Torn.
But at this moment, I do not know what I want. I cannot even make a list of the pros and cons of being with Nathan versus being with Nico, because who they are and what they mean to me are already starting to blend into each other, the edges and boundaries blurring into a massive wad of indecision that I will never fully grasp. I know a million girls would sell their souls to be in my position (poor Chrissy, two hot boys are fighting over her, boohoo), but this situation is something I wouldn’t wish on even the most pathetically lonely person in the world. Because it is easy and logical enough to decide between what is right or wrong, or what your mind is saying versus what your heart is feeling—but how do you decide between two things you value in a similar manner and an almost equal amount? It is simple enough to let go of the past in favor of the present, but now that Nico is back and I realize that I am genuinely thrilled about it, I don’t know where that leaves Nathan. I don’t know where that leaves me.
Every Girl’s Guide To
BOYS
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 Marcy, my favorite teenager.
Rule number 1:
Not having (boy) problems is
A Good Thing.
My story begins with Hugh Grant.
Yes, Hugh Grant. He might seem like a strange person to start a story with. You’d think someone my age would start a story with Chace Crawford, or Justin Timberlake, or Zac Efron, or Sam Concepcion, or (please feel free to insert the name of your young heartthrob of choice here, in case I’ve missed anyone). You’d even think someone my age would say, “My story begins with my crush smiling at me,” or “My story begins when I snag the perfect pair of jeans on sale—one that just happened to fit three of my best friends as well.”
But no, my story begins with Hugh Grant.
Let me explain. I don’t know if you’d remember, but there’s that scene in Music and Lyrics, when Drew Barrymore told Hugh Grant that he had such amazing insight, and he said, “Thank you. I’d use it on myself, except I don’t have any problems.” That scene—that’s where it all begins. But you’re probably wondering, “Why would this girl’s story begin with an announcement that she doesn’t have any problems? What kind of a story would that be, and why would that even be of any interest to me? And surely, she must have at least some form of conflict in her life. Nobody is born that lucky.”
Again, let me explain, and let me explain by introducing myself. My name is Chrisanta Carmela Legaspi. Most people call me Chrissy. When they’re feeling too lazy to add in that extra syllable, my friends (and feeling-close people who think they’re my friends) call me Chris. I turned sixteen a couple of months ago, and I’m a junior in high school. I’m Student Council vice president, and I get good grades—mostly As, a few B+s, nothing below a B. I have two best friends: Anna, who’s smart and sarcastic but secretly a softie, and Rickie, who’s tall and slim and gorgeous and absolutely aware of it. I’ve been on a few dates (the most recent one with Long-Time Crush Nathan), but have never had a real boyfriend (or a fake one, for that matter), and therefore have never gone past HHWW or the perfunctory goodnight beso. I’ve had my heart broken by the occasional guy who won’t like me back, but have never harbored a grudge and have always believed that true love is worth the wait. My family is fully functional: my mom (a Literature professor) and my dad (a part-time writer and full-time chef) have been happily married for eighteen years, and have always been around for me and my brother Justin, who is five years old and totally adorable. I like Rachel Cohn, vanilla milkshakes, rainy afternoons, pretty summer dresses, smiling at strangers on the street, MGMT (my dad was a huge fan of them back when they were still The Management—he’s cool like that, yo), David Archuleta, and watching YouTube videos demonstrating the Japanese brand of humor. My biggest self-esteem issues? That my feet are too small and I can’t sing to save my life. I have never tried recreational drugs in any form and I don’t intend to. I cannot stand parties, or the taste of beer, or the smell of cigarettes. My idea of fun is a weekend shopping trip with Anna and Rickie, a game of Taboo with my parents, or a Michael Cera marathon. Grown-ups describe me as “responsible” and “mature” and “level-headed.” I am so “responsible” and “mature” and “level-headed” (I feel the need to keep using the quotation marks, just to clarify that I am not tooting my own horn here), in fact, that this is how a typical conversation with my guidance counselor would go:
Counselor: Hello, Chrisanta. How are you today?
Me: I’m great, thanks. How are you po?
Counselor: I’m great too. You seem like you’re in a good mood. Big party this weekend?
Me: Oh no, actually, I just got a text message from my dad. He says we have tickets to a special movie premiere on Saturday night.
Counselor: You’ll be watching the movie together, as a family?
Me: Yes, Ma’am.
Counselor: That’s nice. And you don’t mind spending your Saturday night with them?
Me: Not at all. I love going to the cinema with my parents—their running commentaries are hilarious.
Counselor: I see. (smiles, jots something down in her notebook)
Me: Oh-kay. You’re smiling, Ma’am.
Counselor: Yes, I am. I’ll let you in on a secret: You make this job so much easier for me. Your disciplinary record is spotless, you are always so honest and open, and you don’t feel the need to misbehave just to get attention.
Me: But I don’t want attention if it’s that kind of attention.
Counselor: Exactly. (smiles, scribbles, scribbles, smiles)
See what I mean? I am not your everyday emo angsty rebellious teenager. In short, I am completely, disgustingly well-adjusted. I think in some cultures they call this boring.
Everything in my life makes sense, and someday, if some hotshot director were to make a movie of my life, he’d probably say, “She’s such a nice girl, but I wouldn’t have enough material for a full-length film. There’s just not enough drama and conflict in her life to build a happy ending upon. Oh well. Maybe I should call Lindsay Lohan instead, at least she gets people buzzing.” Ouch. What harsh words you speak, hypothetical hotshot director. I’ll show you. I’ll make my own drama and conflict. I’ll make my own happy ending, just you wait.
And so I guess what I’m trying to tell you is this: upon watching that scene in Music and Lyrics, I had the great-grandmother epiphany of all my tiny baby epiphanies. I realized that it would be such a shame to let the fact that I was issue-free go to waste. I realized that like Hugh Grant, I have amazing insight, or at least I’d like to think so, but the problem is that I don’t have problems of my own. Let me slightly rephrase that, for further emphasis: I have a problem, which is that I don’t have any problems. You got all that? Okay, good. Let’s see where this little quest leads to.
>
Rule number 2:
Gather information.
Nathan looks at me. “Chrissy. What are you doing?”
The answer I give him is, “Why, what’s weird about what I’m doing?” Which technically isn’t an answer because it’s also a question. We are driving to Flaming Wings in Katipunan for lunch, and for the last five minutes, I have been leaning forward in the passenger seat, resting my hands on the dashboard and inspecting my newly-purple-polished fingernails. The real answer, of course, is “Trying to get you to notice my fresh manicure and ask for a closer look and therefore hold my hand, you dimwit.” I’m not really sure why I’m doing this now. Maybe because the last time I saw him was during our semi-disastrous movie date, when his hand was on the armrest for the entire two hours and my palms were gross and sweaty and I panicked because I knew he wanted to hold hands for the first time. I dealt with the situation by crossing my arms tightly over my chest so he wouldn’t have access to my hands. I have no idea what the movie was about, or why he keeps asking me out despite my mixed signals. I just know I have to make it up to him somehow, unless I want him to give up and go ninja (i.e., disappear without a trace) on me.
“Can you please put your seatbelt back on?” he says, sounding irritated and PMS-y.
“Fine,” I sniff. “Sungit mo naman.” I lean back, snap on my seatbelt, take out my phone, and pretend to be texting. For all he knows, I might be texting another guy and saying, “I’m so glad you don’t make me wear a stupid seatbelt. And for that, you totally win over this idiot Nathan.” I rearrange my face into what I hope could pass for a kilig, texting-with-a-cute-boy expression. At one point, I even giggle in fake delight. He grunts and rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.
Hold up—in case you start wondering why I’m even out on a date with this guy, let me make it clear that this isn’t like Nathan at all. This irritable, PMS-y person beside me is not Nathan, or at least not the Nathan I know. Because the Nathan I know defies the broody, tortured artist stereotype by being cheerful and good-natured and impossibly optimistic. The Nathan I know caught my attention by making the school’s cranky canteen lady laugh with a really stupid joke, way back in freshman year. I was picking up a dozen packed lunches for a Student Council meeting, and she was giving me this lecture on not expecting people to wait on me hand and foot, all because I had asked her (very politely, mind you) for some string to tie the styrofoam containers with. I was explaining to her that I needed it to carry everything at once, when someone behind me piped in, “Manang, I have a joke for you. Sinong banda ang palaging nanghihingi ng string?” Surprisingly, the cranky canteen lady shrugged and said, “Ewan ko. Sino?” He cleared his throat for emphasis and said, “Eh ‘di Metallica! May tali ka? Hahaha!” There was eerie silence for about twenty seconds, and I was deathly afraid she would throw her cash register at us. I was about to run for cover when she laughed and told him, “Oo iho, meron. Sandali lang ha.” Before I knew it, she was handing him an entire roll of string, and he was giving it to me, and I was blushing and saying thanks, and he was introducing himself and shaking my hand. And yeah, I’ve had an enormous crush on him since.
The Nathan I know is sweet and caring and one of the most patient guys I have ever met. The Nathan I know asked me out on our first date by leaving a note attached to a single red rose in my locker—a cheesy and outdated gesture, but a sweet one nonetheless. The Nathan I know would never pull into the parking lot, get out of the car, slam the door behind him, and stand there scowling in the midday sun, waiting for me to open my own door.
I run to catch up with him and ask, “Who are you and what have you done to my friend?” I say “friend” because I don’t know what else to call him—we’re not officially together, although we have been dating (exclusively, I think, although we never agreed on that either) for almost six months. Besides, we’ve been friends since that Metallica incident in freshman year, and have gotten closer while working together for the Student Council, which means our platonic relationship trumps our sort-of-romantic one in terms of longevity. Who are you and what have you done to my potential boyfriend would have been presumptuous, and Who are you and what have you done to the guy I’m dating would have been, I don’t know, complicated. But the moment I say “friend,” I realize what a huge mistake I have made, as proven by the fact that he just shakes his head sadly, pulls out a chair for me, and sits down.
Okay, seriously, what is going on here? The sungit scowling, I can take, or at least ignore—it can even be amusing because it is so out of character. But this disappointed silence, like I am a pre-schooler who has done something wrong, is strange and unsettling and, as far as I know, completely uncalled for. Because I haven’t done anything wrong, except for that holding hands incident, and I really don’t see how that can amount to this much fuss. I feel like I am five years old again, except when I was five and in trouble, I was always told exactly what I was in trouble for before being subjected to disappointed silences.
But today, the disappointed silence stretches on until our lunch arrives, until he asks for the bill, until we leave the restaurant, until we get back in the car, until he drives me home. And now I am sitting in front of my computer, staring blankly at the monitor, gathering my confused thoughts into one big blob of disbelief.
On my computer screen, there are three new comments for the latest post on my online advice column. Remember what I was telling you before, that it was a shame to let my amazing insight go to waste? Well, I might as well use it to make the world a better place—and maybe stir up some drama in my life through other people’s problems so that the hypothetical hotshot director can give me a happy ending. This online advice column, which I put up three months ago, is my answer. Let me explain how it works. Readers e-mail me their problems about school, family, friends, love, etc. As expected, most of the problems that come in are love-related, which is fine because they make way for some really interesting discussions. I choose one problem every week, write a lengthy response full of wise advice, put it up online, and allow the other readers to react. Comments don’t require approval because sometimes it takes me a couple of days to check my mail and I want everyone to be able to post their thoughts right away; besides, the site visitors are a tame, well-behaved bunch—no bashing or inappropriate remarks, and everyone seems to want to help everyone else. In school, people would come up to me to say thank you, or tell me what a wonderful idea the site was. It made me happy, the fact that I was making new friends and maybe even building a small fanbase, all because of my ability to solve a few problems here and there. In a nutshell, the way it works is actually pretty simple. No, scratch that, it’s supposed to be pretty simple.
A week after the birth of my online baby, someone who called himself “N” started leaving messages like, “Your readers are lucky to have you,” and “You are extraordinary.” Soon, the messages turned to, “You make my day a little bit brighter every time I visit this site,” and “If I admit to being one of your many secret admirers, does that still make me a ‘secret’ admirer? ;-)” To that last message, I replied with a flirty, “I think I have an idea who you are, N. You make my days brighter too. :-) But just for fun, let’s keep pretending your identity is yet to be revealed. Your ‘secret’ is safe with me.” I was glad Nathan was being supportive of this little venture, although every time I’d bring it up, he’d deny having anything to do with it. “But if you’re not N, then doesn’t this make you the least bit jealous?” I’d ask playfully. He’d grin and say, “No, because I know at least five guys in school who have a thing for you, but I also happen to know that you only have eyes for me.” And then I’d punch him in the shoulder and we’d laugh about it and move on to another topic.
The three latest comments are all from “N,” and all in response to one post:
July 14, 2008
Dear Chrissy,
My best friend and I have always been attracted to each other. We’ve never said this out loud, but I know for a fact that
we are definitely more than friends. We go out on “dates” all the time, we text and YM every day, and we spend our weekends hanging out with each other’s families. The problem is, we’ve been in this in-between, are-we-or-are-we-not-a-couple stage for quite a while now, almost a year. Sometimes I try hinting that I want us to make things official, but I don’t want to be the one to spell it out for him. I’m starting to get confused. Why isn’t he making a move? I’ve been giving him all the right signals. Does this mean he’s not really interested?
Sincerely,
Love Stuck
Dear Love Stuck,
One year is a long time to be in that stage. Based on experience, guys our age are not known for their patience, which means if they really want to be with you, they’d want to be with you as soon as possible. Guys our age will wait only because they want to get to know you better, but seeing as you two are already best friends, I don’t see why this should be necessary. And if you go out on “dates,” text and YM each other every day, and spend weekends with each other’s families, then you are definitely giving him all the right signals. He sounds like he’s interested in you too, yes, but it also sounds like he is not yet willing to get into a relationship with you. This strikes me as a bit unfair, especially since at this point, YOU are ready for a relationship. You don’t deserve to be kept waiting, Love Stuck. Maintain your friendship with him (because I’m not saying he’s a bad person), but maybe you should find someone who wants to be with you now, not later.
Love,
Chrissy
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Every Girl's Guide to Boys Page 1
