"Are you going with Yasmin to the prom?" Jude asked while we were hanging out in his room, one of the rare occasions when I was with them outside of school.
"No." From the many times I declined their invitations to sneak into a club, I figured they'd understand I didn't like dances. Besides, they knew I ditched the prom in junior year, what would make them think I would change my mind in senior year? Though there was a nagging thought at the back of my head that I could try asking Yasmin just for the heck of it, I didn't want to risk it. She had already coldly smiled or blatantly ignored a lot of guys who had approached her (I had inevitably heard the stories in the boys washroom). I didn't want to add to the list.
"Well, aren't you going to ask her?" DJ pressed.
"She probably already has a date," I shrugged, still nonplussed. But somehow the thought that she found a suitable prom date from our batch sank low in the pit of my stomach.
"She doesn't," Chino supplied and I felt all eyes on me. "At least that's what we know."
"Not my problem," I said, keeping my relief under wraps.
"So...you wouldn't care if I ask her to the dance?" DJ challenged.
I shook my head finding his statement laughable. "Knock yourself out trying. She has very high standards," I warned him good-naturedly because if they knew the caliber of boys she dated, they'd know she did have high ideals. And no offense to DJ, she'd turn him down faster than he could have asked her out.
"Is that why you haven't asked her yet? Because you think you're beneath her?" Even when we were young, Chino already had a habit of hitting a nerve or two.
My jaw ticked. "No. I'm simply not going to the prom," I grumbled.
"Okay, chill man. No need for tempers flaring."
They weren't the only ones asking the same question. I had been ambushed too many times if I was Yasmin's date. Even when we were together as Student Council Officers (yep, I got the Treasurer spot; Yasmin was the Secretary), we got that question a lot. Somehow that forced me to mingle with others.
"Yas, are you going with Igo to the prom?"
I would snort and she would just smile that smile that didn't reach her eyes. I would be a hypocrite if I said I didn't have an image of her in a gown and me in a tux dancing together. But the cheesiness of the scene and the thought of myself wearing formal attire had me squashing the thought as quick as it had entered my mind.
"No. I wouldn't want a date who'd bore me to death," she would tell them. "I'll go solo."
See? An indirect rejection from her.
It would have been an interesting sight—her alone the whole evening. It made me think of England's Virgin Queen. But that would be impossible. In a crowd, half of which was comprised by boys with raging hormones, it was utterly impossible for her to be alone even for a blink of an eye.
"Seriously? The Queen without a King?" was another common reaction.
"He's not a king," she'd say bluntly.
"I'm not a king," I'd admit, even nodding in agreement while secretly cursing the royalties in my head.
"Seriously, what was so special about the prom?" I asked her once, never knowing it was a touchy subject because she walked out on me.
Yasmin never gave me an answer to that. But on my own, I figured that it was the only time she could be in her full royal self, complete with the poufy gown, the glittery shoes and the plastic crown. It was a simulation of royal balls, a chance to meet her prince in the right set-up. Which made the idea of going to the prom even more unappealing to me.
My eyebrows met when, on prom night, there was a loud and urgent rapping at my room's door. With heavy lids, I reluctantly rose from my bed to open it.
My brain would usually require approximately fifteen minutes to boot up when I was sleepy or had just woken up before it could process new information.
So you could imagine how my brain worked double time just to understand that Yasmin, makeup and all, in her midnight blue gown that clung to her curves and had a flowing skirt, pushed her way inside my bedroom. Stunned, I watched her as she kicked her sky-high heels off and walked around my room like she owned it.
"I'll bring her favorite in a jiffy," my giggling mother whispered before she hurried down to the bakery in high spirits.
My dad nodded towards the girl who just invaded my personal space, now looking at the jars I had on my table. "So, you and Spanish bread girl, huh?" If that wasn't enough, he gave me a knowing grin.
"Yeah...nah...huh? What? No. Of course not. We're..." I scratched my bedhead unable to come up with a better term to define what we were. "Just friends."
The way he looked at me said he didn't believe me one bit but thankfully, he dropped the subject. "Make sure to take her home," he reminded me and gave one last glance at my unexpected visitor. "And leave the door open."
I did as advised and tentatively approached Yasmin, looking every bit of a modern princess.
Surreptitiously, I rubbed my eyes just to make sure she wasn't a figment of my imagination, or that I wasn't having a vivid dream. When it finally dawned on me that everything was real, I decided to entertain her and think of the situation like our normal day in Pandora, only we were in my room and I was in my ratty shirt and boxers.
"You're collecting coins or something?" she asked, inspecting the six recycled jars that had loose coins and bills in them.
"They are my money jars," I said, stopping beside her but she just stared at me like I had grown another head. I briefly smiled and turned the jars so that she could read the labels and percentages I had scribbled on. I was raised in an environment where every penny mattered. Yes, making sure I deposited cash or coins in these jars every single day was part of the training that had eventually become a habit.
One by one, she picked the jars up. "Savings, Expenses, Charity," she read lazily but stopped short when she picked up the fourth. "You have investments?" she asked, her surprise apparent.
"Just a stocks account," I shrugged nonchalantly. That time I didn't know what that meant or what that did to my savings. My mom managed it until I was of legal age and could attend the stocks seminar to understand how it worked.
Upon hearing the word, she gawked at me, impressed. "You have a stocks account?" I just answered with a nod. "Wow. How about this 'Education' jar? Don't tell me you pay for your own tuition?"
"No. But for school projects and school trips, I get from that jar."
"And 'Play' money is?"
"For stuff I want to buy."
Yasmin looked at me, sizing me up. "Where do you get the money that you put in these jars?"
"My allowance and for selling stuff."
"Ah, no wonder you were selling that piece of shame to me. You're going to add my payment to these jars, weren't you?"
I just grinned at her before she gave me a full smile for the first time. Suddenly, my room became too small for the both of us.
"That's really cool," she added and I couldn't miss the tone of respect in her voice.
I looked at the clock beside my bed just to distract myself because the way she looked at me was very disconcerting. It was only 8PM. "Did the prom get cancelled?"
She blinked before heading to my bed and climbing on it. "Hah, you wish. It was just so boring I almost fell asleep," she muttered, gathering the flowing skirt of her gown as she leaned against the wall to give me space.
"And here you are in the company of the most boring person in the world." I was still having a hard time trying to wrap my head around the idea that she ditched the prom and went to my house. It was also quite notable that to date, I couldn't figure out the female logic. I strongly believed that befriending one should come with a manual. Sighing, I climbed my bed and mirrored her position.
She was surfing the channels when she gave me the reason for the surprise house visit. "Still better than trying to fend off every guy asking me to dance."
All the while, I was focused on telling myself not to stare at her or not to grin because her statement implied that none of the boys in tuxedos met her expectations. Just thinking about her and a guy from our school was very awkward for me—like watching a sister go out with one of my friends. Not that I would know how that would felt as I was an unico hijo.
Mom came back a few minutes later with a tray of Yasmin's favorite and two empty glasses, which she set on top of my drawer. "Help yourself, balasang."
"Oh, you didn't have to but thank you, Tita," Yasmin courteously returned. Though she was eyeing the rolls hungrily, she didn't pick one. Not when my mother was still looking at her with a face-splitting smile plastered on her face.
"Ma, it's rude to stare." My father cut in with a chortle, placing a pitcher of iced tea next to the tray of bread.
Yasmin wanted to say something but my mom blushed profusely. "I'm so sorry, balasang. You're just too beautiful tonight. You look like a real princess. Ana, Igo?" She was asking for my confirmation, unconsciously slipping into Ilocano mode which happened every time she became too excited.
But my words caught in my throat when Yasmin cast me a sideway glance and I caught a glimpse of her sheepish smile.
Perhaps feeling my discomfort, my father spoke up and I didn't have to answer. However, I didn't like what he said either. "Igo, why don't you dress up and go with her to the school dance?"
"That's a good idea!" My mother squealed and headed to my cabinet eagerly. "I think the tux you used for Issa's wedding doesn't smell funny—"
I groaned, not moving a muscle. "You're going to tell me that when you've gone through the trouble of bringing up food?"
But of course, they weren't listening, and Yasmin was obviously enjoying my conversation with my parents with how her shoulders shook from the effort of stifling a laugh. Sometimes I would imagine how she would sound like if she laughed hysterically.
"Yeah, show up for the sake of the girls who had been calling the bakery since this morning," my mother, ever the talkative one, added. She had already unearthed a coat from the depths of my closet. And she wasn't finished yet as she turned to Yasmin. "It's the same thing last year—"
"Oh, really?" Yasmin faced me and there was something in her eyes and the way an eyebrow arched. It was the first time that I dropped out of our stare down first.
"Wen, balasang," she confirmed, her head bobbing in excitement. "The phone rang nonstop—"
"Ma! Stop making up stories, jeeze." It was embarrassing. My parents were embarrassing me with their made-up stories and they were enjoying it.
Mom pouted. "I'm not making up stories. It's the truth. Do you know Georgina—?"
If Yasmin's eyebrows could go any higher, they could have reached outer space.
"Okay, that's it." I had to put my foot down or else the conversation would go way out of hand. Georgina was as popular as Yasmin though I had not seen them with the same clique. But somehow, my mom revealing that our an equally famous girl called me up felt...awkward. "I'm not going to the prom. How many times do I need to tell you that?" I berated them as I playfully shoved them out of my room. Most times, my parents acted like kids and I had to be the mature one. Maybe because they had me when she was only seventeen and my dad, eighteen. So there were times I felt like I was with friends than parents. Which I found cool most times, except when they were throwing me under the bus in front of my friends.
"Such a KJ," my mother muttered, loud enough for Yasmin to hear as she reluctantly walked out. "It's such a waste that you're stuck with my son," she added giving Yasmin a face.
"Out," I ordered, shaking my head and making a move to shut the door.
But my dad raised his forefinger at me. "Ne, what did I say about leaving it open?"
"I will, just...go...shoo..." I waved them away.
"What is it with our son that the girls like anyway? He's such a killjoy," my mom's voice trailed off as they descended the stairs.
My shoulders sagged when finally they were gone, my energy totally drained. "I'm sorry about that."
"I like them. They're cool." There was a hint of longing in Yasmin's voice as she reached for her first piece of Spanish bread. "God, I'm so hungry." She took a hearty bite. "What language is that?"
"Ilocano."
"Ah, no wonder you're a cheapskate," she snorted, referring to the common misconception about the people from the north.
"Being a cheapskate is different from being practical," I defended and she just rolled her eyes at me.
After a while, I felt her eyes on me and when I risked a glance, she spoke. "What does 'balasang' mean?"
"What do you think?" I asked back. With context clues, it wasn't hard to figure that one out.
Yasmin's forehead creased as she pondered on the word. "Hmmm...does it mean 'pretty'?" She even batted her eyelashes at me for added effect.
I mildly shook my head. "It means 'young lady'. 'Pretty' is something else. I think it's 'napintas' or 'nagpintas'."
"Hmmm...I'll remember that," she mused as she turned to focus on the television.
A long silence filled my room while she ate bread. I found it hard to breathe. Especially when I could see her from the mirror nailed to the opposite wall. She was showing too much skin—her slender neck, her shoulders, her collarbone in full view. The front of the silky cloth dipped dangerously low it made me gulp. I've heard about girls maturing faster than boys did. But it appeared like Yasmin's hormones were lightyears ahead of the other girls I knew.
"So...Georgina..." she teased without looking at me.
"Drop it."
She chuckled. "You really can't take a joke, can you?"
Through the mirror, our eyes met. And again I was the first to back down.
"Igo." The way she called my name almost had my skin breaking into goosebumps, like electricity just zapped me. Unable to speak, I just managed to meet her gaze. "Am I napintas?"
At a loss for words, I just kept gazing at her—her eyes that held a fire in them, her thick, long lashes, her forehead, her pointed nose. The space closed in on us as I fixated on her lips now devoid of the lipstick and were slightly parted.
My ears rang, my head buzzed, my throat totally dried up. My eyes snapped back to hers and I sucked in a breath.
She wasn't looking back at me with pleading eyes.
But she stared right back at me as if daring me to do it.
Next thing I knew, I was already rummaging through my closet and later on pulled out a shirt which I unceremoniously threw towards her. "Wear that," I ordered, my throat tight. "Y-You look... uncomfortable."
Laughing at my sudden discomfort, Yasmin picked it up and put it on, not caring if it messed up her hair. "What is this thing? A shirt or a rag?" Yasmin pulled the neckline and smelled it, as if there wasn't any tension earlier. "Eew, how long have you kept this inside your closet?"
What a cowardly act, I berated myself. Why couldn't I utter that one word when the answer to her question was so simple. So obvious.
Or was it the invitation to kiss her that scared me?
"For your information, that's fresh out of the laundry, thank you very much," I returned nonchalantly.
Then she poked a finger at the hole she found on the hem. "You are such a cheapskate, I already feel sorry for your future girlfriend. I'm sure not all Ilocanos are stingy like you."
I dismissed the latter part of her argument. "As long as I can still wear it, I don't see any problem with it," I defended. "I don't want to spend money unnecessarily."
"What a responsible son you are. Mindful of how you spend your allowance."
"It's my parents' money, not mine," I corrected her and she just gave me a look that was close to respect and admiration. It made me more uneasy than I already was. "Are you sure you don't want to go back there? What about the crown?" I mumbled, my voice already raspy because it was almost 11PM and not because my throat was still dried up because of her. Of course not.
"What crown?"
"Prom Queen." Part of me wanted to see her wearing the crown because even when she wasn't wearing a gown, she deserved it. But a bigger part of me was glad she chose to hang out with me for the rest of the night. Just thinking that the boys wouldn't be able to keep their eyes off her had me gritting my teeth.
"Oh that?" She let out a snort that was so unladylike it made me smile. "I don't need a plastic crown to feel like a queen."
I wanted to agree. But I was still reeling from thoughts of the what-could-have-been if she were at the dance. "Or you don't want to go back because none of the guys are princely enough for you?" was my lame comeback.
"No. I don't believe in princes anymore, thanks to a snotty little kid who told me to stop believing in fairy tales." She glared at me then sighed.
She was still nursing a wounded ego, I realized. But it was something that I didn't regret because then, we wouldn't be bantering like this. "Too bad. You know there are those considered 'royalties' in the big city."
"I know that much, Igo. I'm not as stupid as you think I am."
"I didn't say you are stupid, okay?" I clarified and she made a face again. "But don't worry, with enough determination, you'll surely cross paths with your 'prince'."
A pillow hit my face. "Shut up." And after a moment of silence, she added: "Too bad you're not rich enough to meet my standards."
Even if that was meant as a joke, it still kind of hurt because it was the truth. "I thought we both agreed I am not a handsome prince who saves the damsel in distress?" I said instead.
"I'm not a damsel in distress either. I don't need a guy to save me from a tower, a monster or an evil witch."
I could only smile at her confidence because she was right.
The whole night, while she laughed at something she was watching, my head went on with the buzzing, unable to absorb anything because her reflection on the mirror kept distracting me. Even when she had removed her makeup and let her hair down when I walked her home, she still got me speechless.
"I'm sorry I barged into your room without notice," she said as soon as we reached their gate. "And thanks for keeping me company."
I bobbed my head. "Does your mom know you didn't really go to the dance?"
She shrugged. "She wouldn't care where I am the whole night. Mom's in some other party and she's expecting me to sleepover at some friends' house."
I just managed to make a noncommittal noise as she pressed the doorbell. Not long after Manang Mary opened the gate and let Yasmin in. We exchanged goodnights.
That night, I waited until the light in her room turned on while her words bounced around my head.
Am I napintas?
"You are, Yasmin San Carlos. You are."
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Author's notes:
I'm not sure why I unpublished the next parts :D It's been too long to remember haha