Chapter 22
Setting foot inside an all-boys school feels like getting transported to a different planet. Like, how can there be classrooms, cafeterias, libraries—but with just boys??? How do they make sure that the place does not spontaneously combust at any moment?
The last time I was here, it was when Auntie Baby invited our family for Moseph’s grade school graduation.
I still vividly remember sweating my face off since the auditorium had no air-conditioning.
Imagine having a school just for boys and skimping on the air-conditioning.
That’s basically creating a hot spot for body odor.
Thankfully, it’s not so stuffy inside the auditorium this time around. Or maybe my senses haven’t woken up yet since it’s early morning.
“Doo-doo-doo, dow.” Kayla attempts to sing the ad-libs of “Always Be My Baby” once again. I still have no idea how she manages to hit four different keys with each “doo” syllable, and how every one of those keys are off pitch.
Pa scribbles his feedback on the whiteboard in the room. Since he can hold things now, we discovered that he’s able to communicate with Kayla through writing. When I ask Kayla what she sees, she says it’s like watching the marker floating and moving on its own.
Kayla reads Pa’s writing on the board. You forget your breathing when you’re nervous.
“See?” Kayla then tries to shoo me away again. “Can you stay somewhere else?”
“I’ve been sitting here quietly!”
And it’s true! I’ve been keeping my thoughts about Kayla’s atrocious singing to myself … mostly.
“You’re making me forget my breathing!” she protests.
I turn to Pa for backup, but he doesn’t come to my defense. “Maybe more space can help Kayla with her process, Superstar.”
Apparently, the only person who doesn’t give Kayla stage fright is my invisible father.
So I put up my hands, give Kayla some space for her “process,” and retreat to the backstage area.
Unlike the soiree plan, Pa has been fully focused and committed to making this Battle of the Bands memory happen.
And when we do pull this off, make Ma and Achi see Pa again, that will solve everything!
Ma will forget about Dr. Derrick and Achi will forget about Florida.
Win-win for my family and lose-lose for the dentist and Florida.
After I built the imaginary band, I thought that Seph would be the harder one to convince.
Plot twist: Kayla’s situation was the real logistical nightmare.
Since Kayla has Honesty Club meetings and church commitments going on after school, her only free time to rehearse is before class starts.
I actually offered that we wing it and do the Battle of the Bands on the spot, but Kayla insisted on practicing.
“Your mom’s not going to remember your dad’s performance if we don’t make this special,” she said.
And I know I should be grateful that Kayla’s going so far as to learn how to sing for this plan, but her calling this a “performance” makes me forget how to breathe. Because what if I’m not capable of performing anymore? What if I end up choking like last time?
I make sure the area is vacant and I’m alone when I sit in front of the abandoned keyboard behind the stage. During the past few mornings, I’ve been telling Kayla I need to catch up on homework and that I already practice a lot at home.
At least I’m better than Seph. I’m not so self-absorbed to say that “I don’t need to practice.”
In line with Moseph’s King brand of humility, Seph responded to my band invite by bragging that he’s the reigning Saint Francis champion of the soloist category: “I wouldn’t mind winning the band category too.”
In any other situation, I’d take a statement like this from Seph as an opportunity to challenge and humble him. His cockiness is how I ended up winning the better role in The Little Mermaid.
Then I saw how simple playing the guitar was for Seph.
He skimmed the sheet music for Ma’s favorite song and played it in one go, like he hardly gave it a second thought. Seph didn’t seem to care at all that Kayla and I were watching him with his guitar. Playing in front of people doesn’t come easily for me anymore.
My palms slam on the keys when I see someone’s silhouette peeking from the curtains.
“Why’d you stop?” Seph says when he emerges from the shadows.
I try to look unfazed even though my heart’s still racing. “Did Auntie Baby never teach you manners?”
Seph ignores that and slides next to me on the bench. “I haven’t heard you play since we were rehearsing the ‘Soaring’ song.”
When I shoot him a confused look, he starts playing the opening riff to “Breaking Free.”
I laugh. “How are you so bad at remembering song titles?”
“Never stopped me from remembering the lyrics.” He taps his temple and continues playing. “We’re soaring, flying…”
Seph pauses singing and turns to me.
“There’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach,” I recite, completely monotone.
His shoulder bumps me. “See? Your pitch got even better.”
I roll my eyes while Seph tells me to take over.
“No.”
“Come on. Please,” he keeps urging. “That bit I heard was so good.”
For the record, I’m mortified and incredibly pissed that Seph spied on me playing. But still. Part of me wants to know.
“You thought I was good?” I ask.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles up at me. “I’ll let you know if you play again.”
“Never mind.” I groan and unfold the cloth cover back on top of the keyboard.
“Why don’t you perform anymore?” he asks.
“Never liked it.”
“Bullshit,” Seph calls me out. “You loved it.”
I shrug. “I don’t think theater was ever for me. And I’ve been busy.”
“With what?”
My head turns in his direction. “For your information, I have a very packed academic schedule.”
I take my laptop out of my bag and place it on top of the keyboard controls to prove my point. “I was working on a big paper before you interrupted.”
“Looks like you’re making great progress,” he comments, sounding weirdly amused.
When I look back, I see my computer opened to my working document of nicknames I have for Dr. Derrick. The doc is labeled An Ode to a Pervy Dentist.
“It’s a … creative assignment.”
“Here.” He swivels the laptop toward him and starts typing.
Beneath my entry Derrick the Human Root Canal, Seph writes, Derrick the Oral Overlord.
I quickly type, um. EW????
Seph smirks.
It super sounds like a bad guy in a movie.
I type: Yeah. A porn movie
Just continuing your ode to the pervy dentist.
We keep taking turns writing, and the document gets filled with more and more possible nicknames for Dr. Derrick, his suggestions more X-rated than mine.
Did you hear? Seph glances at me before he types, Gab Pangilinan is going to be a guest mentor in this summer’s workshop.
“Are you serious?!” I ask him out loud.
Gab Pangilinan was the first theater actress I ever saw in person.
During the summer of my very first Trumpets workshop, we took a field trip to watch a production of the musical Mula sa Buwan.
Our teacher told us that the lead actress, Gab, used to attend the Trumpets summer workshops, too, and that blew my mind.
My whole world shook at the idea that someone from where I was could end up onstage, singing and performing in theaters full of that many people.
“Did they confirm she’s mentoring? How often is she going to be there?
Is she actually teaching?” My whole chest starts humming when I start remembering watching Mula sa Buwan live, the moments I listened to the soundtrack on repeat and imagined that I was the one singing, the times I actually got to perform onstage and felt the most delirious, soul-invigorating joy when I got lost in a character or a story.
Anywhere else, I’m a regular old drop in the ocean. But when I stepped on that stage? I felt like a tidal wave ripping through all that surrounded me.
I have a million more questions but stop when I notice Seph smirking at me. “I thought you said theater wasn’t for you?”
He’s right. That life isn’t for me. I don’t get to be the tidal wave. I’m the person who gets knocked over and nearly drowns from trying to catch up with the current.
“It’s not,” I say firmly, going back to focusing on my laptop and shutting down all urges to ask more about Gab Pangilinan.
Then I see Seph type another question. Why did you quit Trumpets?
I frown at the screen. Next question.
Sorry. Not allowed. He pushes the computer toward me and shrugs when I side-eye him.
Brings back bad memories, I answer.
What do you mean?
Long story. My hands pause before adding, Haha I’m sure me performing reminds you of bad memories too.
His brow furrows at my joke and he takes the conversation off the screen. “What do you mean?”
“When I didn’t show up for opening night,” I remind him. “Bad Luck Ilagan, right?”
Seph’s face only grows more confused. When I explain to him what I overheard the last time I visited the Trumpets studio almost five years ago, his gaze suddenly softens.
“You heard that?”
I shrug so he thinks it’s no big deal.
Seph frowns and shakes his head. “I was so mad when Kevin kept saying we shouldn’t say your name since it’s bad luck. Direk Myka switched the basketballs to these softball props because I kept ‘accidentally’ almost hitting Kevin in our next shows—”
“Wait. That wasn’t you?”
“Oh, you heard about the time I hit Kevin in the head? He was fine. The basketball barely touched him.”
“No,” I say. “I meant saying my name was bad luck … I thought you started it.”
His face tightens then. “You thought I’d do something like that?”
“Isn’t that why you started calling me Ilagan?”
“Yeah, cuz I was fed up with Kevin’s stupid joke!” he cries out. “You know, I think the people at Trumpets believe you’re our lucky charm now. I always mention your name during our preshow circles and no actor has forgotten any of their lines since.”
Seph’s cheeks are flushed and he looks so flustered, but I keep thinking how this might rank in the top five sweetest things anyone has ever done for me. It would’ve even made it to top three if not for the revelation about my sister thinking I’m a star.
Then he goes on a huge rant about how I could ever accuse him of starting a joke like that. His hair looks like he’s been electrocuted since he’s been combing his hair with his hands so much from the stress. “Why would you ever think I’d say you were bad luck?”
“I—I thought you were upset that I didn’t make it to our show.” My chest tenses when I go back to opening night.
That’s the moment Seph looks me in the eye. “Ilagan, you were going through a lot that summer.”
The mention of Pa almost escapes my mouth, but this whole conversation already feels way too personal.
Silence hovers around us until Seph starts typing on my laptop again. I’ve been so focused on our conversation that I haven’t noticed how close our hands have drifted to each other. I get distracted from noticing the color of Seph’s eyelashes when he pivots my computer screen to my line of sight.
Does performing remind you of my cute face, though?
Ugh. I knew he’d never let me live that down.
Don’t remind me of more bad memories.
The familiar nose scrunch pops up when he reads the screen.
He takes longer to type out his response and I start noticing more little things about Seph.
How he always smiles with his whole face, how his cologne smells like a blend of vanilla and fresh laundry, how I don’t hate the feeling of having his hand so close to mine.
He finally spins the computer back and my breath hitches when I feel his pinkie graze the side of my finger.
Then I read:
FYI. You don’t remind me of bad memories, Ilagan. Everything’s good when I think of you.
…
What the fuck does that mean?!
My whole face feels like it’s burning while the screen’s cursor keeps blinking, begging for me to reply. This isn’t how Seph and I talk. When I tell a joke, he’s supposed to tease me and joke back! What does it mean when he says he thinks of me?
… What does it mean when I’ve been thinking of him too?
Our eyes don’t meet, yet I feel our fingers intertwine, making the whole world somersault inside my chest. We’re not stuck in some stupid soiree game; there’s no melting ice cube housed between our palms. Seph and I are holding hands.
It’s a fact that’s getting harder and harder to dispute the longer we stay like this.
“Nika!”
My hand immediately pulls back and Seph catches my laptop from falling off the piano when Kayla’s footsteps thunder through the backstage. “I think I figured out how to sing on key!”
I stand up so quickly that my knees click. “Did you hear that, Seph? Kayla sang on key!”
“G-great!” Seph agrees, echoing my enthusiasm. Electrocuted hair making a comeback. “On-key singing! My favorite kind.”
We both scutter out of that area, and I stow away my computer, cleaning up all evidence of what just happened.