Painful to be Private Preoccupations [Part VI]

VI.

At last, I’m finished with the final revision on my thesis. I’m quite lucky that the modifications I have to do are only minor ones, and now I have polished and printed all three copies of it, two days before the final “finally”. I already had my own copy unbound; I am keeping the most untidy one for myself. I need binder clips for this so I go outside to buy some. Outside, I see Joyce sitting in the pavilion, sighing through what seems to be her homework. I sit beside her, ask what she is doing and she answers it’s her assignment in logic. She tries to apologize for our postponed appointment, and I interrupt her, telling her that it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it, have no reason to blame her because her excuse was legitimate anyway, do not see a reason why I have to pour it on her because it would only convey that I am still preoccupied with it, that it’s really a big deal for me (was it?). We chat idly while I massage her hand, her perfect small—

“Ano ba yan, nagpapawis.” I say.

“Heh, yabang!”

We kid around; tease each other while going through her assignment. Her classmates pass by, look at us, then to our hands and we are given a look like we’re burning crosses. When they leave, they say something that Joyce denies, out of my earshot. Then I hear a sigh.

“Zaldy…”

“Bakit?”

“May ishe-share ako sa ‘yo.”

“Mamaya na, samahan mo muna ako sa Asturias. May bibilhin ako.”

“Ano?”

“Binder clips para dito sa thesis ko.”

We leave the pavilion and head for a bookstore outside the campus. It’s almost noon, the summer heat begins to be unbearable. When we arrive and I pick out some binder clips, she says something.

“Zaldy, alam mo ba, nagparamdam si ex kagabi. Nagtext siya sa ‘kin—”

“Wait Joyce. We’re not going to talk about your ex boyfriend. What we’re gonna talk about is how are you going to have fun with me.”

“Ha?” she says, her mouth agape. “Ok, sige.”

“Tara na, balik na tayo sa AB. Malapit na ang klase mo.”

We part ways when we arrive at the lobby. She is caught off-guard, dumbfounded by my remark. This girl, she might be thinking that I am her friend. Well, I am, but not the friend-friend sort. She is not on her toes, not calculating enough, not seeing that things are pulled taut. Is it not obvious to her yet that I like her? Does she wants me to tell her that first before we go out? It’s too conventional, which of course I am not. Actually, I planned on telling her what I feel the day I was to take her out for lunch. It seems that she has trouble sensing and confirming subtle clues about these things. Then it dawns on me that I have another problem: that she does not know how to flirt. This means that I would be having a hard time because half of the things that I would express would be meaningless to her.

□ □ □

It’s our final examination next week, and I am feeling something weird. Half of me is feeling relieved, as it would be my last exam in my stay here in the university. No more expensive tuition, cluttered boarding houses, last-minute ironing of school uniforms and unbelievable deadlines from demanding professors. But at the same time, the other half of me is missing it already. Before, I was often told that high school is the best, that college would be boring and too pedantic, but now I defer. Though I am not certain that college topped off my high school life, I’m sure that they’re at least even. High school never gave me satisfaction on my intellectual vanity—college just did that. My high school peers always thought that my line of thinking is weird, that I was being too unconventional, misshapen because I’d rather be in Book Sale alone than be with them at Penshoppe, window shopping. They still think so now, but I have my theories and paradigms to back me up, to show them that I am doing not only what I want but what I need to do, I as a denizen of the growing penumbra between mainstream and alternative. Years ago, I also told a friend of mine, while drinking brandy mixed with Sunny Orange coating our throats, in a snug condo unit, that if I’m not getting any girlfriend in college, it would probably turn out that having one in the future would be impossible too. We both had some hearty laughs about it but now that I remember it, I’m feeling a bit concerned. With the semester ending in three weeks—a week for senior students—it’s one of my top preoccupations now, and I am dubious if I could make it.

It’s The Hour of Great Mercy, and I go to the faculty to submit my thesis to one of my panelists. I see Joyce in the lobby and I invite her for a snack. She concedes, then begins to complain about her school work.

“Ang dami-dami naming ginagawa! Magkakaroon na ‘ko nung… ano’ng tawag dun? ‘Yung puting buhok?” she pulls up her hair, “Ayun, unat! Magkakaroon na ‘ko nung unat!”

“Huh? Eh uban kaya ‘yon!” I say, cackling.

“Basta ‘yun na rin ‘yon!”

This Alabang Girl needs a Filipino dictionary; this is not the first time that she said something that exhibits her being tongue-tied on the language. I almost always feel disheartened because of people like her whose tongues—and therefore mindsets—are fluent with foreign words without being on average on speaking the national language. But then again, why is she using that old-model cellphone? Well, it’s not my business anyway.

After walking idly outside while still telling me that she cannot believe the end-of-semester requirements that they must work on, she realizes that she isn’t hungry after all.

“Eh ano palang ginagawa natin dito ngayon?” I ask.

“Ewan. Ikaw kasi eh.”

“Anong ako? ‘Di sana hindi ka na lang sumama, nakakapagod maglakad, sobrang init na.”

“…”

“Ang mabuti pa ihatid mo na lang ako sa AB.”

“Ano? Ayoko nga, babae kaya ako.”

“So?” Although she is refusing, backing up her static-gender-oriented reason earlier, she is in fact walking me back to the lobby of our building. I think of cognitive dissonance. When we arrived, some of my classmates see us. I introduce her to them and even before my classmates could pull off some jokes at my expense, she excuses herself after seeing her classmates and leaves us, waving. When they are gone, Ces, a friend of mine, speaks to me about her.

“Siya pala yung Joyce.” She says.

“Oo, siya nga”

“Saan kayo nanggaling nyan?”

“Sa labas, dapat kakain. Eh hindi pala siya gutom kaya nagpahatid na lang ako dito.”

“Ay ang kapal! Ikaw pa ang nagpahatid. Mahiya ka naman, freshman lang yun, ang bata bata—”

“Manahimik ka. Wala na akong kaso dyan, 18 na yan.”

“Kahit na.” We chuckle as we kid around with both our ages, then I tell her that I’ll just drop by the faculty room to submit my thesis. When I arrive, Ma’am Gamo is there and she asks me something appalling.

“Hoy Zaldy! Nanliligaw ka ba sa presidente ng 1jrn2?”

“Po? Sinong president?” I deny, smiling nervously, my face admitting it.

“Kunwari pa ‘to, eh ‘di si Joyce!”

“Hindi naman. Bakit po ba?”

“Eh tuwing magkaklase ako sa kanila eh ikaw ang tinatanong sa akin ng buong section, tapos hinahanap ka daw ni Joyce. Ikaw ha, kaya pala kahit na tapos na ang Bilibid nakikita ko pa kayong magkasama.” I tell her it’s nothing, barely managing to hide my grin. I bid farewell to my professor and leave the faculty room, still chuckling. Now even their whole class knows the score, but she doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. The issue, I hope, would be an edge, would be a background to amplify even more that which is already obvious. Social proof!

Later, when evening arrived, I and my classmates went out drinking in one of the drinking potholes around the university. Everyone seems to miss each other already, drinking every other night after school, taking advantage of the fact that we all have only a few requirements left before the final examination. When we finished, we got out to the street to hail a cab for our other classmates. Then I and some of the ones left started walking towards Ces’ apartment. When we were at the front of the campus’ gate, we saw a group of students in uniform—Joyce and her friends. I introduce them to my classmates. One of them, Jen, looks at me and says something totally unexpected.

“Kuya Zaldy, kailangang lumabas na kayo ni Joyce!”

“Ha? At bakit naman?” I ask

“Eh tingnan mo nga, ang lungkot lungkot niya oh.”

“Ganun ba? Sige.” I look at Joyce, broken, haggard from all the school work she has been doing and whatever that reason that made her lonely tonight. She is lost in thought, her eyes heavy and flushed—she appears to have been crying a while ago. She is staggering, her feet dragging something heavy at every step. Her classmates hail her a jeepney and we bid farewell after she boards on it. I head my way back to my boarding house.

I want to know what happened, the cause of her teary eyes earlier. Is it about the person she wanted to talk about with me before? It might, it is. Her feet appears to be so heavy, every step filled with weary hesitation, as if they were chained to something that prevents her to walk, to move forward. I’m perplexed, at a loss for an explanation. Another piece of the puzzle appears before me, only to discover that it doesn’t match anything, the piece being another riddle itself. I know that this is not the time to be perturbed about what she thinks but I can’t help but worry, worry that this is another obstacle, that this would be both our preoccupation for a while that we would try to put aside—a stone that stubbed our toes that we would both try not tripping over again.