by M.G. Marquez
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MAGGIE
Fred called me ‘Boss.’
I don’t know what happened to him or what kind of spirit took over him and he called me his boss. It’s such a great feeling to be called like that because he considers me supreme, like Guji. That he respects me (though not totally) and he promised to protect from whoever.
It’s nice.
“Even though I called you ‘Boss’, you’re still a Foot-faced creature to my eyes.” See? He respects me – not.
My phone rang. BD was calling and I do plan on rejecting it.
But I answered it anyway.
“Hey BrainDead,” I started. “So how was your date with Via?” I bit my tongue as soon as I had said it. Damn, I sounded like a jealous girlfriend. I’m not jealous AND I’m not his girlfriend.
“Well, it was fun. We played basketball and we ate ice cream. We even went to a movie house,” Now, I’m jealous. BLAST IT. Why would I be jealous? They’re friends, we’re friends, and there’s nothing to be jealous about – but I am. NO.
“Wait… are you jealous baby?”
CAN HE QUIT CALLING ME BABY? I’m having terrible goose bumps when he says that!
“Of course not, stupid. Via has a boyfriend so don’t even think about it, baby.” EW. “Why did you even leave?”
“I got bored and I thought I should go somewhere else,”
Bored? Eating cake with your friends is boring? I shook my head as I said, “Why did you call anyway?”
“I can’t sleep. Can you sing for me?”
“NO WAY. Just kill yourself,”
“Okay. Goodbye SB. I’ll see you in heaven…”
“And you think they’ll accept someone like you there? OH PLEASE.”
“Can you just sing for me, please?” He sounded like he was sincere and when he’s like that I can’t do anything but give up.
I asked him what song to sing and he told me Sugarfree’s “Tulog Na.”
Uh-kay. He really needs to sleep, I guess?
“Don’t make fun of voice, okay? I’ll kill you if you do.”
“As if you could do that over the phone –”
“SHUT UP.”
I searched the net for the lyrics and started singing to him. He never butt in for comments such as “your voice sound like cockroaches singing” or “I think our windows are going to shatter.” He just let me sing.
“Good night, Mama.”
Dumbfounded, I smiled at the last words he has said and the way he has said them. It was pure and sincere, innocent, even. It was as if I was talking to an eight year old boy who knew nothing about the world’s cruelty.
I savored the moment until it was gone and he was snoring. I know that tomorrow he would be back to someone I knew – that 18-years-and-364-days old guy who knew nothing about peace.
Tomorrow would be a big day so I have to sleep now.
Goodnight stars and clouds.