Kiss Shot

Untitled Part 3

I take Kuya Stephen's advice and try to forget everything. Forget about funny old Alfonso and the secret meeting he and Kuya Stephen had planned. I'm not allowed to see the match anyway: it's none of my concern.

Then two days later, I hear something very strange from the hall.

"Dylan Aiba is absent!"

I look out the classroom door... and the speaker turns out to be Len trying to say it really loudly so I would "overhear."

I pout at Len. Len snickers. Chris, beside her, flashes me a wry grin. "Is that a joke?" I ask them outright. "Because if it is, it's not funny. Dylan Aiba's never been absent, ever."

Actually, he's been absent before - but the whole school always knew what he was skipping classes for. Sometimes it was because he was representing our school in out-of-town seminars or competitions. Sometimes it was because his family was going to spend the summer overseas and he would not be back in time for the start of the new school year.

As for sick leaves and such - he never took them. Dylan Aiba's always in perfect health! I mean, that's part of what makes Dylan Aiba infallible in the eyes of teenage girls!

"It's not a joke," Chris says flippantly. "The girls from his class got the word out. They're saying he's sick or something."

Sick?! But he was fine yesterday! He was even around to help the festival committee put up streamers all over the school plaza!

Len shrugs. "People get sick all the time. Your Dylan isn't superhuman, after all."

"He's not 'my' Dylan," I correct her. I have to turn away while I say that, though, because I think I might be blushing. "And... and okay, so what if he's sick? Like you say, people get sick all the time..."

"Yeah, we were just wondering how you'd take the bad news." Chris is still grinning. It's unbelievable!

I ignore them and go back to wrapping up tomorrow's homework. If I'm going to be the math expert who catches Dylan Aiba's eye - I've got to exert a little extra effort.

----------------------------------

Kuya Stephen reports, when it's time to pick me up, that he finally met the elusive "Senorito" this afternoon.

And that "Senorito" kicked him to the curb.

Well, those weren't the words he used exactly. He said "Senorito" defeated him by a small margin - a missed shot that allowed the "Senorito" to sink the last two balls left in their straight pool game.

"How much did he win?" I ask. He grimaces.

A sore topic, perhaps?

He waits several corners, until a stoplight is in sight. Then he waits for it to turn red, before he talks to me again.

He doesn't even look over his shoulder at me.

"He didn't take my money," he said. "He even got that weird Alfonso guy with him. So I couldn't talk to him after the game. That Alfonso stood in my way while the little Senorito got into his fancy BMW."

I can't read his emotion from the sound of his voice. I don't know if he's angry or frustrated. He might even have sounded happy, from where I'm sitting.

Surely it's a good thing that his opponent didn't clean him out? Knowing Kuya Stephen, he wouldn't have gone double or nothing in a first game - but every centavo counts.

"He says he wants to see me in another game." Still in that neutral tone of voice. "He's going to fix up a tournament between the two of us, and some other players he's going to choose. Winner takes all."