Every Girl's Guide to Heartache

by Marla Miniano

  “Congratulations,” I mumble. “I’m so proud of you.” I sound like Anna, when she’s congratulating Rickie on submitting a paper she should have accomplished writing days ago, or congratulating Miguel on showing up ten minutes late instead of fifteen. In other words, I sound sarcastic and insincere, but Nico hardly notices.

  “Thanks,” he beams. The clueless satisfaction on his face irks me, and I shock the both of us by snapping, “Don’t you get it?”

  “Get what?” he asks.

  “I don’t want to see you every day.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to become too attached to you.”

  “Why can’t you be too attached to me?”

  “Why can’t we be together for real?”

  He actually laughs out loud. “That’s what this is all about?” He says this the way you would when a kid throws a tantrum over a piece of candy, or when a teacher gives you a big fat F over one misspelled word, and other instances where someone makes a colossal fuss out of something so insignificant.

  He takes my hand and explains, “Chrissy, just because we’re not together officially doesn’t mean what we have isn’t real. I just don’t want to rush into anything we’re not yet ready for. I don’t believe in labels and I don’t want us to be defined by them and confined within them.” His little speech sounds pompous and rehearsed, and I retort, “Nico, just because I’m two years younger than you doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. It sounds to me like you just don’t want commitment.” I have never been the confrontational type, but now I have a feeling I’d get into a shouting match with him if he were to provoke me just a little bit more.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he says, putting an arm across my shoulders. I want to jab my elbow into his ribs, but I am suddenly, surprisingly jittery. I try not to fidget as I look him straight in the eye and tell him, “No, you’re not.”

  He holds my gaze and says, “Yes, I am.” And then he pulls his arm tighter around me and starts kissing me, and I am a bundle of nerves but I find myself actually kissing him back. I always thought my first kiss would be weird and honestly kind of gross, but this is incredibly romantic and overwhelming in a good way and... well, exactly how a first kiss should be. After what seems like ages, we pull apart. His right hand rests on the back of my neck as he tells me, “I really, really like you, Chrissy. I need that to be enough for you, for now.”

  “It is,” I say. He draws me closer to him again, drowning out all my words, and I allow him to.

  Rule number 7:

  Be honest with yourself.

  “So isn’t there like, some sort of rule against student-assistant coach relationships?” Rickie asks me while walking to the Chem lab. We just passed Nico in the corridor (he was on his way to basketball practice and was looking very athletic and manly in his workout clothes), and she had seen the loaded look we had given each other.

  “Relax, Ric,” Anna says. “It’s not like they’ll be making out in the hallways or something. This forbidden romance is strictly off-campus. Right, Chris?”

  “Of course,” I say, turning red. “Besides, we’re not really together, so it’s not a relationship. You guys worry about me too much.”

  “Why are you blushing?” Rickie asks suspiciously.

  “Yeah, what did I say?” Anna puts her hands on her hips, frowning in concentration as she tries to remember. “I just said, it’s not like you’ll be making...”

  “A-haaa!” Rickie screeches. “OMFG, Chrissy Legaspi, did you make out with Nico?”

  I grab her arm. “Can you not yell?!”

  She twists her arm away. “Can you not be violent? Get your claws off me, woman. Jeez.”

  I can feel Anna’s disapproving stare. “Is there something you’d like to tell us, Chris?”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Hold on to your horsetails.”

  “Did you just say ‘hold on to your horsetails?’ What are you, eight?”

  “Shut up, Ric!” Anna hisses. She closes her eyes and inhales, like she is trying to suck in all our immaturity through her nostrils. We wait for her to wrap up her meditation exercise. “Go on,” she tells me.

  “Alright,” I say. “Nico and I kissed.”

  “I KNEW IT!” Rickie shrieks. Subtlety is definitely not one of her strong points. A teacher pokes her head out of the nearest classroom door and glares at us. “Sorry,” we all mumble.

  The bell rings and we run towards the laboratory, making it just in time. As we gather our materials from the supply closet, Anna gives me a look that says, This ain’t over yet, Missy.

  “Well, if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you,” Anna says, when I finish filling her in on The Kiss. We are killing time in the Starbucks near school—she is waiting for Miguel and I am waiting for Nico. Rickie is off having her nails done and getting her weekly hot oil treatment.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I am happy.”

  Miguel walks in, hugs Anna like he hasn’t seen her in months, and tells her he missed her. Then he turns to me and says, “Don’t worry, Chrissy, I think you are still way hotter, and although you are my girlfriend’s best friend, this is still an unbiased observation from a male point of view.”

  Anna looks as confused as I feel. “Okay, first of all, you only miss me because you go to an exclusive boys school, and you don’t see girls too often,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “And second, what are you talking about? What do you mean, Chrissy’s hotter? Hotter than whom?”

  Miguel’s eyes widen when he realizes he has given away something he wasn’t supposed to give away. “Never mind. Please ignore what I just said.” He reaches for Anna’s half-eaten banoffee pie.

  She swats his hand away. “Miguel,” she manages to make his name sound like a threat. “Spill.” It is not a request.

  “Queenie Cooper.”

  “Queenie Cooper? The model who was rumored to have dated half of last year’s batch of Candy Cuties? What about her?”

  “She’s my classmate’s kabarkada and she’s, uh, going out with Nathan.”

  “WHAT?!” Anna sounds livid. “That slut!”

  I blink. “Um yeah, I think they did a print ad together when they were kids. I didn’t know they were still in touch.” I make it a point to sound as detached as possible. After all, what do I care? Nathan can date whoever he wants. It’s not like I’m jealous or anything.

  Miguel says meekly, “I’m sorry, Chris. I figured you’d already heard.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize,” I brush him off. I am cool, collected, and the epitome of nonchalance.

  Miguel turns to Anna with a tentative smile, as if to say, See? She’s fine! Please don’t strangle me.

  Nico appears at my side at that moment, looking fresh from a shower in a clean white tee and plaid shorts, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. He asks, “Apologize for what?”

  “Nothing,” the three of us reply in unison.

  “Okay,” he says, shrugging. He holds a hand out to me. “You ready to go, babe?”

  I take it and try to ignore Anna as she makes a face at me and mouths, Babe? She knows I hate it when guys call me that. It sounds so condescending. Miguel snorts and stuffs a forkful of pie into his mouth.

  On the way home, Nico says, “Guess who’s coming to town this weekend?”

  “The Jonas Brothers?” I ask, grinning. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Christian Bale? Rodrigo Santorro? Michael Cassidy?” I rack my brain for my celebrity crush who is least likely to come here.

  “No, silly,” he laughs. “Remember my cousin Enzo?”

  “Wow, really, he’s coming? That’s great!” I gush, sounding convincingly enthusiastic. The truth is, I do remember Enzo, but very vaguely, and only because when I was ten, I attended his thirteenth birthday party and he spilled grape juice on my brand new white canvas sneakers and made me cry. I still think he did it on purpose.

  “Yep,” he says. “He wants to check out the gimmick scene, and maybe hit the beach. And of course, he
can’t wait to see you again. You can go with us naman, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I promise, keeping a straight face. “It sounds fun.” In my head, I say in flawless Alex Band imitation, This is my calling: I’ll go wherever you will go, babe.

  When I read the new comments on my site, I am not surprised that most of them are about Queenie Cooper. Apparently, she brought Nathan to her friend’s formal debut as her date, and photos of the two of them dressed to the nines and partying the night away in an expensive club are posted for everyone to see on her Multiply page.

  This is an outrage, Chrissy! She is not even half the girl you are. Oh well. It’s Nathan’s loss.

  I am intrigued. What does Nathan see in her? I mean, I know she’s gorgeous and popular and everything. But I always thought he saw beyond all that—I never thought he could be so superficial.

  For lack of a more original derogatory term, let us call her a Ho-Bag. She doesn’t even deserve a more creative insult. So not worth your time or tears. We’re rooting for you, Chrissy.

  I reply, Hey, everyone. It’s nice to know that you’ve all got my back, and that you all think Queenie Cooper pales in comparison to me. I appreciate your comments because I know you are just trying to make me feel better. But let’s cut Nathan some slack. I’m sure he likes Queenie Cooper for a reason; maybe she has some secret redeeming quality that won him over. Whatever. I couldn’t care less, really. Thanks, guys. I love you all.

  You see what I just did right there? I approached the issue in a very straightforward, objective manner. I just told them off for being mean to Queenie Cooper, and I was very diplomatic about it, too. Queenie Cooper should be thanking me for this. (Yes, in case you haven’t noticed, she is one of those people whose full names you have to keep calling them by.) You’re welcome, Queenie Cooper. Take good care of Nathan, okay?

  Rule number 8:

  Pay attention to technicalities.

  “Dude!” Nico exclaims, slapping a tall, very handsome boy several times on the back. It is past five AM on a Friday holiday, and it feels like we’ve been standing outside the airport waiting for hours. Enzo has toned arms and muscular legs, striking eyes framed by perfect eyebrows, wavy dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, lips that can totally bag him a Chapstick ad, and caramel skin that, from where I stand, looks like it has no pores and produces zero oil. In short, this guy is way prettier than me. Hello, insecurity. Fancy running into you here.

  He slaps Nico on the back too, then turns to me. “Hello, Chrissy,” he says, smiling his megawatt smile at me. “It is so nice seeing you again.” He says this like we are long-lost friends, but he offers his hand for me to shake like we are complete strangers meeting each other for the first time. His piercing stare and solid grip make me uncomfortable, and I hope Nico doesn’t notice that my cheeks are burning. I pull my hand away and compose myself enough to be able to blurt out, “Hi, Enzo. Welcome to the Philippines!”

  Enzo laughs. “Still funny, huh?” I think, when was I ever funny to you? We don’t know each other well enough for you to be able to say that I am “still” funny, or “still” anything, actually. I really do not remember having any other form of interaction with him aside from his thirteenth birthday party, which Nico dragged me to, and I admit it is not a very pleasant memory because of the grape juice, which he may or may not have spilled on my new white sneakers on purpose (okay seriously, I have to let that go). Maybe he’s just really, really friendly? Guys who are very good-looking tend to either be super aloof, or super feeling-close, and maybe he’s leaning towards the latter.

  At the crowded arrival area, waiting for Nico’s driver to pick us up and bring us to his place for breakfast, I wonder if the three of us look like we’re all related, or if we look like a small barkada, or if I look like the girlfriend of one of them. I wonder whether or not I’ll pass for twenty-one, and whether or not I’ll pass for Enzo’s girlfriend. Of course, in my glamorous attire of jeans, flip-flops, and oversized faded sweatshirt, I think I already know the answer. And then Nico spots his car and grabs my hand as we weave our way through the throng of balikbayans, and I think I feel better.

  They load Enzo’s luggage into the trunk, and I stand there unsure whether to get into the backseat or ride shotgun. This is the problem with being part of a trio and not knowing exactly who the third wheel is. On one hand, Nico and I are sort of an item. On the other hand, Nico and Enzo are cousins, and I am just tagging along. I do not want to assume that Enzo is the odd one out, but I’m iffy about volunteering myself as well. So I stand there and wait for directions. Finally, to my relief, Enzo declares, “I’ll stay in front,” and opens the back door for me. Thank you, Enzo. I guess I forgive you for the grape juice now.

  Over breakfast, Enzo tells us about college in New York, being an exchange student in France, and his modeling stint in LA. I am impressed with how he rattles off his achievements but manages to come off sounding so humble and down-to-earth. His parents separated when he was twelve, and since then, to assuage the guilt of a failed marriage and to distract their son from the abandonment, they’ve provided permission and finances for his shuttling back and forth among different relatives in various parts of the globe. “The trade-off hasn’t been easy,” he says. “If you ask me now, I’d still choose a happy family over all these experiences any day. I miss seeing my parents together. But I don’t know, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”

  “Well,” Nico says. “You’ve still got family right here.”

  “I know, man,” Enzo grins. “So, what’s the game plan for today?”

  “We’re on the VIP list for a party at the Rockwell tent tonight,” Nico replies. “Mama’s designer friend is launching a new collection, and she needs, quote-unquote, young people to attend the event. I promised we’d show up, but we can always leave if it gets boring. And since the folks are both out of town for the long weekend, we can stay out as late as we want to.” I yawn, and Nico continues, “But for now, I think Chrissy needs to go home and sleep. You should get some rest too. Your stuff’s in the guest room upstairs. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” Enzo says, standing up and stretching. “I’ll see you later, Chrissy.”

  I’ve never been a party person, and if this were a regular weekend, I would have rather stayed at home catching up on my reading, or spending time with Justin, or watching classic FRIENDS episodes on DVD and swooning over the timeless love story of Rachel and Ross. But hanging out with Enzo basically ups the potential coolness factor of a night out, and I am actually looking forward to getting dressed up and wearing heels and having a few drinks and maybe even dancing. “Later,” I say, more excited than I would care to admit.

  I hop around my room on one foot, howling in pain. Mom calls out from the kitchen, where she and Dad are preparing lasagna for a potluck party at her office, “Honey, are you alright?” and I yell back, “I’m still alive!” I was busy practicing my dance moves to Britney’s “Womanizer” (I always knew she’d be hot again), and have just stubbed my big left toe on the ancient wooden cabinet. My poor toe is bleeding, staining my cotton candy pink-polished toenail a deep red, and I sit on the edge of my bed to inspect the damage. I take a Band-Aid from the box on my dresser drawer and wrap it around my toe. I guess this means I won’t be wearing my new open-toed kitten heels tonight. Hmm. Now what? I am wearing a royal blue minidress that would have looked fabulous with them, and I stare at my shoe rack willing it to magically produce a pair that would hide the ugly Band-Aid and still look presentable for a night out. I wish I had unlimited footwear options, or at least predicted this would happen so I could ask Rickie for help. I am considering wearing my purple Chucks and pretending that I am making a fashion statement instead of hiding a bloody toe, but suddenly, a glimmer of hope presents itself to me, literally. At the very bottom of my shoe rack, a silver box sparkles, and I remember—it contains a pair of black pointy pumps that I only wore once and swore never to touch agai
n because they made walking hell. Those pumps would make my legs look amazing, and would match my minidress. I tentatively slip them on, take several quick steps, and start yelping. Ouch, ouch, OUCH. But I really don’t have a choice, because my phone starts ringing, Nico’s name flashing across the screen, and I grab my purse and head downstairs. As long as I walk slooooowly enough, I can travel a few meters without fainting, and I guess they’d have to do. “Mom, Dad, I’m leaving,” I announce, peeking into the kitchen. “We’ll be back from our party by two AM,” Dad says. “Make sure you’re home and in bed at least thirty minutes before then.” I nod. Fair enough.

  Black pointy pumps are sexy, but not when the klutz wearing them is hobbling around and grimacing in pain. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Nico asks as we pull to a stop in front of the party venue and he helps me out of the car. I wince and nod. It’s not like I’d change my mind and ask him to bring me home. At least I know the rest of me looks great: My hair has been ironed into submission, I have managed to put on mascara and liquid liner without getting raccoon eyes, my lips are still glossy, and my cheeks and shoulders have been carefully bronzed. If I can get away with sitting down the whole night, nobody has to notice my unsightly limp.

  Fortunately, we find an empty table, and Nico and Enzo sit on either side of me. They both look gorgeous, and when Nico reaches for my hand, I think, We are holding hands in front of everyone. Who cares about stubbed toes? Enzo glances at us and actually winks at me, and I laugh. “Hey, I’m the only one who can’t walk properly,” I tell them. I am doing this to prove that I am not KJ or uptight—just because I can’t have as much fun as I expected doesn’t mean I have to ruin their evening. “You guys go and mingle. Or whatever it is you’re supposed to do at parties like these.”