Talk loud, don’t stop talking, always make sure you are in the social circle. They talk about how fat, unattractive, and how lonely the girl in the corner is.
You’re an introverted fuck, it doesn’t sit well with all the lip bites and sa lahat sa mga sinasabi that dip in plain gunk. Maybe it’s because you don’t fit in culturally with the real Filipinos. Country-hopping does that to anyone. Grab those habits—tilt your chin up, make a loud, gruff sniff—it will resonate with the other boys in your highschool. Sit long enough in shit, you get used to it. And sometimes, you start to share that same experience—of getting close, of ignoring yourself.
Staying in the Philippines gives you a sense about who your role models are. Geckos, native beetles, and occasional Kingfishers, become a companion. The rainforest doesn’t make you feel lonely. Your father doesn’t visit often—so you listen to the next closest man—your Nanay. Remember what was told, specifically from Nanay: wag ka mangago sa mga ibang babae. Of course—keep it close to your heart. But disregard that message completely when trying to gain admiration from your boys. Speak up more—you’re doing a lot better now—keep that in mind as you wake up every day. Some of the grade levels below say you’re a snob. It’s maybe because you’re a fucking kano.
Stand straight, back up—don’t forget to talk because the spit in your mouth might taint. That doesn’t sit well with women. Putang-ina, bakit ba lahat ng mga babae dito ang pa-panget? Nod in disapproval (they won’t know). Friends show a video, specifically the scene where she has no control and seductively eyeballs the camera. Laugh, laugh hard, be loud and smile widely because they don’t allow the inexpressive. A girl with lined eyes searching for an answer asks: ano pinapanood niyo, ha? All of the boys give a henpecked answer.
Behind the cafeteria line, cramped, humid—a containing cell of sweat, oil, and broth. The walls are stained with hubris over a preschooler’s mess. You’re with them—let the boys grab your ass, slap it, and pull their fake moans. Bring the food, Menudo and rice, remember to share it—don’t be a fucking prick. Make sure you are in the table’s circle. You are inched a bit further from the table. One of the boys eye you, from head to waist, he unhands his fork and his hand in a fanning motion: get closer. You are part of the pack. Slide the chair as an honorary member. Talk about what happened the other day. Remember the girl who has a crush on you? Yeah, bring it up—you wanted to because then the voting begins—the more insults lean on the side of caution. Don’t. Fucking. Look. Her. Way.
Every time you’re home: it’s exhaustion. Throw the backpack on the floor, remove the physics books—they’re thick like the beer bellies of your uncles. Hard wearing it on your back, maybe not physically, but mentally it tells you and the boys could never fit in the category of Rizal’s intelligence. Nanay notices you looked more tired than usual. Ignore her. She wants to make you a ham and mayonnaise sandwich for the next day—that’s too fucking American—you shout at her: all the fucking boys will throw that shit away from me. Her eyes weigh in (almost as if she was told this before). You apologize profusely.
Wake up in the morning like you’re off to work. Blue uniform, all covered up, but it gets too hot in the classroom. Unbutton your polo, some of the other boys remove it and just have their wife-beaters on. A girl has her skirt too high up, teacher calls her out to bring it lower. Thirty-minute break, make sure—but hurry—and go to the restroom. It’s unmaintained, you believe the janitor doesn’t want to visit the boys’ side. Pales on the side, water from the faucet is rusty and tastes like the used batteries you’ll bury. Stall doors are open—nobody cares if they can see your dick. Vape clouds and whatever drug that smells like glue. Take it all in. Find it amusing, you ask for the vape—
Make them fucking hand it to you.
Take a smoke, no, take three—three is a code for being solid. Kick and scrape the dirt-bottom of your soles like a bull, fluff your hair like a mane—you’re not fucking done yet—stand against the unmanned mirror, take off the polo. Bodies of all sizes, the bigger they are the easier it is to be handled—they touch you, you touch back.
You talk to one of your classmates outside of the restroom. He’s not like the rest of the boys. His legs are usually closer together when standing, he does longer conversations with the girls, and he loves to sing (for passion). Black leather shoes are a lot cleaner than yours. Seems nicer—his voice softer—he smiles at you at times but you look away when you make eye contact. He wants to know what you listen to. Tell him it’s more unconventional, alternative rock, electronic music—not the goopy love songs you hear from OPM. Hand him an earpiece, he likes it—but you shrug it off. There’s a sense of someone watching you, like a father. Demand the earpiece back. He smiles, it’s faint. You hear the next day he cries at the back of the school.
Be tired, be unassorted. If the teacher sees you awake and all energetic, they will single you: how well-behaved you are. Targeted. Crosshairs on your ass. Harass you until you’re a man. Sleep in class, hide your face with the Intro to Physics cover page. Stay in the same corner and kick the girl out of her chair—there it has an open window—the guttering aircon’s off so you need to breeze off with the shirtless boys. Get all sweaty with them. A standing, open-room sauna at the back of class. Their handkerchiefs act like fans, swinging back and forth, keeping the breeze at their face.
Remember the girl in the corner? Doesn’t fucking matter now. She lost a lot of weight. Look at the girl again. Give her an eye. She’s actually really pretty now, no—she’s ugly, unattractive, and lonely. Remember—this is the girl in the corner.
Class presentation. It is a mixed group, your group presents it to the tenth grade. Whatever information you give about convergent plate boundaries is immediately forgettable. You sit next to one of the tenth-graders at the back—his name was Carl—he leans into his chair, legs like an open scissor, he reeks of cigarettes. How are the bars like in America? You tell him: I’m not old enough. He laughs and says how easy it is to get girls here in the area—you thought, it must be fun being eighteen in tenth grade. You laugh along with him.
Padre Garcia is beautiful at six. It’s remote, it doesn’t get much attention, but there’s so much greenery, palm trees and mangos that it retracts away from whatever happens inside the classrooms. Waiting for the jeepney, the boy who loves to sing comes back to you, he pulls you aside. He’s friends with the girl in the corner. Talk about her. Yeah, he’s giving this deal as if he wants to convince you to hang out with him and the girl. You scoff. Tell him you’re not interested. Bakit ka ba makikipaglambing sa mga tao di mo gusto? You’re not trying to fucking get yourself into more shit, you still have the next year. That is the last time you’ll talk to him.
The classroom was quiet the next day. You are looking around for the boys. They’re also quiet. Makikipagchismis ka sa mga ibang usapan. Something about a bar, a girl. You hear more, you listen carefully. Notice that the girl in the corner is missing. A lot of the girls in your class are hiding their faces, some dress a bit more conservatively.
It is break time. You walk to the restroom, the air is more transparent; hear one of the guys whispering as you enter: it’s the fucking gay’s fault. Of course there is talk about how a real man should’ve been there. A name pierces the air: Carl. One of the boys mentions how they need to fuck up the tenth-graders. It becomes a plan.
The back of the school usually is a hangout spot for kids wanting to gossip, but in the later afternoons, it becomes a safe zone for smokers. It is undeveloped, with rainforest trees and a stream at the bottom. The school planned it to be an additional classroom, but you heard the funding was cut to focus on modifying the basketball court instead. The tenth-graders are loitering. Carl is there. A few boys and you pull up. One of the boys taps his sneaker on the cement wall, the dirt clinging on the sole falls off. Another removes his shirt and hangs it around his neck. A boy grabs Carl’s collar, the fabric wants to tear, there was barking between the groups. You don’t join in. The first fist is thrown, Carl falls onto the dirt mound, his head erupts in blood. He screams in pain—it is over.
No one knows about what actually happened. All the boys, including yourself, in the eleventh grade become the week’s conversation for the entire school. You are in your seat, reading your physics book. The other boys are at the back of the classroom, laughing and celebrating their silent win. The singing boy is talking, smiling to the girl in the corner—but you still know her loneliness—her fucking pain that comes from her hunched body. You don’t want to be with boys. You don’t want to be with a boy who sings. You can’t talk to a girl in the corner who was fucking raped.
One of the boys approaches you. He is the one who punched Carl. He sits down, just like the tenth-grader, and while all of them know he’s a hero—you know exactly like he’s just like Carl. Let’s drink later? He taps you on the shoulder with his knuckles. There’s a decision you make, wanting to study more, just like Rizal. In that moment, you realize much of this small world, where boys continue to be boys: lahat ng mga mabuting lalaki ay nakatira lang sa isip.
Close the physics book, tap the plastic-wrapped cover. You stare at him, wag sana mawala ang tingin niya sayo, and you say—quietly: I can’t, I have homework to do.
