I don't remember exactly when it all started. Maybe it was when I finished reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, the first non-academic book I ever picked up. Or maybe it was during the creative writing workshop I had accidentally signed up for. Then again, maybe it was when my best friend, Aya, caught sight of one of my drafts, read it, and encouraged me to continue.
Well, no matter what its cause might have been, I'm certain of one thing: I want to be a full-fledged writer. I want to see my work in print, to have people read and appreciate what I've written. I want people to get themselves lost in the worlds I create as they dwell in them with my characters. For people to understand my characters' sentiments and journey along with them through the mostly ill-fated—but occasionally blissful—happenings of their lives.
And now, at long last, I'm finally going to see this dream come true.
Just as soon as they send that letter of approval...
"You know, Sia, it's called a party for a reason. You're supposed to be socializing and having fun, not sitting around and texting."
Sigh. It's bad enough that my mom forced me to go to this reunion thing, but to once again come face-to-face with this guy is just so... horrid.
Marc Ramirez was arguably the most popular guy back in high school. Everyone loved him. Well, everyone except me. I despised him. I was the only one who saw him for who he really was — a conceited jerk who cared for nothing but his own personal benefit. How he managed to blind everyone else remains a mystery to me, but I really don't care. He can go ahead and do what he wants with his life, just as long as he leaves me in peace. Then again, it looks like he's not capable of that at all.
After all these years, it seems that he has retained his popularity. I mean, sure, he's good-looking, but is he even accomplished? Just what degree did he attain after college, anyway? Did he even go to college? Bah. Forget it. I don't really care.
"Mind your own business," I scoff, turning back to my cell phone. No replies yet. I slouch against my chair and sigh. No text from Aya means that they haven't sent that e-mail yet. I should really consider getting an Internet data plan.
"If you were just going to text your boyfriend the entire night, you should have brought him along instead!" says Marc, taking the empty seat to my left. "Welcome na welcome siya rito!"
"Shut up," I snap. "At puwede ba? That seat is taken." Okay. So maybe all the other people I was sharing the table with are on the dance floor, but that doesn't change the fact that someone is sitting (or will be sitting) there.
"Oho! Puwede ba, Ms. Valencia? I'm the host of this little party and I think that more or less gives me the right to sit wherever I want," Marc says, laughing. "Really. You haven't changed a bit since high school. KJ ka pa rin hanggang ngayon."
How dare this guy... I struggle for a retort but the arrival of Kari Valdez, Marc's rumored girlfriend (yes, even after high school, there are still many rumors going around—it comes with popularity, I suppose), saves me from having to come up with one. She looks pretty much the same as she did back in high school, if not taller, slimmer, and much more gorgeous. Her long, black hair, dyed with golden brown streaks, reaches up to her waist, while her porcelain face is made even prettier by the make-up she used. Not too dark, not too light. In an elegant gesture only she is capable of making, Kari grabs Marc's arm, gets him up on his feet, and pulls him towards the dance floor.
"Come on, Marc! Don't just sit there. Dance with me!" Kari speaks as if I wasn't there. She is completely ignoring me. Not that I wanted her to notice me, but still... What a bitch. Why do gorgeous looks always seem to come with attitude problems?
After a quick wink at me, Marc allows Kari to drag him off. They join the others in what they call dancing but is actually just a lot of jumping and awkward swaying from side-to-side. I can never really understand how they find such a thing enjoyable. The noise they keep trying to pass off as music is giving me such a headache.
Ding! There goes my alert tone. Finally, a reply! I open the message and read through the text from Aya. "Got the e-mail, Sia. But you might want to read it yourself." Huh? If Aya thinks I'll be able to wait until later to read that e-mail myself, she's seriously mistaken. I didn't have her check my e-mail every now and then for nothing. I have to know what they said.
The news of the e-mail's arrival further probes my impatience, so I don't bother composing a text message. Instead, I call Aya directly.
"Sia?" Aya answers with her ever-cheerful voice. "What's up, girl? Shouldn't you be partying at Marc's right now?"
"Yeah, I'm here. But, there's no way that I'm partying. Not when I know that the e-mail's there and you haven't told me what it says."
"You got my text, right? Trust me, girl. You'd want to read it yourself," says Aya.
"Aya, please! I won't last much longer if you don't tell me now," I insist. "What does it say?"
Beep! Beep! Beep! "Hello? Aya? Hello?" What a time to run out of load. Darn it. I place my useless phone back inside my pocket and slouch once more. My wristwatch now reads 8:30PM, but I told my Dad to pick me up at 9. While most people my age prefer to be out all night and even choose to wait until dawn to go home—if they choose to go home at all—I'd rather go home early. Only 30 more minutes to go and I'll be out of this place.
"Do you mind if I join you?" I look up and see the bright, friendly face of the person I had very much admired throughout the four years of high school. His name is Ian Ramos. Ian's not exactly what people would consider handsome, though he can be considered good-looking with that unfailing smile of his. Ian has never been seen without it and, true enough, there it is now. A smiling face suits him quite well.
"Oh, not at all. Go right ahead," I say, hoping my voice keeps free of any sign of unease. Indeed, even after four years, my heart still manages to skip a beat at the very sight of him. It's probably because of the memories of my old one-sided crush rather than any lingering feelings. There aren't any. I am sure of that. I think.
"It's great to see you again, Sia." Ian sits on the very seat Marc had taken earlier on. "Kamusta ka na?"
"Me? Well, I'm okay, but I'm definitely not as better off as you, that's for sure," I say. "You're off to medical school, right?"
"Right..."
"Congrats!" I say with a smile. "I look forward to seeing you as a doctor someday."
"Thank you. Sa totoo lang, I'm downright nervous about starting med school. Nakaka-pressure. It's not going to be easy at all."
"Well, nothing's ever easy. Pero, kayang-kaya mo 'yan! Ikaw pa?"
Ian laughs. "Sana nga. I'll certainly do my best." He pauses and looks at me with a curious expression. "Do you really think that I'll be a good doctor someday?"
"No, I don't think you will. I know you will." I surprise myself with my own audacity. Though I'm definitely not shy, I'm not that bold either. By the things I said, it will seem as if... as if I'm flirting with Ian Ramos.
For a minute, I panic at the wrong impression I might have given. But, not long after, I feel relieved. A look at his grateful smile tells me that he hasn't thought of it in that way at all. He simply thinks that it's an expression of trust from one friend to another, and even returns one of his own.
"And I also know that you'll become successful in whatever career you choose to pursue," Ian says. "I heard from Aya that you took up a BFA degree in Creative Writing. Your pre-law, maybe?"
I shrug. "I'm taking the year off to get a clearer view of things. My parents definitely like the idea of me becoming a lawyer, but I'm not sure if I do."
"Just follow your heart, Sia, and I'm sure the answer will come." Then, Ian excuses himself, saying that he wants to say hi to our other batch mates. He invites me to come along, but I decline the offer as politely as I can. Giving me one last smile, Ian rises and walks to the other side of the room.
As soon as Ian is out of my sight, my cell phone rings as if on cue. My dad's calling. It's finally time to leave. Thank God. I don't even consider saying goodbye to anybody, much less to the party host. They can go right ahead and call me rude, inconsiderate, or whatever they want. It isn't like they haven't used all possible insults on me before, anyway.
~
Dad and I don't speak at all during the entire drive home. There's nothing to be said. Clearly, Dad's still a bit angry at me for deciding to take the year off. When I had first told him about my decision, he instantly snapped and began a long sermon, repeatedly telling me how unwise it was to waste a year and that I should have just taken all those entrance exams to get into a good law school. I insisted, and so he was forced to simply go along with my wishes. Dad was clearly enraged.
On the other hand, Mom was a bit more lenient. Though she was also disappointed in me, she frankly asked if my reluctance to pursue Law had been brought about by the potential of a writing career. I had expected nothing less from my mom, whose careful and mindful eye had been known to miss nothing, especially if it concerned her one and only daughter. I loved and respected her too much to lie to her, so I ended up admitting to her accusation. Mom had sighed then but told me that she was willing to make a deal with me.
My degree in Creative Writing shouldn't be put to waste. Mom said that she didn't mind how exactly it was to be put to good use, just as long as it was. After graduation, I was to spend the following year pursuing a career as an author. If I were to succeed, my parents were to give me the freedom to continue with my writing. Mom promised that she'd personally take care of Dad, certain of his grief if he were to see his dream of having his daughter take up the family law firm forever vanish. However, if I were to fail, I was to give up writing, take the entrance exams, and eventually move on to study Law.
I didn't have much of a choice. I agreed to Mom's conditions and immediately worked on my manuscripts. Fortunately, I had been able to produce a few pages during my stay in college. After a bit of proofreading and editing, I hurriedly submitted samples of my work to publishers. My first attempt ended up being rejected, however. And so did the second. The same could be said about the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth attempts.
Rejection was pretty hard to accept, and having six of those didn't at all make things any easy for me. But still, for the sake of my future, I persisted.
Quite recently, I submitted my seventh work to the editors of Liberia Publishing Group. I had the utmost confidence this time around. I had worked twice as hard as I did before. I spent days combing elements from all my other works, taking care to remove negatives and add positives. I proofread and edited twice. I even had Aya do the same, despite having to pay her about five hundred bucks in butterscotch and brownies.
There'll surely be a positive outcome this time.
The moment my dad killed the car engine upon entering and parking in our lot, I rush out of the vehicle and into the house. Mom is on her way out to greet us. I quickly kiss her cheek and run up to my bedroom.
"Come on. Come on." Wasting no time, I boot my Macbook and immediately connect to the Internet. My heart races in anticipation as the web browser loads and opens my e-mail inbox. My gaze instantly falls on the most recent message. It's marked as read, having already been opened by Aya beforehand, and since she wouldn't tell me anything about its contents, here I am to finally find out for myself. Here it is, the moment of truth...
Upon my click, the browser loads and the message opens in full view for me to read.
from: "Mr. Oliver A. Ramirez" <theeditor@liberiapub.com.ph>
to: "Ms. Sia Valencia" <siavalencia@themailbox.com>
date: Sun, May 19, at 8:15 PM
subject: re: manuscript submission
Ms. Valencia,
This message is in response to your work, "Lost in a Moment".
We here in Liberia Publishing have dutifully read and evaluated your submission. Nothing but praise can be said about your near-perfect approach as to the technicalities of writing, but this, in itself, happens to be the very flaw of your work. Though such an approach is acceptable when it comes to research and other formal writings, the same cannot be said when it comes to fiction.
We humbly ask for your understanding in this matter and thank you for taking the time to submit your work to us.
Oliver A. Ramirez
Publishing Manager
Liberia Publishing Group
Aya had been right in saying that I had to read it myself. This certainly isn't something to be spoken of via text messages or mobile calls.
It's something I had to see for myself.
It's my seventh rejection.