Excuse me? Do you not realize the gravity of the situation here? “Going where?”
“Zambales. I told you the other day, remember? Enzo wants to surf. We’ll be back by tomorrow.”
“I know you told me, but I didn’t know we were going today. When did you decide this?”
“Enzo woke up today and wanted to hit the beach,” he shrugs. “It’s a weekend. You don’t have plans, do you?”
“No,” I retort. “But I woke up today feeling like I am about to be guillotined, so I guess the beach and the weekend totally slipped my mind.”
He laughs. “Oh come on, Chris, stop being so melodramatic.” Nobody has ever called me melodramatic before. Ever. That’s because I’m totally not. Like it’s some groundbreaking revelation, he says, “It’s called a hangover. Just drink some medicine and plenty of water and you’ll be fine.”
No, I will not be fine, I want to tell him. Because you abandoned me last night, and now you show up at my house expecting everything to go back to normal. Because I have no idea what happened with Nathan, and I do not want to be the girl who relies on technicalities to wash her hands of the guilt of liking two boys at the same time. Because I can’t believe you don’t even care about the fact that some other guy brought me home, as long as I can get up to go on a stupid road trip with you the morning after. Instead, I say, “I was dead-drunk last night. My parents would kill me before they let me set foot outside this house.”
He tells me, “When I realized you had disappeared from the party, I tried calling you. It was around midnight, I think. Nathan picked up. He said he was with you, and I asked to speak with you but he told me you had just collapsed onto your bed.”
I gulp. It’s slowly coming back to me now: I vaguely remember hurling my guts out into the toilet with Nathan holding my hair up, pushing him out of the bathroom and locking the door behind me, then changing out of my minidress and into my PJs before collapsing onto my bed. So at least I’m pretty certain I didn’t strip down to my underwear in front of Nathan. “I can explain, I...”
“No explanation necessary,” Nico says. “What’s important is that you got home safe and on time. And that your parents didn’t find out you were wasted.”
“But when they find out I’m going on an overnight trip with just you and Enzo, they’re going to freak.”
“You underestimate me,” he says smugly. “I’ve got everything covered. I already spoke to them before coming up here. I told them the basketball team is having a weekend sports clinic for public school kids in Zambales—technically, you will be in Zambales—but majority of the volunteers backed out at the last minute and we’re borrowing the Student Council members as replacements.” He looks quite pleased with his clever little tale. “Besides, it’s not just me and Enzo, our driver will be with us, too. So technically, there will be adult supervision.”
“Oh, well, now that just makes me feel so much better,” I reply. “‘Cause the fact that your chauffeur will be joining us completely makes up for the fact that HELLO, YOU JUST LIED TO MY PARENTS!”
“Keep your voice down,” he hisses. “Look at it this way, Chrissy: Fortunately, you’ve always been a good girl. You’re thoughtful, obedient, trustworthy, the works. You’re lying just this once, and technically, it’s not even your own lie, you’re just backing up whatever I said. And I doubt you’ll ever do anything like this again. Technically, this doesn’t make you an evil, reckless, heartless daughter at all. So just pack your bags, get dressed, and meet me downstairs so we can make the most out of the weekend. Okay?”
I chew on this for a minute. And once more, I become living, breathing proof that in order to seriously screw everything up for the second time around, it only takes one word: “Okay.”
Rule number 9:
Know your boundaries.
For every episode of The Greatest Show of Our Time (AKA Gossip Girl, duh), the editors over at Daily Intel come up with a reality index in which points are added, subtracted, and tallied to show how close the plot comes to real life. I shall now be employing the same method, except instead of determining how authentic an episode of a TV show is, I shall be calculating the degree to which this road trip is a disaster.
The drive to Zambales took five freaking hours. Enzo and I sat beside each other in the backseat, and when he fell asleep, he leaned his head on my shoulder. (Plus five.) It would have been kilig if he didn’t end up drooling all over my tank top. (Minus ten.)
Like true-blue thugs, Enzo and Nico played gangsta hip-hop all throughout the ride. Enzo was wearing a basketball jersey three times too big for him, and silver bling around his neck. Note to boys: Never wear an oversized basketball jersey or silver bling, whether together or separately. It’s just not remotely appealing. I felt like we were about to orchestrate a drive-by shooting. (Minus twenty.)
Because the road trip took five freaking hours, my foot no longer hurt by the time we got to the beach. (Plus fifteen.) Or maybe it still did, but the spotlight shone on the numbness in my butt instead.
When we got to the resort, I realized we had brought way too much stuff for an overnight trip, or at least way too much stuff for four people to carry. There were five big bags of junk food, a cooler of drinks, a boom box, several board games, plus our individual bags of clothes and toiletries. (Grown-ups call these “personal effects.” Why are they called “effects?” Just curious.) We trudge up to our villas lugging what feels like half of our lifetime belongings, and because I am the only weak girl in the presence of three strong men, I start whining. Enzo and Mang Julio the driver pretend not to hear me. Nico just looks at me and says, “Delayed gratification, grasshopper.” I roll my eyes, “Oh alright, smartass, what gratification exactly am I delaying here? I am not looking forward to anything today. And what do you mean ‘grasshopper?’ See, I don’t get all these ninja references. Why can’t I be something prettier, like a butterfly or even a ladybug? This is so unfair,” I call out to their backs. (Minus thirty.)
Nico and Enzo have been surfing for years, and can spend hours in the water. I cannot even swim. You do the math. (Minus twenty five.)
Mang Julio says he thinks Nico really likes me. Well, at least I’m guessing that’s what he meant when he said, “Ma’am, sa tingin ko lang ha, mukhang type ka talaga niyang si Sir.” Oh, yay. (Plus forty five.)
If Nico really likes me, why has he not tried to kiss me today? That’s weird. Yikes, do I have barf breath leftover from last night? I brushed my teeth naman this morning. Maybe he just isn’t into PDA. (Plus twenty.) Or maybe he just isn’t into PDA with me. (Minus forty.)
I feel fat and bloated and ugly. I don’t want to wear a bikini. I say this to Nico, and he tells me calmly, “You’re not fat.” Hello, everyone knows that’s not convincing enough. (Minus thirty.)
I have been worried about my parents the whole day. I shouldn’t have lied to them. I shouldn’t have let Nico lie to them for me. But it is too late to undo all that lying now. It’s not like I’m going to call them to confess. (Minus fifty.)
I stay in my room and sleep through the afternoon, and when I wake up just in time to catch the sunset, my headache is gone and I feel much more cheerful. I go outside to see Nico and Enzo sitting on the sand, chilling out to some Arctic Monkeys (the hip-hop phase seems to be over) and a couple of beers. Aww, how cute. This can be the start of a beautiful bromance. They are talking and laughing, and this makes me smile. (Plus twenty five.) When I come up to them, Nico takes my hand and gently pulls me down beside him, then puts an arm around me. The three of us watch the sunset in silence, the stereo blaring, “All these little promises they don’t mean much, when there’s memories to be made...” If our lives were a movie, this heartwarming scene would make the perfect ending. (Plus fifty.)
Enzo says he needs to take a shower, and asks us to text him when we’re ready to have dinner. He glances around at the dark, nearly-deserted beach. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he jokes. Nico laughs. (Minus twenty.) But it is an emb
arrassed laugh, not a manyak laugh, so I try not to be offended. (Plus ten.)
Nico says, “I hope you’re not sorry you came with us,” and I reply, “Of course I’m not. I’m happy I’m here with you.” We are quiet for a few minutes, and I think, Maybe nobody’s perfect. Maybe I am just being too critical about the fact that he is not as sensitive and soulful as I want him to be. Maybe I am being too cynical, thinking he’s just leading me on and making me believe we have a shot at a real relationship when all he wants is a meaningless fling. Maybe I should stop having these nitpicky monologues in my head and start trusting him—we ARE best friends, after all. And best friends don’t hurt each other. He turns my face toward him and leans in. The kiss we share is sweet and tender, and I feel my defenses melting away. (Plus eighty.) We pull apart. We smile. And then he tells me (and I swear I am not kidding—these are his exact words), “I’m really glad we’re friends, Chrissy.” (Minus one thousand five hundred seventy two. At this point, I obviously stop counting. What’s that? You want a final tally? Go compute for it yourself, you point-obsessed geek. Okay, sorry. I got carried away. Not mad at you. Mad at Nico. Let’s focus on Nico.)
Times like these, you can only rely on two words to fully articulate exactly how you feel: “Fuck you, Nico.” Fine, three words. You add the name of the person for emphasis: Yes, you. If you know me well enough, you’d say this isn’t like me at all. Because I am rarely mad, and even when I am, it is a profanity-free kind of mad. If you know me well enough, you’d think perhaps you didn’t hear me right. Which is probably why a dumbfounded Nico gapes at me and goes, “Huh?”
If you know me well enough, you’d say I wouldn’t dare repeat myself. You’d say I’d most likely pretend I had said something else, then spend the rest of the night trying to forget about it. If you know me well enough, you’d say I can be “responsible” and “mature” and “level-headed” in dealing with this. You’d say I can focus on the “I’m really glad” part instead of the “we’re friends” part. You’d say I’d rise above this. Because I can.
But I am done being the bigger person. So I look him straight in the eye and tell him with conviction, “I said, fuck you, Nico.” No explanation, no elaboration. I get up off the sand, walk back to my room, and lock the door behind me. I need to talk to someone I can really trust, and I hope Anna’s not busy. I reach for my phone and blink at the screen. Thirty missed calls. One from Anna. One from Rickie. Two from Nathan. Eight from Mommy. Eighteen from Daddy. It starts ringing, and I stare at it with my mouth hanging open.
“Hi, Nathan,” I answer. “What’s wrong?”
“Chrissy, where are you?”
“I’m in Zambales with Nico and Enzo.”
He doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours. And then, “I’m really sorry, Chrissy. I didn’t know.”
“What? Nathan, what’s going on?” I am desperate for someone to tell me this is not what I think it is, but all I hear are three short beeps at the other end of the line. Call duration, 00:48:16.
My phone starts ringing again. Crap crap crap. I press Accept in a daze.
“Dad,” I say, barely able to keep my voice from trembling.
“You are going to pack your bags and come straight home right this minute,” he tells me. He sounds firm yet calm and detached, like a stranger barking out orders, and tears spring to my eyes. “I don’t care how late it is, I don’t care what you’re feeling, I don’t care what you think your mom and I did to deserve this. I just spoke to Nico’s parents. The driver is bringing the both of you back here tonight. Now hurry up and get ready. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
“Daddy, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d find out...”
“Exactly.” His voice has softened—temporarily stripped of all the anger, it echoes mostly of grave disappointment. “You didn’t think we’d find out.” And then he hangs up. I wonder if I will ever be able to repair this damage.
Someone knocks on my door, and I open it to find Nico with his hands in his pockets. He looks nervous and scared and guilty. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. I am still crying, and he tries to hug me but I push him away. I sit on my bed and he stands there, shifting from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says. “You know me, Chris. I would never do this to you on purpose.”
I shake my head at him. “I don’t even know you anymore.”
He sits beside me. This time, I don’t push him away. He says, “You know that’s not true.”
I stare at my knees. I know we are supposed to be getting into the car at this moment, and that I might subconsciously be doing this just to delay our return, but I also know that if I don’t say this right now, I may never again have the chance or the courage to. I know it’s about time I bring this up, because everything hinges on whether it is fact or fiction: “I thought you came back for me.”
Nico struggles to come up with the best way to let me down, then decides to just be honest and direct. “I came back for myself.” Funny how we spend most days of our lives avoiding the complex truths we don’t want to hear, and yet they always become so simple and solid once they’re said out loud. The truth becomes irrevocable once it’s brought out into the open—and maybe that’s why we’re constantly concealing it in the shadows.
“I knew you’d be different,” I tell him. “I expected the changes; I knew you wouldn’t be coming back as the same person who left more than two years ago.” And this was true—I was sensible enough to know that it was possible for him to outgrow me, that it was possible for us to drift apart. “But no matter how much two people change, I think they have to believe that underneath all the layers, they are still fundamentally one and the same. I think that’s a requirement for friendship, and for love, because otherwise, there just won’t be enough common ground to build anything upon.” I cannot even look at him at this point, but I urge myself to go on. “I knew you’d be different. But I didn’t know we’d be different. I would never leave you by yourself at a party. I would never take advantage of our friendship by stretching it as far as it could go without actual commitment. I would never let you think you aren’t special or important enough. I would never make you feel as confused and uncertain as you’ve been making me feel lately. And I would never even entertain the thought of making you lie to your parents.”
He cannot look at me, either. “We used to be so alike, weren’t we?”
It takes every ounce of strength in me to be able to admit this to him, and to myself. “It’s never going to work, Nico.” And he just says again, “I’m sorry.”
Best friends don’t hurt each other.
The ride home is quick and quiet. He welcomes the silence without the slightest tinge of discomfort, like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like it is something he is used to, like it has always been this way. I don’t even have to tell him that I have run out of things to say, that there is nothing right or real left between us anymore. He knows. I guess he always has.
I sit on the couch opposite my parents. Mom looks like she’s about to cry. Dad looks like he’s about to start yelling. Both of them look like they are trying and failing to make sense of me.
The first time I lied to them was when I was nine. They gave me money to pay for my intrams shirt, giving me strict instructions to put it in my wallet inside my bag. Instead, I stuffed it into my uniform’s pocket, and after running around in the playground during recess, discovered that I had lost it. Anna had enough cash for two shirts, so she was able to cover for me. But I still had to pay her back. So I lied and told Mom and Dad we were required to buy another shirt, which isn’t a very brilliant idea because of course they asked to see both shirts and I could only show them one. I wanted to die. Instead, I promised them I would never lie to them again. And I’ve kept that promise. Until now.
So I haven’t had much practice lying, which explains why I’m such a terrible liar. I can tell them this is all Nico’s fault, that he was the one who came up with
this intricate scheme, that I didn’t have a choice but to take his lead. But this isn’t true. I did have a choice. I’ve always had a choice. I could have said no. I could have told him to go ahead without me. This morning, I could have demanded he march right back downstairs and retract all the lies he told my parents. But I didn’t, because it would have been too much work to stand up for myself. It would have been too much work to stop Nico from turning me into someone I’m not.
Dad speaks first. “Did you really believe we’d never find out?” Maybe this is what hurts the most for a parent, the fact that his child is arrogant enough to think she can get away with anything because she is younger and faster and supposedly smarter. Maybe this hurts the most because they’ve been trusting me enough to treat me like an adult all along, and I have betrayed this trust by going behind their backs. Maybe I should have known better—of course they’d find out. They’re my parents.
I reply, “I wanted to.”
Mom says, “I thought you’d be more responsible than this.”
I say the only thing you’re supposed to say when you fall short of somebody’s expectations: “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Nathan showed up with chicken soup and bottles of orange juice, saying he hoped you were feeling better. I asked him why he wasn’t in Zambales with the rest of the Student Council for the weekend sports clinic, and he said, ‘What weekend sports clinic?’ And it confirmed what I’ve been suspecting since this morning.” Dad speaks evenly, like he is just narrating the events of a regular day.
“One month,” Mom says. “No phone calls, no texting, no Internet, no going out, no parties, no shopping, no visitors, and definitely no out-of-town trips. You are to come home straight after school, except when you have Student Council meetings, which I shall have to verify beforehand.” She pauses. “You want to act like a little kid, then prepare to be treated like a little kid.”
Every Girl's Guide to Boys (Every Girls Guide) Page 7