VIII.
I have been in my hometown for a week, and am back to
Now I’m going back to the province after getting my things at the Flame office earlier. As I walk in the university on my way back to my boarding house, I see familiar faces in a familiar fast-food chain; a group from 1jrn2. They waved, and gestured me to come in and join them and I oblige. We chat idly for a few moments with the usual long-skirt-and-unbuttoned-bottom-button-blouse girl, now wearing a red shirt and a pair of black jogging pants, rarely uttering a word to me. She seems too preoccupied with eating her food, almost pecking on it like a bird. After their meal, we walk towards a nearby basketball court where, I was told earlier by a girl in the group who borrowed a hundred pesos from me, their sport-inclined activity is going on.
We sit and idly watch a game of basketball. After some moments of talking about the ball games she knows, I ask Joyce to take me to the gate because I was leaving. She agrees and we stand up, walk towards the sidewalk outside the gate. This is us, talking:
“Malayo ba ang province mo?” she asks.
“Hindi naman, three hours lang.
“Sabagay. Eh kasi naman laging traffic.” she says, chuckling.
“Kalahati lang ng traveling time papuntang Zambales.
“Ano? Saan, Zambales? At ano naman gagawin natin dun?”
“May picnic kami ng classmates ko, isama daw kita kasi gusto ka rin nilang makilala.”
“Eh ‘di ba nakilala na nila ‘ko?”
“Iilan lang ‘yun eh, gusto kang makilala nung iba siyempre.”
“Ayo—I mean, hindi ako pwede. Busy sa summer, got a lot of work to do.” She is looking downward, her shoes scratching the pavement.
“Maganda dun, tsaka masaya kasama yung mga kakla—”
“Eh basta!” she scoffs.
“Ok.” This is stupid, I don’t need this! I look at the vehicles passing, the traffic is breathing lighter now that the classes are over for the summer. I change the subject; I read aloud a poster demanding the president’s resignation posted on the wall.
“Trapo kasi eh.” she says.
“Parang kanta nung banda na Yano?”
“Trapo, trapo ka kasi” she sings, in the tune of the song mentioned.
“Trapo, trapo ka kasi” I sing too. We begin singing the chorus, alternating, pointing to each other when the other one’s part is next. We look like a children’s show.
“Tama na.” I say. She stops and begins talking about something while kicking me on the outside of my left thigh lightly. I tell her that it’s wrong, stating corrections to the pivoting of foot and the swinging of hips—the standard roundhouse. She adopts a primitive kickboxing stance and kicks again, doing what I told her. After three or four times of indulging herself in this sadistic frenzy, my leg begins to hurt like a mother.
“Tama na, masakit na.” but she ignores me, still kicking my leg. “Ay naku, bumalik na nga lang tayo dun sa court!”
“KJ!” we start walking back to the court. When we step on the field, she kicks me again, I slap her lower back, knowing well how it stings.
“Aray!”
I back off and Joyce starts towards me, ready to chop my head off. She gets a running start and so I run too, she chases me in the field. After a few meters I feel conscious of what we are doing and realize that we look like a Tirso Cruz-Nora Aunor teen flick. I stop and she catches me, banging her fists against my arm. Joyce’s friends call her and we walk towards them and she is summoned by a senior to help with the buying of food for the participants. We sit on the grass, talking about a gamut of topics like movies and professors as they wait for their dinner. After about an hour Joyce arrive and they eat, after which I say that I should be going now because it’s late.
“Alis na ‘ko, bye.”
“Sige kuya Zaldy, bye.” her friends say. I turn to Joyce.
“O pa’no? Keep in touch na lang. See you again soon.” I say.
“Bye, ingat sa byahe.”
“Alam ko namang mababalani ako sa iyong haraya.”
“Ha? Ano na naman ‘yun.”
“Sabihin ko na lang sa ‘yo next time.”
“Ewan ko sa ‘yo. Sige na.” she turns away.
“Bye guys!” I start walking away, backwards, waving to them. I sigh, thinking that it’s downhill from now on, that my effort earlier was futile and so made itself probably the last one because it called for such a rejection, one where its loathe was poorly hidden by a lame excuse because it’s a lame invitation. Surely I’m going to miss her and her friends. I don’t want to think about these thoughts, not right now. I make a note to myself that if ever there’s no interesting movie shown in the bus, I must sleep during the trip, whatever it takes.
□ □ □
A week later I am in
“May bago ka daw dinidiskartehan ah, kumusta na kayo?” Paul asks.
I tell them that since my vacation, we rarely talk to each other via our cellular phones or internet, the only feasible way. I tell them that as I get farther away from her, the gap between us widens, and now begins to swallow me, wearing me down, beating me into a pulp. I relate to them that I plan on just fading away. To strive in pursuing her begins to be a dubious idea for me because recently nothing is being reciprocated. It’s downhill, really, and I confirmed it when she sent me a text message yesterday, answering my question why she now rarely replies:
“Bakit? Kailangan ba na mag-reply ako lagi sa mga text mo?”
Which implies another one—leave… me… alone!—that hit me in the gut. And to think that a month ago she would spend all her credit when we send messages to each other, eventhough we’re both inside the campus. We agree that it is indeed a downhill battle, one that is not advisable to fight anymore because you’ll only lose. We think and talk about her thoughts when she sent me that message, that maybe she wants me to be butchered, pulled and torn apart by four horses that are each tied to one of my limbs, see me flayed and pecked at by crows, or just wish me to leave her alone.
“Eh kung tawagan mo kaya sa bahay nila para malinaw mo ang kailangang linawin?” they say.
“Bakit pa?
“Basta tawagan mo na lang! Kundi kami ang tatawag dun.”
I reiterate that we might be thinking the same thing right now, that such a girl who barely knows how to decipher subtle clues pertaining to attraction is not worth my attention, that I was just wasting my time and effort on her, that she has nothing at all to do with what I offer, cognitive or emotional-wise, except that she—
We clamber for the phone. I make the call. She is not at home.
We change the subject and go downstairs to help prepare dinner. Minutes later, I eat like I haven’t eaten in days, as if I have to fill something other than my stomach.
