“So what were you busy with?” she asked.
I grinned at her. “You first.”
She rolled her eyes. “What’s there to tell? He’s an idiot. I guess I was too, for falling for him in the first place. I found out he had hung out with that bitch from Second Year, that Melissa chick, you know. The one who won the singing contest. He says it was a set up for his brother but still…don’t you dare blank out on me, Pablo. I can see you. You’re counting the rings on that banister.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why ask if you’re not going to listen?”
“I assumed the story would be interesting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I was talking to my best friend, who by the way, spent nearly three days crying himself hysterical over a certain girl.”
“Hey, that’s not fair. I dumped her, not the other way around.”
She snorted. “I didn’t say anything about that. Just the crying.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“Yes, you did. You even wet your pants.”
“That was from the tears!”
“So you admit you were crying.”
I really should stop being so nice and let her bait and corner me like that. It’s irritating when she thinks she’s right. She gets this smug look on her face, like she wants you to ask her to repeat what she just said just so she could prove you wrong again. She did that to a teacher once and the teacher burst into tears. I’m pretty sure that’s why she quit; me tricking her into locking herself in the toilet has absolutely nothing to do with it.
“So tell me your story,” Rachel Ann said, giving me that other look—eyebrow raised, lips pursed, arms crossed in front of her breasts. It’s not a tell-me-your-problems-Pablo kind of sympathetic look. It’s a they-all-come-to-tell-Rachel-Ann-their-problems look.
I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. “Forget it.”
She opened her mouth. “That’s not fair! You tricked me. I told you my side! The least you can do is tell me yours, egghead!”
“I vaguely recall not being interested in what you had to say. End discussion.”
“That makes no difference!”
I spent the next hour pointing out that it did, which required a lot of writing notes and throwing them at her during Biology class. Rachel Ann often tells me it might be easier if we just change seats so we could actually sit beside each other, but why would I want to do that to myself? I’m no sadist. I happen to like my corner in the room beside the window and at the furthest possible distance from her.
See, Dad? I do have a concept of trig.
The bell rang, marking the end of morning classes. I flipped the bag behind me and stretched. Rachel Ann caught my eye and I gestured with my lips. “Lunch,” I said.
“Where?”
“Take your bag.”
She knew what I meant. She glanced around, as if almost ashamed by the idea, and then nodded. Just as I started to follow her, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Teacher Agnes was looking down at me with a look that made me think yes, that’s right, right at this moment Saint Peter is striking me off the list. Not that it’s that big of a loss; the whole pearly gates and singing for all of eternity thing never appealed to me anyway.
“Has your mom read the principal’s letter?”
I glanced around the classroom. “Ms. Agnes, please.”
“It’s not exactly a secret that you’re in hot water all the time. Has she?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“And?”
“And what? Think I’ll suddenly grow a halo because of it?”
“Pablo, I want to help you. But you are impossible sometimes. If I can schedule a meeting with your mom to explain our decision to her in person…not an official school thing, you understand…”
“I’ll mention it if I’m feeling particularly suicidal. See you after lunch.” I shouldered my bag and walked out without looking at her again.
“What was that all about?” Rachel Ann asked, meeting me in the hall.
“She wanted to know how I barely passed the last test despite not showing up for class a whole week, and I said, ‘By being awesome,’ and she agreed.”
“Ugh,” Rachel Ann said. “You’re losing your touch. You used to have more creative lies.”
Five minutes later we were skipping past the guards, whom we’d conveniently distracted with balls of rolled-up paper thrown close to the stairs—you’ve got to love “no littering” rules—and hailing the next jeepney down the road. I paid the driver and sidled down the seat beside Rachel Ann. She seemed a little distracted.
“I think it’s my turn to interrogate,” I said. “What’s the matter? Mark got your tongue?”
“Ha ha,” she grumbled. One of my favourite games is trying to figure out how far I can push her.
“No, really,” I said. “You can’t just be angry because he was cheating on you.”
She sighed. “You weren’t listening. He wasn’t cheating, not exactly.”
“That makes it even worse. So something else is wrong. What is it?”
“Go jump off a bridge, Pablo.”
And then she was quiet for the rest of the trip, which was unlike her. We got off at the mall and I picked a nice, quiet restaurant where they served sweet and sour pork with endless buckets of rice. I bought the food and laid it out in front of her. We ate. I bought dessert too—corn and milk sitting on top of shaved ice. It was only once we left the restaurant and were passing by a shoe store that she broke the silence. “It’s Dad,” she said. She looked sideways, not really meeting my eyes. “I saw him with someone.”
“This is starting to sound like the Mark story.”
Even though I meant to annoy her, it didn’t work. She actually nodded. I got scared. “That’s why that little piece of tripe bothered me so much. I was eating with my Dad last week and he got up from the table to go to the CR. Only he was looking away, like scanning the other tables, and as soon as he left I saw someone get up and follow him. I don’t know why, but I decided I had to pee too. I saw them talking and washing their hands in the same sink. They saw me and pulled away.”
“So? She must be an old friend.”
“That’s the problem. I asked him, and he said he didn’t know her. Why would they be talking so close together if he didn’t?”
“Did you tell your mother?”
“What do you think? Of course not. She’d throw a fit, he’d throw a fit, and someone would end up with a bullet in the brain.” She sighed. “Sometimes I hate having a soldier for a father.”
I tried to think about what she had just said. I had known her family for a long time. Like me, she had no brothers or sisters and I always got the impression they were a tightly-knit bunch. They were compared to me and my folks, anyways. They took lots of trips, going on beaches, hiking, eating out, strolling through parks. They were even in a badminton club together. Her father was a stern man, a colonel, and once took me out to their patio with a pack of smokes and told me the things he expects me not to do with his daughter whenever I’m out with her.
I remember telling him, to his face, that I had no intention of doing those sorts of things because I would be too busy throwing up in my mouth. It wasn’t the kind of response he expected. I think he thought I was gay after that, because he left me alone even if I’d accidentally brought her home past the proper hour. Any and all blame passed to her boyfriends. I heard he chased one guy down the street with his gun, spit dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. I actually felt sorry for the poor sop.
I felt sorry for her, too, but mostly all I thought was that their family wasn’t as perfect as they seemed. After the story, I had to endure the most awkward hour of my life trying to avoid conversation that would break that dam of tears. I actually had to talk to her about shoes, which was thankfully interrupted by the appearance of Mark the Wonder Guy. Mark with his fair skin and his oriental eyes. Mark with The Nose that could rival Makati’s tallest towers. Mark with the abs a
nd the dimples. I had never been so happy to see him in my life.
“Mark!” I said, jumping off the bench before Rachel Ann had the chance to start talking about glitter, and went up to him to punch him on the shoulder. He walked right by as if I didn’t exist and sat beside her.
“Rachel Ann,” he said. “My heart. My life.”
“Blegh,” I said.
“What do you want, Mark?” she asked, rolling her eyes. He sidled up close to her and grabbed her hand.
“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. You know I can’t live without you. You are my flower, my source of air, and I—”
I tried to distract myself by walking over to the closest food-stand and buying a packet of cheese fries. They were talking very loud, though. Even the vendor nudged me and asked what the hell those two lovers were nattering about. “She should just forgive him,” the vendor said with a sigh. “And she’s such a pretty one, too.”
I gave him a glare, mostly because he hadn’t handed me back my change, and then when he did I walked back over to Mark and Rachel Ann. One wore an expression of absolute passion and adoration while the other looked the way I’d look if I glanced under my shoe and saw a turd stuck to the sole. I sat beside them. Mark threw me a hateful look. I grinned.
“Mark…” Rachel Ann began.
He whirled back to her. “Yes, my popsicle?”
“I think we should take some time off from each other.”
“Time off? I told you, you made a mistake, just because she’s young and hot doesn’t mean I—”
“Are you calling me old?”
“What? No! Of course not! And anyway, why does it matter that I hung out with her once when you’re always hanging out with him?” And he jerked an accusing finger in my direction. I stared back at him, a cheese-fry hanging between my lips.
“Don’t drag him into this,” she said.
“Can I have some privacy, jerk?” he shrieked.
“I said, don’t!” She stood up and he cringed. Probably he was still feeling the after-effects of that morning’s argument. “Good-bye, Mark,” she drawled, starting to walk away.
“But sweetie!” he called. She never turned.
“Chase after her,” I suggested, licking cheese-dust off my fingers.
“What do you know?” he snarled. I could see why she liked him so much. He really was a handsome devil, even when he was angry. His gel had this way of sticking up just right even when most of the day had gone by.
I stood and dusted my pants. “Just advice, bud.”
“Pablo!” she screamed, half a mall away.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grunted. “Look what you did,” I added, giving Mark one last look.
That afternoon I sat back in front of my computer, running my fingers across the keyboard while I stared at that same, dreaded question.
“Where was my father born?”
I didn’t know. I’d never asked. I never even knew my grandfather, come to think of it; never had him take me aside and tell me all the mischief my father got to when he was younger, never gave me gifts or bounced me on his knee, never placed his arm around my father’s shoulder to tell him he was glad he was his son. I was eight when he died. It was more than enough time for such things. It should’ve been.
After I was locked out for the seventh time, I went to a search engine to look for bus fare rates.
Chapter Two
* * *
* * *
My mom had this way of pretending that any problems between my dad and me remained just that—between him and me. Sure, she’ll stand there sighing when I greet her at the end of the day, and sit there sighing all throughout dinner, stabbing the rice with her fork, but she never offers solutions beyond, “He’s your father. It’s your place to understand him.” She does this even when she caused the problem herself—after all, she was the one who called him about the letter without my consent. She never even asked me. I never had the chance to defend myself.
It wasn’t obvious over the weekend. Over the weekend, a friend of hers had stayed over, and she was pleasantly busy all the way to Monday morning. But when I got back home that afternoon, she was sitting in the kitchen and didn’t even look up when I kissed her.
“I left food on the table,” she said. “I have somewhere to go tonight.”
“Where?” I asked.
She didn’t reply, and after a few moments, it was almost like I hadn’t spoken at all. I tried to hold myself together. “Mom,” I said. “Where are you going?” And again, she said nothing. After waiting another ten seconds or so, I retreated into the safety of my room. I heard doors open and shut soon after and I was left alone.
I stared at the ceiling, a book on my lap. Outside, I heard a jeepney honk, and the neighbour’s dogs began barking. I didn’t know how long I stayed there, not moving, but when my thoughts started turning again I was hungry and the darkness was threatening to press against me. I pulled myself out into the empty living room and found the dinner she had left for me. I turned on the light, pulled out a spoon, and ate the chicken adobo with a glob of rice straight from the bowl. I wish I could say that this wasn’t a typical night even if my mom wasn’t mad at me. But it was. Loneliness is the worst thing in the world.
Tuesday came and went. And then Wednesday. No new phone calls or emails. If Dad had talked to Mom, I didn’t hear about it. Her mood didn’t change. I got the same cold shoulder every time I returned home from school, and every time she looked at me I felt like she was looking through me, like she was trying to find her son inside of this Pablo-shaped figure. I’ve always wondered if she thinks this kind of atmosphere will make me want to act out less, because as far as I know, it’s always been the opposite. One time, she didn’t talk to me for two whole weeks. I had argued with my dad, because I had forgotten to turn the light off in my room and he had called me careless and good-for-nothing. It was the kind of situation that could’ve been left alone after five minutes of explaining how expensive electricity was, but instead it turned into two weeks of enraged incoherence (from my dad) and passive-aggressive silence (courtesy of my mom). Every day, I learned that I could feel even more worthless than the day before.
I don’t know. I can’t put the feeling into a single word. But it felt like a blanket around me, like something that promised warmth and comfort turning into a weight that threatened to suffocate. I needed her to talk to me, to make me understand where I stood in all of this, but instead she would turn it into this sea of emotions. I am caught between the waves of my parents’ anger and even though I can understand how, I have never been able to understand why.
“Rachel Ann,” I said, running behind her as we strode past the school gates. “Rachel Ann. We need to talk.” It was Friday afternoon and the bell had rung its last for the day.
“If I could count the number of times I’ve heard that…” she grumbled, rolling her eyes. She’d been depressed all week. Tuesday we barely spoke to each other, Wednesday she was so mean to me that I didn’t even want to, and Thursday she didn’t come to school at all, feigning a headache. I was surprised she even showed up today. Of course, I was kind of hoping she would.
“So,” she continued. “Wait, don’t tell me. It’s bad news.”
“Yeah, turns out I’m who Mark is cheating on you with,” I said. “Look at this.” I unzipped my bag and pulled out two tickets.
She glanced at them. “What’s this?” she asked. “Are you asking me to elope with you?”
“Yes please. We’ll have a dozen children and I’ll feed you all by selling myself to a brothel and pleasuring foreigners with my toes. It’ll be a story worth writing a soap opera about. No, look. We’re going to my hometown in Bicol. I think you need a break. We can spend Christmas vacation over there and you’ll come home and it’ll all be all right again.”
She looked at me, not even touching the tickets, and I realized she was trying to read into what I wasn’t saying. I sensed mistrust and confusion in my best friend
of seven years and I actually wondered, for a moment, if I’d ever done anything nice for her, ever. Was this my first gesture of kindness towards her? I jerked the tickets back before I started thinking too much. “That is, if you’re not chicken,” I said. “Maybe you’d rather spend time with Ma—”
“Pablo,” she said. “Shut up.”
“I won’t. I hate this. You’re letting him get to your head. You’ve never done this with your other boyfriends.”
“Yes I have. What about Benedict?”
“You cried over him for an afternoon and started going out with Paul Michael the next day. Don’t change the subject.”
Her face got all red. “What makes you think a trip will solve anything?” she asked. “And you want me to do it on Christmas? Away from my family? What about our party, my cousins, my aunts…we have a gift-exchange planned…”
“The same damn one you did last year and the year before that. Damn, that can wait. Spend Christmas with my folks this time. No parties, no games, and we’re too poor for gifts, but we’ll let you drink until you puke and I’ll even hold your hair for you if you promise not to start cry—”
“Pablo, I can’t do that! What will my relatives think?”
I smacked her with the tickets. “Who cares what they think? They’ll think what they want to think. Nothing you do can change that.”
“Pablo!”
“Say my name one more time and people will think we’re having sex. Jesus—”
“You’re impossible!”
I grinned. “I already bought the tickets. Look, see, this one has your name on it. So you can’t say no.”
“Take one of your girlfriends. Pretend she’s me.”
“Umm, ew. And I don’t have any, remember? You chased the last one away with a letter opener after you were so convinced she broke my heart. Remember?”
We were walking past a field of waist-high grass at this point and she suddenly stopped in the middle of that quiet stretch of road. “So this is how it is, huh?” she asked. Her eyes were red now, large and red. I looked away. “I’m getting charity from you.”
Birthplace Page 2
