Benjamin
"Every Saturday?" Jay asks me, as the rest of us take our usual spots invading their living room for the nth time.
I nod. "Yep," I say.
I just told my friends about this Math Circle thing that the teachers organized to train a handful of students, including me, every chance they can get. They want us to be ready if we somehow make it through at least the Regional level, if not the National Quiz Bee.
"For how long?" he asks.
"It starts tomorrow, until after the new year, I guess."
"Good luck with that." Then he disappears into their kitchen.
"Say it, Cap," Daryl tells Steve.
Steve sighs. "Tell me something I don't know," he sluggishly says.
"A group of baboons is called a congress," Daryl proudly exclaims.
"I already know that," I tell him.
"Oh, well," he shrugs, "I tried."
"Why are you eating ice cream?" Steve asks me.
"Do we need to have a reason to eat ice cream?"
He slouches on the chair and drops his arms on its sides. "Guess not," he says.
Daryl pouts. "Now I want ice cream, too." He sounds like a child.
Jay emerges back and places a pack of junk food on the table. It's the coated green peas one in a shiny green packet. Steve automatically grabs a handful.
"Oh, hey, I went to the last practice of Ten Cents Short," Daryl says normally again before helping himself with junk food green peas.
Jay snorts.
"They're actually improving," Daryl adds.
"So, they're good now?" I ask him.
"Well, not that good for mainstream radio, if you ask me. But they're better than before, I'm sure."
"What genre do they play?" Jay asks.
"I don't think they identify with a certain genre. But I heard them do some Coldplay. And it wasn't bad," Daryl points out.
"Do they have gigs now?" I ask.
"The thing is," Daryl turns to Steve, "Frederick said they want to play during our Seniors Ball."
Steve chews and swallows the serving of green peas in his mouth. Then he says, "seriously?" And he sounds both surprised and annoyed. "It's just September," he adds. "It's not even halfway through the school year, and they're thinking of the Ball already? Jeesh."
"But the student council handles that, right?" Daryl says. "You're part of that council, Cap."
"Nah. Not really up to me," Steve replies with a shake of his head. "And Mela hasn't mentioned anything about it during our last meeting. It's not even in any forthcoming agenda."
"Maybe you can suggest it next time," Daryl says with a mocking smile. "See, I just gave you a reason to talk to your crush."
Steve throws a pea at him.
***
On Fridays, we have Economics instead of History for the afternoon second period.
Right now, the teacher is giving instructions about an upcoming major project that we have to work on. There's a chorus of disappointing sighs after the class hears about another requirement to our already piled-up academic load. But, Miss Cruz assures, it will be done in pairs, to which there comes another chorus of yeses this time.
We're supposed to make a business plan. A hypothetical study that could somehow help the economic situations in our localities. This means, she already paired us up by proximity, which further means that I'll be working with the only other person in class who lives in the same town.
"Kimberly? Oh, she's absent." Miss Cruz notices the empty seat where Kim sits. "Better inform her then," she tells me with a nod. And she goes on around the room telling the rest of my classmates whom they're teamed with.
I need to arrange stuff for this project now that my after-class hours and even Saturdays are already devoted to the Math Circle. So, right after the teacher left, I approach Angel, our class secretary, and ask for Kim's contact details. Then she takes out a thin notebook from her bag and searches for it.
"She did not give a number."
Angel even shows me the page where our class directory is organized in neat handwriting. And true enough, there's nothing else next to Kim's name.
"Huh."
"Maybe you should ask Lawrence," Angel cheerfully says. "I'm sure he knows."
"Okay...uh...thanks."
Lawrence is one of those who treat the honor roll as the Olympics. But if being valedictorian were a popularity contest and should be decided by a voting body, I'd definitely vote for him over Aldrin, for the sole reason that Lawrence is less annoying.
He raises his thick eyebrows as he hurriedly walks out after I call him from the door of their classroom. We're in-between subjects, and their next teacher might come in any second, so I go straight to the point.
"She doesn't have a cellphone," he says.
"What about a landline?"
"They no longer have one."
"Is there any way to contact her?"
He looks up. "Her mother has a cellphone," he says. Then he shakes his head. "But I don't know the number," he adds.
"Okay," I sigh. "Thanks, anyway."
He turns around and starts walking back to their classroom. And I'm just about to leave and go back to section wisdom when this idea from nowhere in particular surfaces in my mind.
"Lawrence, wait!"
He stops and goes back to the doorway. "What?" His thick eyebrows are furrowed.
"Have you been to their house before?"
"Yes. Twice, I think."
"Which one is it?"
***
I only know the street where she turned right from that night we walked together when I watched her disappear on that corner before I made my way home. So, I asked her friend for more details. And according to Lawrence, their house is in the middle of the left row when coming from the highway. It's a bungalow with a maroon gate and is across a sari-sari store.
I'm standing in front of the seventh house on the left side of this street, and the paint of the front gate, though rusty and already fading, is maroon. It's the only bungalow around here with that description, and there's a store right behind me. So, there's no mistake that this is Kim's house.
I ring the doorbell on the concrete pillar beside the smaller entrance gate and peek through the opening. I can see behind the screen that the front door is open. I ring the doorbell again.
The screen door slightly opens, and a face comes out from the other side. I wave at Kim as she slowly steps outside, looking very much surprised.
She opens the gate and stands there, holding onto its side. She's wearing an oversized black t-shirt with the cover art of Pinkerton printed on it, and denim shorts.
"What do you want?" she asks, and she doesn't sound pleased.
"Uh...um, you're absent yesterday."
"I know."
"Uh... Are you alright?"
"I had cramps," she blurts out so casually.
"Oh. I'm...sorry?"
She lets go of the gate and sighs. Then she asks me again what I'm doing here. And I have to consciously gather the words to deliver the message while consciously trying not to address the fact that she's wearing a shirt referring to one of my favorite bands.
"We have a project," I begin, "for, um, Econ class."
"Okay," she nods. "What...about it?"
"Well, we're partners."
Both of her eyebrows jump, and her eyes go wide for some reason. And I add that our teacher was responsible for assigning partners. Not that I wouldn't jump at the chance to volunteer. It's a paper, and she's a good writer.
"I...uhm...just want to tell you about it," I say, looking away.
She moves to the side of the entryway and next to the open gate. "Fine," she says, "come on in."
She leads me to one of the chairs in their veranda and tells me to wait before she disappears behind the screen door. I hear sounds coming from a TV inside, and then I don't. I assume she turns it off.
There are car traces in the garage of a vehicle that's currently not present, and she's the one who answered the door, so there seems to be no other person inside their house this Saturday afternoon. She's home alone.
Kim comes back with a notebook and a pen in hand and sits on the chair adjacent to the one I'm sitting on.
"So, what's it about?" she asks.
I blink. And blink again.
She stares at me suspiciously. "What's it about?" she asks again.
"Oh, right." I take out the notebook from my bag, open it to the notes from yesterday's lesson, and just hands her the instructions. I hope she can decipher my handwriting.
She skims my notes. "A business plan, huh?" She lifts my notebook a bit closer to her eyes. "So, it has to be local?"
I respond with a nod.
She looks away from the page and eyes me. "Do you have ideas?" she asks.
"No."
"Can I copy your notes instead?"
"Sure."
She crosses her legs, places my notebook on her side, lifts hers, puts it on top of her knees, and starts copying my notes.
"Nice shirt," I say.
She stops writing, tucks a handful of hair behind her ear while she creases her eyebrows at me. "Oh, right," she says, looking down at her shirt. "I like Weezer." And her face loosens up. "My brother gave this to me." Then she looks up. "Or I begged him to give it to me," she says, moving her head to the side.
She continues writing. And I think of another person I know who explicitly said that they also like that band. No one else.
"Kim, um, you should know this early on...that I'm not good with words."
"Alright," she mutters while writing. "You're the stereotype. I get it."
"I'm what?"
She pauses, looks up at me, and sits straighter. "Well, it's stereotypical that people who are good with numbers," she says as she points her hand at me, "aren't as good with words."
"Oh. Right. That."
She closes her notebook and gives me mine. I take it and shove it back to my bag.
"Any idea how we should do this?" I ask.
"We should try to know first how to write a business plan. And then we can come up with a way to go through it."
"Okay."
I know that. Of course, I know that. Why did I even ask a stupid question?
Silence.
Awkward silence.
Then a tricycle passes by outside.
"Is that it?" she asks after we can no longer hear its noise.
"What?"
"Is that what you came here for?"
I just stare at her and blink faster than normal. "Oh, right," I manage to say. "Yes. That. The project."
"You know, you could just tell me about that on Monday."
"Yes...well...I..." I idiotically scratch the back of my head. "I also wanted to know...if you're alright."
"Um, w-why wouldn't I be?"
I shrug. I don't know. I'm an idiot, and I don't think. That's why.
I stand up before I begin to externally slap my face. I'm already screaming at myself internally. "I should go," I say.
"Okay," she nods and stands up as well. "Thanks for the, um, notes."
I mirror her nod. And I start walking back to their gate. Then I turn around.
"I'll, uh, see you...um, see you in school, Kim."