Nico tells me, “Well, you should probably go back to your Chemistry.”
“Trigonometry,” I correct him.
“What?” he asks.
“Trigonometry,” I say. “I never said I was working on Chemistry.”
“Well, you should probably go back to your Trigonometry, then.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Why did I think what?”
“What made you think I was working on Chemistry?”
“Nothing.”
“It can’t be nothing.”
“I don’t know, I thought I heard you say Chemistry.”
“I never said Chemistry.”
“Yes, Chrissy, we’ve already established that.” I can almost see him gritting his teeth in frustration, and the fact that he is getting frustrated with me is making me feel frustrated, too. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I lie. “Look, I just...”
“I know, I know,” he says. “You don’t have time for me right now. Go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye.” He hangs up and I am left wondering why if I’m the one who has to go, I’m still the one who ends up feeling abandoned. I am left wondering how Nico can alternate back and forth between making me feel like I am special and beautiful and worthy, and making me feel like...this.
But I don’t have to wonder why it was such a big deal to me: It bothers me because he hears Chemistry when I say Trigonometry, because he hears I don’t have time for you right now when I say I have to do my homework; and yet he doesn’t hear I think that’s an awful idea when I say That sounds like a great idea. It is a big deal because he hears things I don’t say, but never when I need him to.
Rule number 6:
Learn to listen.
I wake up on a Sunday morning to the sound of all-out bawling coming from the front yard. Oh no, did Justin fall off his bike again? I knew I should have bought him those knee and elbow pads. Worried, I jump out of bed, take the stairs two steps at a time, and run outside. Justin is sitting on the grass, his face a scary shade of red, contorted into an expression that can only be described as a hysterical sort of upset. He can barely breathe from all the screaming, and he is clutching clumps of grass and dirt in his fists. His light blue shorts are stained with mud, and his shirt is soaked with sweat. Mom is crouching helplessly beside him, trying to calm him down.
“What happened?” I ask. Justin is a generally well-behaved kid and rarely throws tantrums, so this is a cause for alarm. I can barely hear myself above his crying.
“We went next door for his playdate with Gio, only to find out they were gone,” Mom explains.
“What do you mean, gone? Gone where?”
Mom pulls me aside and whispers, “The guard at the gate says Mrs. Diaz drove a loaded van out of the village last night, with Gio in the front seat. Gossip travels fast around here, and apparently, she caught her husband with another woman. They had a huge fight, things got ugly, and now she and Gio are moving to Cebu to stay with her sister for good.”
“Oh my God,” I say. I feel myself involuntarily plopping down on the grass as well. The Diazes seemed like a lovely, picture-perfect family, so this was extremely shocking news. They lived in a nice house, owned a nice car, dressed up in nice clothes. They seemed content and cheerful, and they had warm smiles and friendly greetings for everyone. From an outsider’s point of view, they were a portrait of happiness. I wonder what the rest of the world looks like from their perspective, and I wonder how they had managed to keep up their pretenses when the very structure of their family was crumbling from within. Justin and Gio have been best friends since they were toddlers—literally growing up together—and I understand now why my brother is so devastated. I stroke his back. “It’s okay, sweetie,” I tell him, trying to make my voice as comforting as possible. “Don’t cry, please.” It breaks my heart watching him, because really, how do you expect a five-year-old to deal with being suddenly abandoned? How do you explain to a little kid that abrupt changes and unwelcome surprises are two of the most consistent curveballs life will throw at him? I continue stroking his back, and this seems to soothe him a bit, because his bawling eventually turns to sobbing, and his sobbing quiets down to whimpering. He looks up at me and Mom with big, innocent eyes and asks, “Is Gio ever coming back?”
Mom and I glance at each other. She says softly, “No, honey, I don’t think he is. I’m so sorry.”
Justin’s lip starts quivering, but he takes a deep, brave breath and doesn’t cry again. Instead, he wipes his tear-stained face with his dirt-smudged shirt, then waits for me to stand and pull him to his feet. He takes my hand and lets me lead him back inside, lets Mom help him change into clean clothes, and lets me feed him Honey Stars in bed, the way I do when he’s sick or sad or not feeling well. I resist the urge to crawl in under the covers with him. He drifts off to sleep in the middle of the day, and I stare at him wistfully, wishing I could shield him from all the pain in the world, before tucking his blanket under his chin, kissing him on the forehead, tiptoeing out of the room, and carefully closing the door behind me.
“You know what your problem is?” Rickie asks me. I know she’s not really asking me, because my answer will not matter to her, because she’s going to tell me what my problem is anyway. I do not need Rickie to tell me what my problem is. I know what my problem is.
Anna pipes in, “She doesn’t know, Ric. Tell her.” I gave them permission to come over because they promised not to gang up on me, but both of them are clearly enjoying putting me on the spot. We are seated around the dining table, eating peanut butter waffles, and technically trying to patch things up.
“Your problem,” Rickie says authoritatively, “Is that you don’t even know you have a problem. You think everything will be okay even if you don’t actually get up to do something, you think things will work themselves out naturally.” I don’t know where this is coming from, and why she thinks she has a right to say this, although for as long as I’ve known her, Rickie has always been bossy and a bit of a know-it-all. I should be used to her acting like this, except it’s no picnic when the target is me.
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “Of course I know there’s a problem.”
“Oh yeah?” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Have you talked to Nico about his new career path?”
“No,” I reply. “Not yet. Besides, where he wants to work and what he wants to do with his life is his choice, not mine. And I don’t think it has anything to do with me anyway.”
“Really, Chrissy?” Rickie says in a voice that should be used when speaking to a bunch of three-year-olds with learning disabilities. “You think it’s just one big coincidence? You think he’ll show up for his first day of work and be like, ‘Oh, hey there, girlfriend! How’s it hanging? Silly me, I totally forgot you studied here. Isn’t this the coolest? I can make you bantay every day!’ Come on, Chris. Even you can’t be that naive.” I know I should be royally pissed at her because a) she is making fun of Nico, b) she just called me naive, and c) by “naive,” I know she meant “stupid.” But I find her mockery amusing rather than insulting, and I have to stifle a laugh because a) she just made Nico sound like a cross between a kikay colegiala and a stoner surfer dude, or a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, b) Nico would never say “make you bantay,” and c) Nico would never use the word “girlfriend” in that context. Actually, now that I think about it, he might never use the word “girlfriend” in reference to me, because “let’s take things slow” could mean “I don’t ever want commitment,” and this realization is not funny at all.
“You really think it has nothing to do with you?” Anna asks. “Or with Nathan?”
“I would like to think,” I say, in a controlled, even voice, “that I know Nico better than you do.” There. I have pulled out the Us Against the Universe card, and nobody can argue with that.
“This is not a competition,” Anna tells me. “Of course you know Nico better. But do you know him enough
?”
“We grew up together,” I remind her.
“Yes,” Rickie says. “And then he moved away.”
I look down at my soggy waffle, take a few bites, and chew slowly, letting the three of us simmer in our own silence for a few minutes. I am trying to come up with a valid response to Rickie’s last statement, and the best I can manage is, “But he’s back now.” I sound whiny and self-absorbed, like someone who is used to having everyone cater to her demands the minute she makes them, used to everyone working around her versions of the truth. I almost expect them to reply, He didn’t come back for you. But we all know he could have, maybe just not for the right reasons.
Anna waves the white flag first. “Okay. We’ll leave you and Nico alone. But we hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” I say firmly.
Rickie looks like she wants to push the subject, but instead, she says, “So are we done fighting now?”
I smile. “The question is, are you done grilling me to a crisp now?”
Anna smiles, too. “You felt like we were grilling you?”
“Of course we weren’t grilling you!” Rickie exclaims.
I jump up from my chair, rubbing my butt and cringing. “Really? ‘Cause that sure felt like the hot seat!”
They groan at my lame joke, but I start giggling, and pretty soon, all of us are doubled over in laughter. Then, like a corny scene from a teen movie, we get up and squeeze ourselves into a cheesy group hug, and it feels like my best friends are back to being on my side again.
Most people’s problems revolve around their inability, or unwillingness, to listen.
Exhibit A is this girl named Megan, who always asks me for advice but never seems to take it to heart (actually, she never seems to take it, period—all she does is argue with me). I don’t know why she keeps writing to me, but I do know she’s one of the site’s most loyal visitors, which makes it hard to get mad at her and tell her to stop wasting my time. This is how a normal correspondence between us would go:
Dear Chrissy,
I saw you talking to Nathan in the canteen the other day. I know it’s none of my business, but you guys seem miserable without each other. Don’t worry, I’m not judging you. It was just an observation.
Anyway, the real reason I wrote is because I think my best friend Kevin is in love with me. I say this because his world seems to revolve around me—he’s always fixing his schedule around mine, changing his plans just to be with me, and basically being willing to do everything for me. I have a feeling if I tell him to drop out of school and be my homework slave, he’d agree in a heartbeat. I don’t know what to do. I don’t really like anybody else right now, and I could sort of see myself with him, but I’m scared I’m just taking advantage of him, that I just keep him around because I like the attention. I don’t want to be that kind of girl. It doesn’t seem healthy or fair, and I’d like to be able to set things straight.
Love,
Megan
Dear Megan,
Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s not like you’re forcing him to do all these things for you. He’s doing them voluntarily and sometimes we just need to take things as they are. Sometimes we just need to trust that other people’s intentions are good and true, and be thankful that there are people who love us, instead of doubting their motivations and checking behind their backs for hidden agendas all the time. You’re not being selfish, and you’re not using him. The very fact that you’re writing to me for advice is proof that you care for him, too.
But what you need to ask yourself is this: do you deserve everything he’s been giving you? Sometimes, fairness is not strictly a matter of reciprocity—I’m sure he’s not asking you to fix your schedule around his and change your plans just to be with him. Maybe all he’s asking for is that you show how much you appreciate him. Another thing to consider is that maybe he’s treating you just right; maybe it’s not too much. Maybe you’ve just been around jerks all your life, and you’re not used to someone treating you the way you should be treated. Think about it. Good luck, Megan. I wish you well.
Love,
Chrissy
Dear Chrissy,
Thanks for your speedy response. I hate to disagree with you, but unfortunately, I don’t think anyone else our age is mature enough to understand the concept of fairness that goes beyond reciprocity. I get your point, that just because he’s doing all these things for me doesn’t mean he expects me to do them for him as well. However, I’d just feel too guilty leading him on when I’m not even sure if I like him as more than a friend. And as for me being around jerks all my life, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t that a bit harsh coming from someone who’s dating a guy who sneakily but publicly stole her from somebody else?
Peace,
Megan
See? She. Does. Not. Listen. I don’t even know what to say to her next time. Maybe I should just pretend I haven’t been getting her letters.
Exhibit B is Justin. He knocks on my door and calls out, “Ate, are you busy?” I am browsing through all the other letters in my inbox, but I turn off my computer and open the door to let him in. He always drops by my room before going to bed, and I smile because he looks adorable in his red and white striped pajamas and fluffy teddy bear slippers. He settles into my purple beanbag and pointedly asks, “Why did Gio leave?”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m not sure, sweetie. I think his Mommy and Daddy were having problems.”
“What problems?”
My parents have never fought in front of us (I don’t think they even have serious, major fights at all), so I struggle to think of a way to make him understand that doesn’t involve outing Mr. Diaz’s adulterous ass. “Well, you know how sometimes Daddy teases Mommy too much about her tummy, and Mommy stops talking for a while? It’s sort of like that.”
“What did Gio’s Daddy tease Gio’s Mommy about? She’s really skinny.”
“Uh, yes. Yes, she is. But that’s not what I meant, it was just an example.”
“An example of what?”
“Of... well, you know how Mommy and Daddy love each other very much?” I wait for him to nod. “Okay, well sometimes, other kids’ Mommies and Daddies stop loving each other.”
“Oh,” he nods again. “So break na sila?”
My jaw drops. “How do you know anything about breakups?”
He shrugs. “Mommy says that’s the reason why Kuya Nathan doesn’t come around anymore. I miss Kuya Nathan. Why did you stop loving him?”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open. Mommy and I are SO going to sit down and talk about this. “I... I didn’t. I mean, we weren’t together. Officially. You know, like a real couple? Oh God, do you know anything about this too? You are way too advanced for a five-year-old.” I can’t believe I’m discussing this with Justin. This is all very, very surreal.
He puffs up with pride. “Teacher says I’m very smart,” he tells me.
I laugh. “Of course you are, you’re my little brother!”
He smiles smugly, and then, like he just remembered something, narrows his eyes at me. “You hurt Kuya Nathan,” he accuses.
“What?! No, no, no, listen to me. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t hurt him. Or I didn’t mean to. And hey, he also hurt me. But we’re okay now. I think. I’m not so sure. Yes, I think we’re okay. He just doesn’t come around anymore. I know this isn’t making sense to you. But I’m your sister and you’re supposed to be on my team.” I am aware that I am babbling, and he is looking at me like I am speaking an alien language.
“Are you friends?” he asks me.
“Yes?” I say. But it is a question, not a declaration, and Justin catches on.
“You’re not friends,” he tells me. “I think it’s my fault, because sometimes I don’t share my toys with him. Like when he asks if he can borrow my new Lego Batman, I say no.”
“Wait, are we talking about Nathan or Gio?”
“Both.”
“Liste
n,” I tell him in my best Big Sister voice. “It’s not your fault, okay? Sometimes people leave because they have to. It’s nobody’s fault.” I’m not sure if this explanation is good enough.
Apparently, it isn’t. Because he looks at me in the saddest way anyone has ever looked at me and says, “We hurt Kuya Nathan.” And then he leaves my room without even kissing me goodnight.
Last but not the least, Exhibit C is Nico.
I am about to go to bed when I hear Dad calling my name from downstairs. I peek over the railing and see Nico sitting on the couch with his knees together and his hands on his lap, like he is a grade-schooler waiting for his turn at the principal’s office. Dad doesn’t look too happy, and he tells me sternly, “It’s pretty late. Make it quick.” Under normal circumstances, I would have asked, Make what quick? Be more specific, Daddy. But whatever Nico came here for, I just want to get it over and done with. So I nod and say, “I will.”
Nico gets up to hug me hello, and I flinch. My arms stay glued to my sides for about two seconds too long before I hug him back. We sit down and he says, “I have to tell you something.”
“Go ahead,” I mutter. Usually, when people say this, they either mean, a) Go ahead and do what you have to do, I am right behind you, ready to provide support and encouragement anytime, or b) Go ahead and do what you want, I don’t really care, bahala ka sa buhay mo. However, in that peculiar dialect called Girl Talk, “go ahead” can only mean one thing: Don’t you even dare. I want to take two throw pillows and use them to cover my ears, because I already know what Nico is about to say, and it is something I’d rather not hear.
“I’m St. Andrew’s varsity basketball team’s new assistant coach,” he says with a flourish, like he expects me to start jumping up and down in celebratory glee. I do not want to hear this because I do not want to acknowledge that it is happening. I do not want to hear this because I do not want to pretend that I’m happy for him.
Every Girl's Guide to Heartache Page 4