what you read may deceive

How many times

Do I have to retell my story?

We sat and chatted

Under the familiar sky

I recounted the past

The first glimpse

Of my soul’s match

Fixed on her was my gaze

Like my arms joining my shoulders

In her eyes were a million city night lights

Her every detail drew me nearer

Like gossips on talkshow hosts

Curious, spirit on a high

I wanted to shout and whisper

And dance and jump

And roll and stand

And clap and cheer

First time in my life

I was certain

                With the flashlight secured in my grip, I made my way to school that night. I had left my favorite bookmark in my hideout by the water tank. I had to get it back. It was a family heirloom, handed down from my great-grandmother for generations. It was a bronze, letter-opener type of bookmark with my great-grandmother’s name engraved on it. It was an elaborate piece and had none of those cheap modern-day designs.

                My eyes roamed the ground that my flashlight would illuminate. Then, I heard the noise. I was not aware that anyone was nearby that late at night.

                “Plank!”

                I tried to locate the source of that sound with my ears. I quickly realized that it was coming from behind our school building. I couldn’t make way to the tall grass because a fence was keeping me from exploring any further. All I could see was a dark silhouette of a man, outlined by the full moon’s beam. He was digging in the middle of the field, unrecognizable because he was far enough from me.

                I lingered by the fence for a few minutes until I remembered what I was there for in the first place. I moved on to search the water tank area further for any trace of my bookmark. I didn’t find anything, so I ended my quest and hurried home.

                The next morning to my mother’s delight, I woke up an hour earlier that usual. Trimming my morning rituals down to the essentials meant the sheer discomfort of towel-drying my feet instead of drying them in front of the electric fan, but it also meant more time to scour the lawn for my bookmark, or (heaven forbid!) in case I don’t find it, ask around in class for anything that may help me find that darn bookmark.

                Beating the dawn to school for the first time ever that morning, I immediately set out to work on my agenda. Combing the dew-dappled grass to no avail, I resorted to Plan B. But in that early hour, including myself, there were only two people in class. I asked Miguel anyway.

                “Migs, do you know of any school projects being carried out in the lawn after class hours?” I asked.

                Miguel just stared at me. I repeated myself. “Do you know of anyone working the lawn after school hours?”

                His eyes were as blank as ever. Without a word, he close his eyes and went to sleep, leaving me wanting to douse him with cold water. At that moment however, the sharp, horrid smell of too much Arabian perfume assailed my nose. Another classmate has arrived.

                “Hey…” I began, a bit hesitantly. “would you happen to—“

                “What, love you? Hell no.”

                “What?” I said, quite confused. “I just wanted to ask you—“

                “I always thought you had a crush on me. Well, nice job of sneaking in here at this time, now you could have me all to yourself.”

                This guy was very conceited, I thought. “No, I just wanted to ask you if you knew of any school projects going on in the lawn after class hours.”

                “Why do you ask?”

                I knew I will have to sound crazy, so I took one deep breath before going on. “Well, let’s just say I lost my—something, last night, and I need to get it back.”

                “What did you lose?”

                “Something important.”

                “What, a bookmark?” he asked, laughing.

                I don’t suppose I need to tell what happened next when I told him that indeed. I lost a bookmark—one with my great-grandmother’s name engraved (yes, Nico, engraved, not on a sticker or something) on it. And yes, a family heirloom—just like the “stuff they cry over in mushy telenovelas” as Nico put it.

                Math that morning wasn’t particularly interesting. Find the LCM by dividing the denominators with a common prime divisor until they become relatively prime to each other blah blah blah, why can’t we talk about finding my bookmark instead? It’s bronze, it’s shiny, it should be the easiest thing to spot on the grass. Why on earth was there someone working on the lawn in the dark? What was he doing there, building a foundation for a new flagpole or something? Why didn’t I get a good look at that man’s face? What am I going to do when my mother finds out about this? And what on earth does ‘relatively prime’ mean?

                What?

                “Yes, little miss, you,” Mr. Campos said. “What does ‘relatively prime’ mean?”

                Now it was turn to give someone asking a question a blank look.

                “Is there anything wrong with you?” asked Mr. Campos.

                Giggles filled the room like spores in an allergic’s bedroom. “She lost her bookmark, a very important bronze bookmark!” announced Nico in a loud whisper. Hysterical laughter ensued.

“Oh, we should really look for it!” mused Andoy, Nico’s lackey. “It’s a treasure her ancestors have passed down through the ages!” Even louder hysterical laughter.

“Andoy’s right! Or else her family will disown her and leave her begging for food in the streets!” Not even a single cricket in the dead of the night.

“Okay, do your homework. See you tomorrow. Goodbye, class,” Mr. Campos bid us farewell. “Bye sir,” we replied in chorus. “I love recess! C’mon let’s eat,” Andrea motioned her friends to follow her. “Um, Maya, good luck in finding your bookmark. Don’t fret, I’ll write a letter to Wish Ko Lang and wish for your bookmark’s return,” she told me.

“Thank you,” I muttered. Sweet girl.

I didn’t have time to eat, though. Detectives have to work even with an empty stomach. As I made my way to the science laboratory, I could see smoke from the side of the building. Manong Jerry must have been burning leaves. From where I stand, I could see the water tank. I remembered the image of the man digging earth. I was facing his back and he was looking down on the ground. He was digging in the manner that Manong Jerry is sweeping the fallen leaves at the moment. He keeps the whole campus clean and green. There is no other person who had gone through every corner of this school than he is.

“Manong Jerry,” I called. He almost jumped upon hearing my voice. “Have you seen a bookmark? It is a delicate piece made of bronze material with the name “Maria Lorena” engraved on it—the only one in the world,” I asked him. “No,” he shrugged. “I sweep candy wrappers, papers and plastics. I never found anything of importance,” he explained. “Have you been to the water tank? There was not much trash because no one goes there. It is not a tough job to spot my bookmark there,” I said.

“We have dogs here. Maybe they brought your poor little bookmark somewhere else, or perhaps they’ve bitten it to pieces. Or—“

“Stop it! That would never happen to my bookmark. It had survived for many generations without a single scratch,” I argued. “Your ancestors must have been very responsible not to have lost the precious thing,” he commented.

Annoyed by what he said, I left. Perhaps someone had already found it and surrendered it to the Lost and Found Section. Sandra Santos, the rectangular plastic read. It contained a picture of a young girl that appears to me as someone very cheerful with the wide smile and orange braces. There was a dark blue umbrella by the bottom-right of the bulletin board. Three handkerchiefs, all of which were very dirty. A crimson face towel. A spiral notebook with Angel Locsin on the cover. A bunch of other stuff but no bookmark.

Have I really lost it? It can’t be.

I walked outside to breathe some fresh air. I couldn’t believe I was that careless. I bet Nancy Drew would do better than I did. Because I couldn’t find any more clues to the whereabouts of my bookmark, I failed as a detective. I would always remain a reader. I knew I shouldn’t give up. Something urged me to continue spying.

Next step: Go back to the scene of the crime! I sprinted my way to my hideout. Panting, I surveyed once again the vicinity of the water tank.

“Plank!”

“Oh my, that noise again!”

Instinctively, I knelt on the ground and hid behind the tall grass, just as I did last night. But this time, I had all the light that I needed. I saw him, the digging man. There was something familiar about him. Then it struck me! His height, his built, his every feature resembled Manong Jerry.

A gush of blood rose to my head. My legs lifted me up and brought me in front of him. My head was pounding and everything came out of my mouth.

“You! I knew it was you! You took my bookmark! You just told me that you didn’t because you wanted to keep it to yourself! YOU-SELFISH-JANITOR!”

“But—“

“You knew it was priceless! It was an antique! You wanted it so that you could sell it, have money, and put an end to your miserable life!”

“I—“

“Now, hand it over to me, or I’ll hand you over to the principal. I’ll tell her what you’ve been up to! You’re stealing everyone’s valuables and bury them for quite some time. Then the owner would forget about their stuff, and when they do, you’ll retrieve them and sell them for your own use! You’re doing that to erase the suspicion from you!”

Then it happened so fast. His filthy hands caught my arms and held me together. His eyes were deep and blank. Before he spoke, his eyes glowed red for a second (I swear it did!). He was a living evil.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Once again, I have not seen your bookmark. You are completely mistaken about me.” His voice was that of a soft breeze rather than of a storm. I remained frozen with his icy glare. “I thought you were smart!” he continued. “Ha! Maybe you became so absorbed in your books that you failed to see things happening around you. Digging has been part of my job ever since I came here. Everyday, I dig holes for compost bin where I throw the biodegradable garbage. They do help in lessening the trash garbage trucks collect. Sometimes, I dig to bury class pets—which I do at night. I didn’t want the students to get emotional.”

Then a silent laugh. The fingers around my arms loosened and I fell to my knees. Dig…part of my job…compost bin…dead class pet… All were still ringing and floating inside my head.

“Plank,” I finally came to my senses. I covered my sweaty face with my soiled hands, then got up. Still flaming with rage, “I don’t believe you! LIAR! THIEF! You’ll see, I’ll be back!’

I rushed home as fast as I could. Storming into the house with my usual calm gait absent, I hurried off to the phone in the sala. Where’s that darn phonebook?  I was determined to find the school administration’s phone number. I wasn’t going to let Manong Jerry get away with this. As I frantically searched the phonebook, my mother suddenly interrupted me with that shrilly voice she uses whenever she reprimands me.

“Maya!” she shouted. “What did I tell you about your Nancy Drew books? Don’t leave them lying around the house!”

She went on chiding me on how messy and disorganized I was. I spotted the number of our school’s administration in the phonebook.

“Everyday, I follow the trails of clutter you leave behind…”

I quickly dialed the number. My heart was beating so fast. My hour of glory had finally arrived!

“…and it’s as if I have nothing else to do!” my mother said.

She slammed the book on top of the table beside me and stormed out of the sala. The phone on the other end started ringing. I was getting very jittery. While waiting for someone to pick up the line, I took a glance at the book my mother had slammed on the table. Then, a sudden feeling of relief and annoyance rushed through me, and I quickly decided to put down the phone. I had noticed that the book was Nancy Drew: The Scarlet Slipper Mystery, and in between its pages, I spotted a glint of bronze.

I stopped my singing when I saw her face. My hand reached for the radio and turned it off as the door swung open. The acoustic of the chimes, which was screwed on the door, was the only sound present. Gradually, it too was gone.  Her sure steps were soundless and its direction was towards the third row of yellow flag iris. Her right hand was holding the four fingers on her left. I was monitoring her still image through a large mirror. Her hands were now gliding on the three sets of three petal-like parts of the Fleur-de-lis. She was fondling it from the petals to the stems then to the plastic that embraced the posy. Her gaze was following her touch.

A few moments later, she was still on the same spot. She was staring blankly on the bouquets. Her eyes were deep and speaking. Although I was a garden away from her, I can discern what she was saying. Her hands were now on the opposite shoulders—embracing her. She was hugging herself as though she was freezing in absolute coldness. On the outside, however, there was not a breeze. It was during these times when the trees would not whisper. It was one of those days when the sun gets grumpy and refuses to show itself to the world.

Her head turned towards me. Even so, I did not look away. With sympathy, I emulated her eyes. She gestured to buy all the yellow flowers. As she walked towards me, I noticed what was pinned on her chest—a black ribbon and a silver ring.

The sun ascended the roof of the little distanced houses. The smell of the morning dew assailed my nose. I heard the familiar sound of daybreak. Little birds were chirping as if they were talking about what they dreamt of the previous night. It was another boringly serene Sunday morning. I opened my eyes just to reveal the shadows but still I greeted the sun with a cheerful smile.

Slowly, like an astronaut’s feet touching the face of the moon for the very first time, I lowered my foot from the bed to the floor. My feet swept the tiled flooring in search for my slippers. I stood on my feet. One, two, three steps, I touched the wall. Tracing it with my hands, I motioned myself towards the door. As I made my way out, I tripped on an impeding parcel. I straightened myself and rubbed my right elbow, which had hit hard on the ground.

If this Sunday was a few years back, I wouldn’t have carelessly stepped on the wrong square of the floor. I would have maneuvered myself on the right direction. Sadly, this Sunday was today where my world was dominated by darkness and my vision belonged to the past.

A seed on a forgotten piece of soil

A sprout—an overlooked piece of life

On a green piece of paper

What do you see?

Isn’t there a clear-cut forest?

On a green stretch of board

What do you see?

A plain material later covered with white dust

Books on the shelves

You read them

Then put them back

The little seed on the soil

Rest still

Head bent down

On bind pieces of prints

You mimicking the sound of the oblation

A sprout peeked

Into the bulb-lighted room

Pen on paper

Ink on both sides

From top to bottom

Now the first leaf

Very little

More pages

More leaves

Eyes on the screen

Hands on the keyboard

Pushed the tiny blocks

Until letters were blurred

The little plant grew old

Green went yellow

Then brown

After a few pages printed by your busy machine

The tanned, wrinkled and crisped entity breathe

Her last evidence of life

On a noon-time like today, the sun was up and so proud. On the velvet curtains of our classroom, the rays of the sun was passing through. It created a bright and warm atmosphere. Everyone looked young and fresh.

I was gazing at him for some time and I was close to a smile. I never noticed that he had a nice smile and his eyelashes had a charming length. His lips were close to perfect and he had cheerful eyes. His built was very manly and I can say that he was sexy.

“Why haven’t I noticed all these things before?” I thought to myself. My thoughts answered back, “It was because he was warm and humble that you did not notice that he had the charm.” Well, I agreed but only to some extent because he can be rather proud, which I completely understood because we were friends. I knew how things were in his family and I knew lots on what were running through his mind. Let me go back to my conversation with my thoughts. It was agreed that he was simple and not much of a heartthrob. He was a funny and light-hearted person. He was easy going and he took things as they came as though they were bubbles waiting to be popped in the air.

To make things clear, I wanted to state the story behind our friendship. I was very much frustrated then about how things did not work well in my school so I decided to transfer into a different school, which was very far from where I came from. Being depressed and somehow traumatized by the experience of a broken friendship, I chose to be anti-social. It was not hard although I was naturally friendly and warm. The hatred and regret in my heart helped much.

One boring afternoon, as if there were invigorating ones, when everyone appeared to be having their Math classes, I was there alone and waiting for my sister’s class to end. When I thought I was alone, he sat beside me and initiated a conversation. First time that year, I felt comfortable. It was as though my lost enthusiastic self came back from a long vacation.

Not long after I met this simple guy, I started to open my mind to making friends again. I decided to get out of my shell—out of what I thought had protected me against pain. I left the shell that isolated me from the world where my true happiness lied. He made the conditions favorable for the spreading of my wings.

                The image of him being in close perfection was immediately shattered on our first fight. He told me that sometimes he would just pretend to be something he was not. I was hurt by that confession and it pained me more when it seemed nothing to him—his lie, I mean. When all those times I thought I knew him through the heart, he would tell me that sometimes what he showed people were just made-up. We ended up resolving that misunderstanding but we were never the same. Ironically, we became closer and more intimate.

                Maybe because we felt that we knew each other better upon clearing things up between us. We became more open about our ideas and I realized that we had all the common views about life. With the connection that I felt with him, I wanted to be his best friend—the first person he would call on the phone to announce a very good news and I would utter the first “congratulations”.

                He walked towards me upon noticing my gaze, which automatically turned back into a plain look. “Are you starting to fall in love with me?” he jokingly teased. I brushed it off with a quick, “Shut up!” Am I starting to fall in love with him? I repeatedly told myself not to. I was not convinced that our friendship was strong enough that even love could not ruin it. The more I ignored the possibility, the closer I get to it.

                I never thought that those calls I got from him that had practically become an everyday routine meant something. I never realized that all the free jeepney rides and snacks were special. We went on like that for months. I never saw it coming. “Come early to school tomorrow. I have something to tell you,” his voice said on the other line. Who would have thought that it would be a proposal?

I had always thought that I had been traveling East while all those people dear to me were traveling North because I always seem to just have crossed their paths but never stayed long enough to walk with them. Not wanting to waste the moment, I shoved off my mind the thought of them deserting me. But sometimes life could be a big joke.

I was mad at him for leaving. Because he had always known of that joke I was having. The reassurance of his stay, I always hear. He always said he was never departing. I was even mad at him for lying. I held on to those words. But it broke into pieces and away from my grip.

The sun was up but the clouds were downright occupying every square inch of the sky. The wind were mumbling their sympathy on me. On an area on the floor, a volume of water was concentrated and I could see my reflection. It made me feel sorry for myself. I stared at it anyway. Drenched eyelashes, red nose, not a hair in place. My strength ran away from me and I could not bring my hands to wipe the tears, which were now making their way to my neck. My legs betrayed me and I could not stand. I sat there unmoving. Wanting to snap out of reality and travel to an endless dream.

                The silver textile that was facing me slapped the truth to my face. It confirmed what I would want to believe as a nightmare. After his name, in thick bold letters, this was written:

BORN:  October 14, 1988

DIED:    February 22, 2005

Even I was shocked at myself.

          Just later, we were discussing some points in theatre acting. I learned tons of things today in the workshop. However, there was one thing I was worried about. The weird activity where we were made to touch essentially every part of each other’s face. We were not only asked to explore every detail but also to exploit each other’s facial visage. We started off touching the eyebrows. I was a little too self-conscious on that part because I forgot to pluck. On the other hand, yours were actually perfectly shaped—not too thin and not too scattered. It looks natural, however. Touching your nose, your cheeks and your chin proved a silky soft skin. I would give up my lunch just to touch it once again. My fingers love your lips. They were pink and red at the same time. Slightly parted, they were pouting a little. For a moment, I thought they wanted to kiss me.

The two-minute hug was not disturbing for me. Besides the fact that, like dolphins, I loved to be touched and hugged, as close friends we were used to hugging each other. But this hug was different. It was a two-minute hug. I felt your body against mine. I felt comfortable. My hands were on your back while yours were over my shoulders. We stood still like that. I realized that two minutes were actually long. In two minutes, there were a gush of thoughts on my head. They were just passing so I thought I would just ignore them. Can you imagine that I actually thought that after this our lips would lock? I imagined a play were you would be the Sleeping Beauty and I would play the Prince. That moment I would be facing my back on the crowd and you would be there lying and waiting for my magic. I shrugged those disgusting thoughts, while I stared at the mysterious night sky. The black fabric that was covering the sky was unspeakably black today. The moon, together with the stars took a day off and flew off to Boracay. Perhaps, they refused to witness that weird activity of tonight.

Clutched on the right hand

Was I

Rhythmic were the footsteps

Right then left

Right then left

Right then left

Then it stopped

Click!

The doorknob twisted open

I saw a dark empty room

The room locked itself from the outside

I was left inside

With no light

No sight

For years I did not see the sun

I saw darkness

For years I did not feel the wind

I felt coldness

There was no time

No change

No growth

The hinge squeaked

The door opened

The dim light was blinding

Sssssss…

I heard the whisper

Of the lighted matchstick

My wick was burned

I am in tears

Closely I was facing the end.

This was the last day and there was no goodbye. Sanay na siguro siya sa gano’n.