Chapter 29 #2
He trails me, hand warm in mine as I inspect the shelves.
I always visit the Filipiniana section first, to check out their selection from local publishers and university presses.
Soledad S. Reyes’ translation of Liwayway Arceo’s Canal de la Reina is there, and as always, I’m starstruck seeing books on my Tbr in stores.
Amparo has the same copy in her library, but it’s tempting to buy my own.
Past the Filipiniana shelf, I take note of a notoriously smutty romance novel I’ve been hearing about online.
It was an indie darling that got picked up by trad, and though I’m not ashamed to read what I like, I opt to get the ebook instead so I don’t have to lug two books around.
Down the aisle we go, hunting for more potential reads.
Kieran releases my hand at the same time I reach for a book on the shelf. We hold up the covers of our selected books at the same time.
His has a girl in a pink swimsuit with a sweetheart neckline sunbathing against the blue of the sea behind her. “Bonjour Tristesse?” I ask.
“My sister really likes it,” he says. “She made me read it when we were holidaying in Cote d’Azur.”
“Holidaying,” I echo with a snort, taking the book from him and scanning through the back cover.
“What’s yours?” he asks.
I hold up a hand, quiet until I finish reading Bonjour Tristesse’s synopsis. It’s one of those artsy summery books set on the French riviera, about rich girls behaving badly. Unfortunately, I am deeply in love with those kinds of books. Sue me.
Kieran is smirking at me when I finish. “You like it,” he says.
I’m tempted to whip my phone out and read reviews on Goodreads—Rocío thinks I’m crazy for not caring about spoilers; she’s a purist in that she likes to approach stories without any preconceived notions of what she’s about to experience, but I prefer to know what to expect.
“Your sister has good taste in books,” I say simply.
“Don’t give her too much credit,” Kieran says, resting his arm on the shelf and leaning lazily against it. “She reads one book every two years. I think she was dating a wannabe poet when she read this. Shall I get it for you?”
He is the perfect picture of charming nonchalance. I want to pull him into every shadowy corner just to kiss him.
“No, it’s okay,” I say.
He takes Bonjour Tristesse from me and tucks it under his arm. “I’m getting it for you.”
“Kieran—”
“You can’t reject a gift,” he says.
“Do you want to see me try?”
“Well, you can’t stop me from buying it,” he says, “and then sneaking it into your suitcase before we part.”
My heart clenches. The lights seem to dim just a little with the reminder of our inevitable end.
I turn back to the shelf and say nothing. I return the book I’d chosen, having lost my enthusiasm.
Seemingly sensing our wrong turn, Kieran takes the book I put back and inspects it.
“What is this about?”
Ways of Seeing. “It’s a series from the ‘70s condensed into seven essays by the show’s host, John Berger. I say condensed, but really, it doesn’t leave anything out.”
Kieran flips the book to its back cover.
“It’s about art,” I say, “but also about the way we engage with it, the... well, way we see things.
“The second essay—I think it’s the second essay—it’s my favorite. It’s about how women are depicted in art. Like, think about it this way: you’ve painted women nude, right? Or sketched them, anyway. We allow nudity for the sake of art; it’s a study of figures. It’s beautiful.
“But you take that same naked woman and put a mirror in her hand, and suddenly that same sketch is titled, ‘Vanity.’ She’s no longer an object worth admiring—the keyword being object.
She’s now the object of our scorn. But isn’t that ridiculous?
To condemn—that’s the word he uses—to condemn someone for admiring the very thing we ourselves were admiring just moments prior?
“He says something to the effect of how women are constantly surveying themselves and watching how they act because we’re taught that our success in life hinges on how men perceive us.
And I like that he isn’t misogynistic about it, you know?
It’s not portrayed as if women are the second sex.
It’s more so he’s shedding a light on the misogyny that’s embedded in a lot of works of art, and how that’s a reflection of the way we see women.
“There’s this great line in it. Something about men looking at women, and women watching themselves being looked at. I can’t remember how it goes specifically, but—” I run out of breath. Kieran smiles at me encouragingly, patient as ever.
“Atwood said something like it too. How women are our own voyeurs, because we’re always aware of how we’re perceived.”
He purses his lips, nodding, processing.
“I’ll get it for you,” I say.
“Will you?” His eyes sparkle under the fluorescent lights. I can’t help it; I kiss him. Just a peck, to see how it feels, kissing in plain view of everyone, even strangers.
Kieran and I exchange books: Bonjour Tristesse for me, Ways of Seeing for him. He buys a tube of red paint, just in case.
We stop by an ice cream stall to order chocolate custards in waffle cones. I’m grateful our hands are full when we run into the other boys. I don’t know what we’d have done if they caught us holding hands.
“Where’re the others?” Jaime asks, a suspicious look in his eyes.
“They went to Rustan’s,” I answer in my calmest voice. “I wanted to look at books.”
Bo takes the brown paper bag tucked under Kieran’s arm and pulls it open, the staple tearing it slightly.
“The hell is this,” he says.
“It’s a book, moron,” Cisco jokes, ruffling his hair.
“I know that,” Bo says. “I’m saying—since when do you read?”
Kieran shrugs. “Seemed interesting. Might help with the painting.”
“Having trouble?” Jaime asks.
“No,” is Kieran’s quick response. “I just like to stay inspired.”
“I’m telling you, man. You should just paint hot girls. You’ll never run out of inspiration.”
Kieran chuckles. “I bet.”