiled and acknowledged the humor in his words.
He walked past the second row, towards the third, past the first columns of seats, towards the middle...
Towards where I was.
Oh no...
“We don’t know what truly happened,” he continued to expound. “We can only assume. And I’d rather make a happy assumption. That they were complete strangers a few seconds before their deaths. That he saw her and he immediately fell in love with her. That when the burning sky was descending on them, he did the only thing that he could do at that moment... the only thing that his heart desired. He held her. He tried to protect her. And as they were entombed in blazing stone and flaming dust... he continued to hold her... the woman he adored... the woman he immediately knew was meant for him... a love at first sight which, tragically, was also their last.”
He reached my desk and placed the bouquet on its surface. From the corners of my eyes, I saw my classmates faces with their eyes widened and their mouths agape. They were beyond shocked. They couldn’t believe that I, the chubby girl with glasses as thick as books, was being wooed by the school’s most desired personality.
He gave me a quick look and smiled. I didn’t see arrogance in the way he grinned. I saw honesty... and that scared me.
He turned to face the professor and continued to speak.
“But it doesn’t have to be remembered as a sad tale,” he said as he left my seat and started to walk towards the door from where he came from. “It was a love so great that it began with but a solitary glance... and it was immortalized for generations to witness and remember.”
“Remember what?” the professor asked, her gaze fixed intently on him. She was enchanted by what he was sharing.
“That love at first sight is not a myth,” he charmingly replied before stepping out the door and leaving the room completely.
Immediately, people started to chatter. Some of them tried to call my attention, wanting to get the juicy details behind his amorous exhibition. I wasn’t able to give them a moment of my time. It’s not because I didn’t want to. It was actually the first time that people noticed me like that... the first time that I was the subject of their conversations.
It was because I couldn’t.
I was paralyzed in disbelief, almost suffocating from the sheer weight of my thoughts.
I looked at the bouquet he left on my table. The flowers were very pretty. The petals were pristine and fresh. The buds have yet to bloom, promising that I’d be able to savor them for a longer period of time.
There was a note tied to the ribbon that bound the arrangement. I adjusted my glasses and took a closer look. It contained a message.
Are you free tomorrow night?
Please say yes.
Text me...
A number followed. His mobile number. I bit my lip as I scrunched up my nose. All of the events that have happened so far have left me dazed and confused... and the day wasn’t even over yet.
A part of me was gladdened because everything was falling according to Cindy’s plan.
But a greater portion of my soul was screaming inside... because of an overwhelming sense of disquietude more than anything else.
Hayden Summersmith... he was quite an enigma. He was eloquent and smart, yet he chose the life of a delinquent who drifted aimlessly throughout his years in college. He was a romantic, as much as his words revealed, yet he would rather break hearts than care for them. He was the campus’ most popular male figure, he could easily mingle with anyone he wanted to be associated with, yet he remained reclusive... almost eremitical... only preferring the company of a select few.
He had everything going for him.
But he opted to wander aimlessly, leaving behind a trail of weeping girls and shattered dreams, traversing a path that would most certainly lead to disaster.
He was a mystery.
He was trouble.
Though feigned as it was, he wanted me.
And I was terrified by the realization that, no matter how minuscule, there existed a possibility that I may feel the same way.
Chapter 9
HAYDEN
“Next time, go find another route! Do you understand, freshie?”
Of course, he didn’t mean to be that cruel. Zack was a big, burly, overly muscular guy who was blessed with the physical gifts of a professional athlete but cursed with the comprehension of an eight-grader. A linebacker for the Bruins, his academic eligibility has been questioned twice in the span of three years... ever since he was interviewed during a nationally televised game. It was a candid exchange, one that wasn’t meant to be serious. He was asked what he found most attractive in a woman. His answer? I like girls with long-legged legs. That raised some red flags. Thankfully, some of the big-time boosters - my father included - were able to fix things behind the scene.
Zack’s an idiot. But he was a nice idiot. He was a loyal idiot.
When the poor freshman passed by the table at the corner of the Proprietor’s Office and the Main Library, Zack had to do something. He considered that table as our clique’s special spot, and we’ve kept it for ourselves since we were sophomores. The freshman’s mistake was that he thought he could eat lunch there. Zack immediately yelled at him, and the freshman almost cried in fright. Zack meant no harm. It was just his preferred method of shooing him away, but the mere sight of his humongous size hovering over the freshman’s frail body was enough to terrify anyone.
“I don’t think he’s coming back, boss,” he told me with a proud beam as the freshman scampered... to another building, most probably.
I just smiled at him as I sat on one of the chairs of the stone table he felt he defended.
“You didn’t have to be that vicious,” I said. “He practically peed on his pants.”
“But boss, he’s a freshie!” he quickly reasoned out, which was by far one of the most logical things that ever came from his mouth.
UCLA was like one big fraternity. Freshmen, who were mockingly called as freshies, were like neophytes. Upperclassmen were supposed to give them a hard time. A right of passage, so to speak. It has always been the school’s tradition, a time-honored custom that was meant to make first year students appreciate what they have by making them work hard to prove their worth. These freshmen were prohibited from denying the wishes of the more tenured students. They just have to bear the difficulties - as well as the occasional humiliation -
for the entirety of their initial year in college. Once they become sophomores, it would be their turn to join their seniors in getting back at the new batch of students.
“Anyway, Zack... how’s football practice?” I asked him, veering away from the subject.
“It’s good, boss! Coach got some new plays. I’m excited to execute them. Well... I’m just excited to ram people’s heads down their throats.”
“I see,” I replied with a sigh.
