Uh-oh.
We laugh and strut over to tonight’s Target Number One.
“Hi,” I exhale. This guy looks like the type who would go for the straight-A good girls, so I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile shyly. The fact that my dress only measures five inches from the waist down does not escape me, but one has to make do with one’s available resources. I tug at my hemline, trying to exude a demure, tweetums vibe. “I’m Rickie,” I say. Beside me, Bryan pipes in, “Jaime.” I shoot him a look that asks, Oh really, are we using fake names now? He shakes his head at me impatiently and gestures toward the person standing behind Target Number One. It is Jaime, Anna’s ex-boyfriend, grinning at me and looking as hot as ever.
Confession: From somewhere within my chest, my heart starts doing a sequence of crazy somersaults. Like it always does when he’s around.
Every Girl’s Guide To
FLINGS
Marla Miniano
SUMMIT BOOKS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, some places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Summit Books are published by
Summit Media
6F Robinsons Cybergate 3
Pioneer Street
Mandaluyong City
Philippines 1505
Copyright © 2009 by Marla Miniano
Book design by Studio Dialogo
Cover illustration by Abi Goy
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
www.femalenetwork.com/summit-books
For the Candy team,
for making my life sweeter every day.
rule number 1:
Know where to start.
Hi, I’m Ericka Barcelona. Some people know me as Rickie, the wayward friend of good girls Anna and Chrissy—the girl in short skirts and high heels, the girl who has a hip party to go to every Saturday night, the girl who, among all the high school seniors in St. Andrew’s Academy, is Most Likely to be Sent to the Guidance Counselor’s Office for Wearing Purple Eyeliner and Red Nail Polish to School...Again. Some people know me as the girl so-and-so dated, or the girl so-and-so had a summer fling with, and I can’t really say I mind.
But most people know me as the sister of Alexa Barcelona, who came home from another one of her out-of-town shows last night. Lexi has been a theater actress since she was nine, and can play any character ranging from wicked witch to damsel in distress. She receives rave reviews for every role given to her, and has been called everything from “child prodigy” to “theater’s next big thing” to “favorite teen leading lady,” all of which translate to only one thing—superstar. Her talent comes naturally, which means she is one of those few people who seems to be able to do a million things at once: she juggles her daily rehearsals and weekly shows with maintaining her Dean’s Lister-worthy grades (she’s a candidate for cum laude when she graduates in March), while staying on top of her booming social life and even more happening love life. What’s remarkable is that she cruises along through all of this without eye bags or missed deadlines or crankiness or any other sign of stress, making everything look so easy and making the rest of us normal folks wonder why we have it so difficult. To make her perfection even less human, she is the most gracious, charming, cheerful twenty-year-old you’ll ever meet, gliding her way into the hearts of parents and teachers faster than you can say hello. And of course, she just happens to be gorgeous, and what gets to me the most is that she is the effortless kind of gorgeous, which is something I’ll never be. She wakes up in the morning with shiny hair, healthy skin, and a smile bright enough to drag every Scrooge within a ten-kilometer radius out of bed. She can get ready in fifteen minutes flat, and steps out of the house with zero makeup, unstyled tresses, and a white button-down shirt and jeans—but still manages to get by on her glowing tan, bouncy locks, and petite frame that works for almost any outfit. She never has to spend half an hour doing her makeup, and another half hour blow-drying her hair to submission. She never has to stand in front of her closet for forty-five minutes trying to decide what to wear. She never has to try too hard. Actually, it seems to me like she never has to try at all.
So she came home last night in a good mood, as usual, telling our parents about the line she almost forgot but thankfully remembered at the last minute. She told them about how the director congratulated her for doing a wonderful job, and how the audience hung on to her performance. Of course, these were not her exact words, as she was being all modest and humble and trying to downplay how amazing everyone thought she was, as usual. My parents gave her their full attention, as usual, listening to her story like it was something new, like they were not yet used to their daughter being so extraordinary. They beamed at her proudly, as usual, like she had just discovered a ten-second cure for the common cold, or brought back Elvis Presley from the dead. I simultaneously tried to tune them out and keep my ears peeled for the point when they finished fawning over her, wondering why it’s possible to de-friend a friend, but not to de-sister a sister. I sulked in a corner of the living room, flipping through a gossip magazine as I waited. As usual.
And then she said, “Mom, Dad, do you remember Timmy Fernandez?”
“Your Philosophy classmate?” Mom asked. Of course she remembered. Why wouldn’t she? Lexi has had a crush on Timmy since heaven knows when. But then again, every other guy on the planet has a crush on Lexi, and maybe a mother with a very pretty child tends to lump together the guys her daughter likes with the guys who like her daughter, because there are just too many boys to keep track of. Timmy also happened to be Anna’s older brother, but I guess my mom wouldn’t remember him that way, since she’s never even had a single decent conversation with any of my friends.
“Yeah,” Lexi replied. “He’s coming over in a while. We just need to discuss something for our group’s Philo paper. We won’t take too long, I promise.”
“That’s not a problem,” Dad said. “But are you sure you have to do this tonight? Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she told him, smiling. “I’d have to get this done sooner or later. Might as well get a head start so things don’t pile up.” I thought, He’s coming over for something school-related, and she’s smiling like they’re about to go out on a date. She knows he has a girlfriend. Pathetic.
“Okay.” He yawned, standing up. “Well, good luck on the paper. Goodnight, munchkin.” Yes, he calls her munchkin. Yes, even in public sometimes. And no, she totally doesn’t mind. Eww.
Mom stood up to leave too, then noticed me in the corner. She asked, “Ericka, is that trashy magazine for school, or is there another good reason you’re still up?”
“I was just about to go to bed,” I said. I brushed past them, made my way upstairs, and locked my bedroom door behind me. After ten minutes, I heard Timmy talking and Lexi giggling. Schoolwork, my ass. I buried my head under my pillow and forced myself to go to sleep.
So, yes, I’m Rickie—Anna and Chrissy’s wayward friend, the girl this and that guy dated, and Lexi’s not-so-perfect younger sister. I’d like to be able to say that this is really all there is to me, that what you see is what you get: skimpy outfits, layers of makeup, hot boyfriends and sort-of boyfriends.
But here’s the deal: give me a chance and I promise I’ll give you a whole new perspective on who I am. W
hether it’s for the better or for the worse, well, that you’ll just have to decide for yourself.
I catch a knowing look pass between Anna and Chrissy as I stomp to our spot in the school canteen and slam my tray down on the table. They think I don’t notice, but I do. I always do. I notice how they look at each other whenever I mention a new guy I’m dating, and when, three weeks later, it all ends abruptly. I notice how they look at each other whenever I tell them about Lexi’s latest success story, or my most recent fight with my parents. I notice how they look at each other whenever I talk about myself, a quiet look that loudly says, God, she’s talking about herself again. I notice it every single time, but I have never once called them on it. The way I choose to see it, their exasperation with me is of the amused, almost accepting kind, not the mean, judgmental one. And I figure if they genuinely hate me, they wouldn’t waste time hanging out with me then plotting behind my back. They’re just way too goody-goody for that. No offense to other goody-goodies, of course. I have nothing against you guys; I think you’re admirable and all that, and props to you for being an inspiration.
“Hi, Ric,” Chrissy chirps. Ever since we got back from summer break last month, she’s been extra cheerful. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that her boyfriend Nathan joined her family on a week-long vacation to Palawan. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that on the first day of classes, she was pulled aside by our adviser and discreetly told that she was the frontrunner for valedictorian (no surprise there). Or maybe she’s always been this cheerful, but I have just been more miserable than usual lately, further defining the contrast between the bright light perpetually emanating from within her and the dark cloud constantly brewing above my head.
“Hi,” I say glumly. I sigh dramatically and rest my chin on both hands, like a kid in the “before” scenes in an advertisement for multivitamins, or fever medicine.
“Whoa, turn down the enthusiasm, Little Miss Sunshine,” Anna says. Chrissy giggles. Anna always says pa-witty stuff like this, and Chrissy always finds her sarcasm and stoic delivery funny. Actually, most people find Anna hilarious, like her friend-turned-boyfriend Miguel, and even hot gay rockstar Gabriel, who actually referred to her in his album sleeve acknowledgements as “the fabulously benta girl I’ll take along when I’m stranded on a desert island, so I can die laughing.” Sometimes I can understand why she’s such a hit, but sometimes (like right now), I simply can’t. I roll my eyes at both of them and don’t speak.
The Knowing Look passes between them again, but this time it says, Uh-oh, it’s something serious. Because I am never silent and secretive. My frustration is usually all over the place, a public show that makes the audience think, I am so glad I’m not like that. When Chrissy speaks, she sounds apologetic. “What’s wrong, Rickie?”
“This stupid, stupid Ted cheated on me. He flaked on our dinner plans the other night, then two hours later, I saw him holding hands with another girl.” I can’t believe I’m actually bummed out about this—Ted was nothing special, and neither were the two weeks we spent dating. There was also that minor detail about the little deal we made when he first asked me out: no expectations, no commitment, no weird couple-y stuff. I make this little deal with almost every guy I date, and I don’t understand why this bothers me now. Maybe I really liked him, or maybe I’m just used to being the dumper, and not the dumpee.
“But you guys agreed you weren’t exclusive, right?” Anna asks. For a smart girl, she sure likes pointing out the obvious, and in the process, obviously missing the point. I wonder whether this is a rhetorical question, or if she actually wants me to affirm that she’s right. She and Chrissy are both looking at me, so I just shrug and say, “Yeah, but whatever. The girl isn’t even cute.” This works for me every time; I think maybe if you become accustomed to not caring, it becomes your default solution to every problem and your default reaction to every situation. And maybe if people become accustomed to you not caring, they think you can just breeze through life and let things like these roll off your back. They both look relieved, and resume the conversation they were having before I so rudely interrupted with my trivial boy problem.
The now-soggy nachos on my tray beckon to me, and I take a forkful and shove it into my mouth.
My friend Bryan honks at me from outside, and I grab my purse and run downstairs. “Hey there, hot stuff,” he says, winking at me. I twirl once, showing off my flirty red dress, and he gives me two thumbs up and reaches over to open the car door for me. Bryan’s approval is important, not because he’s technically a guy, but because, well, let’s just say he knows more about fashion and beauty trends than I do. Plus, he’s brutally honest. He has no qualms about telling me when I look too slutty for a trip to the mall, and when I look too manang for a night out (which rarely happens anyway).
“Somebody’s looking foxy,” I tease, as I settle into the passenger seat. He is wearing a black long-sleeved polo, dark jeans, and a leopard-print fedora. “Oh honey, you have no idea how much this outfit costs,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me. “And it’s leopard, not fox.” I giggle and crank up the stereo, and we sing along to the Pussycat Dolls about the things we want to be when we grow up.
Bryan and I met more than a year ago, at a bar in Boracay. I had snuck out of the hotel where Lexi and my parents were soundly sleeping, in pursuit of a couple of Margaritas and someone to kiss underneath the moonlit summer sky. I spotted a guy standing by himself and made my way over to him. He was tall, toned, attractive, and looked older, unreachable, and suplado—in other words, positively my type. “Hi,” I said, flipping my hair over my shoulder and looking up at him adoringly. “Hi,” he replied curtly. I was in a yellow string bikini and a sheer white miniskirt, but his eyes didn’t even travel past my neck. “Are you here with anyone?” I asked, and he snapped, “What do you think?” I rolled my eyes at him. “God, you seriously need to chill. Whatever. See you around.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm and said, “Wait. Will you please tell him to meet me in front of Regency at two-thirty?” I asked, “Him? Him who?” and he said, “That guy in the green shirt, near the entrance. The one pretending to be having the time of his life hitting on five different chicks simultaneously. He’s my boyfriend.” My jaw dropped, and he told me, “Well, don’t just stand there gaping at me. Go. Please? I’ll be outside. I’ll explain later.” I obeyed (the boyfriend was even hotter; how is that fair?), and minutes later, caught up with him outside. “Mission accomplished,” I told him proudly. “Thank you,” he said, smiling at me for the first time. “My name’s Bryan.” He held out his hand for me to shake. I smiled back and said, “I’m Rickie.”
I learned that he was two years older than me, and that we liked the same things (going shopping, people-watching, and reading up on our Hollywood crushes, not necessarily in that order). I learned that his boyfriend was a) still in the closet, b) on vacation with his guy cousins, and thus had to pretend to be all macho and into the ladies, and c) left his phone in his hotel room, so there was no way of informing him about their secret meeting without making the cousins suspicious. (They would end up calling it quits four months later.) He looked miserable and vulnerable, and I felt sorry for him. But he was also funny and interesting, and I knew I had finally met someone who could love me unconditionally, in a way no straight dude ever could. At two AM, he offered to walk me back to my hotel before heading off to his romantic rendezvous. Before saying goodbye, we exchanged numbers and made plans to hang out in Manila. And we’ve been weekend gimmick buddies since.
Tonight, on our way to a party we are fashionably late for, he tells me, “Never mind that Ted. He was a giant loser anyway. Have you seen him checking out his reflection on every shiny surface he passes?”
“OMG, yes!” I say. “I thought I was the only who noticed. Sheesh. He’s even more vain than you.”
“I know, right?” he replies. “That’s SO not good. So cheer up, okay? Your boobs and legs look amazing in that dress, and tonight is
going to be awesome!” I love how he always reminds me how great I am, in a way no straight girl ever can. Friendships with girls will always be tinged with rivalry, no matter what. There will always be someone who is prettier and sexier and more popular with the boys, and this will always be a cause of resentment for whoever’s not as pretty and sexy and popular. Nobody will readily admit to this, but this unspoken rivalry is always lurking in the background, a race towards scoring the most stylish clothes and the most expensive shoes and the best-looking boyfriends first. And that’s why Saturday nights with Bryan are a breath of fresh air—we are a team, and we do not complicate our dynamics with petty, childish competition. That is just way beneath us.
“I’m on the fence about that guy on the couch,” he says, as we enter the bar. “Wanna come up to him so we can tell for sure? Whoever doesn’t get asked out owes the other person a drink.”
“You bet your sorry ass he’s asking ME out, bitch,” I tell him, playfully pushing him out of the way. We laugh and strut over to tonight’s Target Number One.
“Hi,” I exhale. This guy looks like the type who would go for the straight-A good girls, so I tuck my hair behind my ear and smile shyly. The fact that my dress only measures five inches from the waist down does not escape me, but one has to make do with one’s available resources. I tug at my hemline, trying to exude a demure, tweetums vibe. “I’m Rickie,” I say. Beside me, Bryan pipes in, “Jaime.” I shoot him a look that asks, Oh really, are we using fake names now? He shakes his head at me impatiently and gestures toward the person standing behind Target Number One. It is Jaime, Anna’s ex-boyfriend, grinning at me and looking as hot as ever.
Every Girl's Guide to Flings (Every Girls Guide) Page 1
