Hot Nights, Cold Shoulders

Prologue

ISABEL

Eight years ago

By the time girls enter high school, we’ve already spent half of our lives looking forward to it. Books and movies have promised us four years that we’ll look back on as our best; if they’re to be believed then our coming-of-age, growing pains and all, will be cinematic.

It’s why freshmen like me get a whole night celebrating this new chapter of our lives. It doesn’t matter that we’re a semester deep into the school year; only after Freshman Night tonight will I officially become a high schooler.

Mama spent three months sewing my gown. It’s a classic terno made of cream fabric embellished by little white flowers and cinched at the waist. My best friend, Rocío Madrigal, had me over to get ready with her twin brother, Inigo. Their mom, Tita Irene, hired a full glam team to help us get ready.

I’ve never done anything so fancy in my life, especially not in a house as large as theirs.

Their living room alone was larger than the townhouse Mama and I lived in.

They transformed it into a makeshift salon for Rocío and I, and there, sitting on the makeup chair in front of a lit mirror, I felt like a princess getting ready for a ball.

It’s a short drive from the Madrigals’ subdivision in Makati to the hotel in BGC where the event is being held.

Outside the ballroom, students and chaperones are milling about, some in line for the photo booth, others sipping alcohol-free drinks by the silk-covered cocktail tables dotted around the hall.

There isn’t a particular theme designated for tonight, but God, if the ballroom doesn’t take my breath away.

Some kids whose parents were in the PTA divulged that the school had hired the Philippines’ top event designer.

It shows. I count at least nine chandeliers; many more string lights glinting silver drape from the ceiling like stars in the night sky.

Everything else is either a beautiful midnight blue or a classic black: lights, chairs, tablecloths.

It’s a whirlwind, my first taste of how the one percent party.

There are games with prizes worth upwards of fifty thousand pesos, a DJ whose releases break the Billboard Top 100, and—of course—my classmates dressed in couture and tailored suits and gowns.

I have always felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb in Walden, one of the only girls to not come from obscene wealth, but when Rocío drags me out to the dance floor, Inigo already having wandered off to talk to his friends, I feel as though I finally fit in.

My gown is just as custom as everyone else’s, if not more.

A proper glam team did me up. I’m not used to wearing heels, and by default they do hurt my feet, but this pair—a surprise gift from Mama—is also more comfortable than anything I’ve ever bought from the department store.

I think when you’re fifteen, you feel awkward and ugly more than you think you’re worth a damn, but tonight, I am everything a girl my age wants to be. Tonight, I’m beautiful. I feel like it, too.

I excuse myself from Rocío to freshen up in the bathroom.

She asks if I want her to come with, but the boy she’s crushed on all summer is hovering dangerously close by, just waiting for the chance to strike, so like every good wingman, I say no, spin her around toward him, and shove her forward.

They’ve been texting nonstop since they accompanied their fathers to the golf course several months ago; it’s high time something happens.

Maybe they’ll hold hands. Maybe they’ll kiss. I know Rocío’s hoping he’ll make the first move, whichever the case.

I face some regret not asking Rocío to come with me when I realize I need to pee.

In a cubicle, I haul my skirt up, praying to God I don’t miss a single inch and wind up with fabric dunked into the toilet.

No sooner had I sat down than I hear the bathroom door swing open, followed by heels clicking on the floor and the melody of teen girls on break from performing: sighs, makeup bags zipping, purses snapping shut.

“Wait, did you see what she was wearing?” I recognize Kelsey Azcarraga’s voice, the heiress to thousand-hectare haciendas and whose grandfather was known as The Sugar Baron of the Philippines.

Just my luck. Of course, the minute I find myself alone, the girls who snicker at me every time we pass each other enter the bathroom.

“Unfortunately, Kels, we have eyes.” Samantha Dimson.

Her family is a political dynasty in Cebu; her grandfather is the governor, her father the mayor.

The rest of her family holds seats in other parts of the local government unit.

Despite this, her whole immediate family lives in Exeter Park in Makati.

“Aw, it’s cute,” says Luz Dy, whose family is known for being a titan in mass media: television, advertising, publishing; they have their grubby hands in all of it. “That she tries.”

The girls snicker among themselves. Hate is a strong word, but that’s exactly what I feel for them. They’re terrible.

I reach behind me to flush, feeling sorry for whoever they’re talking about, but the next voice catches me off guard.

“I think it’s pathetic,” says Natalia Aranaz, the closest thing Walden has to a queen bee.

Rocío said that even the older girls are scared of her.

But it’s not Natalia’s statement that surprises me.

To a girl like her, born not with a silver spoon in her mouth but a golden one, everything is pathetic by default.

I sincerely doubt anything can come close to the quality of life she’s used to.

It’s what she says next that makes my blood run cold.

“Nobody under the age of forty should be wearing a Filipiniana to a formal event. It’s so lame.”

There isn’t anything remotely funny about what she said, and still, her sycophants laugh. I don’t know what’s worse: being made fun of, or being made fun of specifically while sitting on the freaking toilet.

I hear the faucet run. Someone, by the sound of it, uncaps a lipstick.

“I heard her mom made it,” says Beck, aka Rebecca Boucher, who made being half-French her personality, even though her father is actually French-Canadian.

That’s literally her only claim to fame, said Rocío.

Being half-white. “Rocío was telling Patty about it.” Patty’s one of the few girls at Walden who Rocío says doesn’t have a stick up her ass.

She’s part of the track team, which Rocío says explains why she’s nice: she’s too busy to care about drama.

“Where does she even find the time?” Natalia asks.

“I mean, it’s probably not that time-consuming to work in a girly bar,” Sam starts, only to be cut off by Natalia.

“No, I mean, between fucking businessmen and politicians.”

“Shut up,” Luz giggles. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Natalia exclaims. “You think her mom can afford the tuition with an entry-level job? No. She has a sponsor, for sure.”

“How do you know all of this?” Kelsey asks. Rocío has always described her as being like a shark that’s sniffed blood in the water. I get the sense of being circled like helpless prey.

“My mom told me,” Natalia says. “She picked me up and saw Isabel’s mom. She said, and I quote: esa mujer es una puta conocida. That woman is a known whore.”

“You know what?” Luz’s voice takes on a conspiratorial tone. “I bet she pimps Isabel out, too.”

Gasps from the rest of them. Nobody has the brainpower to consider how ridiculous they all sound.

“You think?” Beck asks.

“Why wouldn’t she?” Natalia prompts. “You think a known whore wouldn’t exploit her child like that? There’s too many pedos to make money from.”

I slam my fist on the flush. My tears blur the lights into the girls’ backlit figures. If I were Rocío, I would have had something snarky to say, a way to win back my pride. Instead, I sob into the sink as I wash my hands.

It’s a struggle to keep myself upright. Each of my limbs is anchored to the Earth’s molten core.

My breaths come in short, shallow gasps, and the harder I try to keep quiet, the louder my sobs get.

My skin crawls. I’m keenly aware that I’ve sucked all the air out of the room.

I’m the elephant waiting to be addressed but is more likely to go on ignored.

I would prefer it, actually. Let’s all just pretend none of this happened.

I’d wipe it from my memory if I could. I know the minute they step out, they’ll have forgotten about it already.

That’s how inconsequential girls like me are to girls like Natalia Aranaz.

And the worst part might just be that I know I should be grateful for it.

No boxer has a favorite punching bag. Any one will do.

How could anyone think so cruelly, much less speak cruelly, about people they don’t know?

I want to tear off my butterfly sleeves, so big and bulbous in the mirror, so eye-catching I almost blame myself—no, I blame Mama—for drawing attention.

Natalia clicks her tongue. She touches the small of my back and tilts her head to look at me. The tenderness of it jolts me back into my body.

“Don’t cry,” she says, swiping her manicured thumb under my eyes. “Your makeup’s going to get all ruined. Isn’t that part of what they pay for?”

I gape at her. She grins, not even remotely ashamed, stepping back to join her snickering friends.

For a split second, I think I might be as brave as Rocío and snap back, or pull someone’s hair just to get even. But I don’t even get a word out, just a strangled sound before my voice breaks, and I go back to crying. It’s pathetic; it’s weak.

“Your skirt is wet,” Kelsey says as she follows the other girls out the door. I whirl around to look, and—yep. Right there, on the hem of my skirt. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

“Is that piss?” Sam asks as the door swings open and shut behind them. Their laughter echoes in the bathroom even long after they’re gone.