Music was my therapy. Hip-hop music, in particular, which was honest, unapologetic, and in-your-face—all the things I wish I were most of the time. How cool it was that I could bop my head to music that rapped about a lot of sad and angry things, like growing up poor, a friend's suicide or a cheating lover.
This one now blasting from the speakers on one side of the school stadium was the latest from multiawarded American hip-hop artist Shoo Fly, rapping about his slow but steady rise to fame. I couldn't help tapping my foot to its addicting hook and beat.
"God, do they think they own this place?" When she was annoyed, Kim's naturally hoarse voice turned even raspier, some of her words disintegrating into whispers. I immediately ceased my tap dancing under the table.
They referred to the group of students gathered beside the speakers, chatting and stretching their limbs. A few bars into the music, they started jerking and gliding to the beat in precise, synchronized moves. Given that they were the most popular people in school—yeah, they probably thought they pretty much owned the universe.
Kim craned her neck, making a sweep of the gym. "And perfect timing to disappear on us, Ms. Suarez!" I noticed a few people from the other groups also raising their heads, looking for our teacher chaperone, famous for her frequent bathroom breaks. If the dance club, also known as the Hoofers, bowed to anyone, it would be Ms. Suarez, with the thick, knitted eyebrows.
It was only two weeks into summer, but here we were in school for the annual club officers meeting, which required us to discuss plans for the coming year. Our school took its extracurricular activities seriously. Elections for incoming club officers were done on the last quarter of the school year so we could start planning our activities as early as summer.
But of course, the Hoofers—officers and members—came in complete attendance, claiming that they needed to train during the summer for all their incoming dance competitions. If you asked me, they came here to flaunt their flat abs and toned arms—and mind you, I wasn't talking about just the girls. Dave, right there in front, had a gorgeous face that matched his lean body. Right now he was doing his signature chest-popping dance moves that got at least 99 percent of the school's female population crushing on him. If I weren't careful, I'd be part of that percentage. But Dave didn't even know I was alive, so I always made sure I was part of the 1 percent that didn't give a hoot about him.
"Argh!" Kim buried her face into the clear book of recipes. "Can. Not. Concentrate." She shot up from her seat, the symmetrical ends of her bob-cut hair swishing below her cheeks as she started flailing her hands, trying to catch the dancers' attention. I squirmed in my seat. Direct confrontation was not my style.
Good thing the Hoofers were in the middle of a complicated routine so they missed Kim's impression of a drowning victim. Well, except for the girl right next to Dave, whom I thought, for a split second, flickered her eyes toward Kim. But even if she did notice, Lala, Hoofers president a.k.a. "Teen Asian Barbie," would most likely pretend that she didn't. Hoofers didn't mingle with the uncool.
So what if we weren't part of their circle? Kim and I did okay. She was president of the baking club, while I was vice-president. Our club hovered way below the popularity radar though; and last year, we had just enough members to complete our list of officers.
Desperate to distract Kim from making a scene, I waved a container in front of her nose. "Hey! Want to make a picnic out of this?"
It got the desired effect. Kim's eyes grew wide, and she stretched out her hand as if reaching for salvation. "Is that what I think it is?"
Smiling slyly, I pulled the container out of her reach. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
We made our way outside, weaving through the huddled circles. The sun was just starting to set, so it wasn't scorching anymore. Still I was sweating buckets by the time we reached the grassy patch shaded by a row of trees.
We sat on the bench. Immediately Kim whipped out her wet wipes to clean her sandals. She was the neatest person I know—hence, the fanatic shoe wiping. Absentmindedly I adjusted my jeans' waistband, which was digging into my flesh.
"When are you going to listen to me?" Kim heaved a sigh of exasperation as she tucked away her wipes. "Dresses let you breathe more. Plus they look prettier." She swept her hand over her empire-cut maxi dress, navy blue on top with a chevron pattern from the waist down, the skirt easily gliding over her belly. "Those jeans make your hips look even bigger."
Her words stung, as they sometimes did. But through our almost four years of friendship, ignoring Kim's gibes have become my expertise. It was just the way she operated, blurting out whatever came into her head.
As she brought out her compact to reapply her face powder and lip balm, I thumbed the pages of the clear book. But when photos of cheesecakes of all shapes, colors, and sizes greeted me at every turn, I couldn't hide my annoyance. "Cheesecakes again?"
For three years in a row, Kim and I had represented our school, snagging top prize in Bake-Off Bonanza, an annual baking contest open to all high school students in the metro. On our first year, we wowed the judges with our kesong puti cheesecake. The following year, we took our cue from the key lime cheesecake and made our own version with kamias. Then last year, we decided to pull out all the stops with our jamon de bola cheesecake, a creamy concoction between sweet and savory that had kept the judges taking spoonful after spoonful of our six-inch cake until they finished the whole thing. By then, everyone knew who the winner was.
"They're a sure win." Kim shrugged, snapping her compact shut.
I wiped off the fresh beads of perspiration on my forehead. Kim whipped up amazing cheesecakes, but serving them up for the fourth time was not I good idea. I took a deep breath and released it through my nose. "I think it would be better if we came up with something new. Maybe we can get ideas from the other members?"
Kim snorted. We both knew that the other members didn't care about the contest. They signed up for baking club because of either of the following reasons: 1) They wanted a club that didn't demand too much time or effort; or 2) They didn't meet the standards of their original club of choice, such as the Hoofers, which had no problem getting students to audition every year.
But secretly, I had a sneaking suspicion that the real reason why our co-officers didn't bother to attend the meeting was that Kim tended to boss them around.
Kim snorted again—this time, gesturing to the building in front of us, draped with a tarpaulin showing the Hoofers rejoicing in open-mouthed happiness, index fingers up in the air. It was a snapshot of their win at last year's interschool street dance competition. Beneath the dancers, block letters screamed CONGRATULATIONS, HOOFERS! BACK-TO-BACK CHAMPION OF TEEN JAM!
"Can you believe it? We're Bake-Off Bonanza's three-time champions, and we didn't even get a cartolina poster proclaiming our win. Just that lousy PA announcement during recess that no one ever listens to."
"It's probably because we don't have a sponsor that makes big-ass posters." I pointed my lips to the logo at the bottom of the tarpaulin. "I highly doubt that Sleek Soul will sponsor our clothes."
"Yeah." Kim grimaced. "They're too stingy with fabric."
We both gazed at the photographed Hoofers, the girls exposing their navels, the guys wearing soft plain tees that glided over flat tummies. Their clothes wouldn't be flattering on either of us since we were both overweight and petite. I was five feet flat, and Kim was just two inches taller. Though I had to admit, Kim was the better dresser.
"I need good vibes, quick!" Kim held out her hand. "Surrender the stash. Now."
I rolled my eyes and rooted around in my bag. "Fine." I handed over the plastic takeout.
Squealing, Kim snapped off the lid. "Highlight of my day." She took a bar and quickly bit into it.
"Too mushy? Not sure if it's underbaked."
Kim repeatedly shook her head while chewing. "It's perfect," she said, her mouth full of crumbs. "Way better than the ones my tita brought from Iloilo." She was midway through her third helping when she looked at me. "You're not eating?"
I shook my head and gazed at the sunset, baking the sky amber. I found myself wishing for the sky to be blue again so I could soar through it, in a plane bound for Singapore.
"Don't tell me you're on a diet." Kim giggled and I felt my face burn. Her face was incredulous. "You are? On a diet?"
I tossed my head, my tone harsher than I intended. "Why? You think I can't do it?"
"No need to get all Ms. Defensive." Kim looked taken aback. "It's just that you told me last month that you're done dieting."
Okay, so I did tell her that. It was right after an epic fail of a juicing diet that I tried for only a day. "Sorry," I muttered. "That time of the month, maybe. Crazy hormones."
"It's because you haven't had your sugar fix." In front of me, Kim dangled a butterscotch bar, its sheen looking more golden as it caught the fading sunlight. I could see the walnuts shyly peeping through the moist, chewy bread. "One small piece won't hurt you."
Kim crammed a whole bar into her mouth and then closed her eyes, chewing in slow motion. I could imagine the soft crumbs coating her tongue in a buttery embrace. There would be the shattering of walnuts, their slightly bitter taste the perfect contrast to the sweetness. It would taste of all things comforting, of home, of childhood.
I swear I was going to say, No, thanks. But it came out as "Fine. Just one."