Chapter 1 #2
“Maybe she’s in therapy,” Rocío says to me as she stares at the cardstock in her hand hours later when she comes over.
Her dark hair is braided back and her bangs are clipped away from her face.
I was there when she gave herself bangs after a particularly nasty fight with her boyfriend of five years, Joaqs, citing a need to shed off some ‘dead weight.’ (They’re still together, and they’re also never not fighting about his family, who hate her because she refuses to join their enmeshment and who he enables because he’s spineless.) Rocío’s hair looked terrible in the immediate aftermath of her rage, so she had to go to the salon the next morning to get her hair fixed up.
She’s definitely settled into her new look now.
Whenever she has her glasses on, I call her cutesy and she hates me for it.
I tell Rocío that Mama had insisted I accept the invitation.
She said it would be good for me, after everything.
In my opinion, I have enough on my plate as it is trying to get published, and after everything, what would be good for me is to leave the past in the past. This publishing opportunity isn’t just about getting a book out there; if I swing this, that’s my whole future, secured.
I snort at Rocío. “It would take a miracle for Natalia to extend an olive branch to me, not therapy.”
“Maybe this is her way of apologizing. You know, like the twelve steps in Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“Or she needs a sacrifice for her Satanic rituals,” I retort.
Rocío purses her lips and tips her head to the side in concession.
I take the invitation from her hands and toss it into the bin.
If Natalia thinks all can be forgiven because she’s had a change of heart, then it only goes to show that she hasn’t changed one bit.
She still thinks the world revolves around her, and that everyone in it should bend to her will when she wants them to.
A summer in the most exclusive subdivision in all of the Philippines doesn’t make up for all the trauma she’s given me.
If anything, she owes me hundreds of thousands in medical bills. Now that I would appreciate.
Rocío fishes the invitation out of the bin. “It says it’s all expenses paid.”
I ignore her, staring at the blank document on my screen. What will it be? Enemies to lovers? Workplace romance? I call on the muse, but I don’t even get a dial tone.
Amparo believes in synchronicity; she learned it from Julia Cameron’s The Artist Way, the whole “leap, and the net will appear.” If you show up, God—or the world, or whatever you want to call the creative force that flows in us—will provide you the tools you need, whether it’s inspiration or the idea to get you out of a rut.
I’ve been leaping and leaping, but so far, no net. Just a whole lot of free falls.
Rocío pushes my screen down, trapping my fingers under it. “You can use a break, Sabs,” she says. “You need it.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Plus, I’m looking forward to a summer of us hanging out without Joaqs around.
Mommy dearest called him back home to Cebu because she misses her baby boy and needs quality time with him.
Like a good son and a terrible boyfriend, he’s spent the better half of the past few weeks sleeping next to his mom in bed and trying to convince Rocío that of course he can still love her and cuddle up with the people who have made her life a living hell the past five years; they’re family. It’s complicated.
Boy moms and Mama’s boys, right? I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy.
“You’re not fine. You haven’t left your room in weeks. You’re always staring at your screen, and when you’re not, you’re staring at the wall, as if a story will somehow appear there.”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Sabs.” Rocío sighs and sits on my bed. “You don’t have to stay the whole time.
You can try it for a week. Maybe she’s different now.
Maybe you guys can bury the hatchet. Who knows, right?
It could give you some closure. Any other time, I’d be right there with you.
Fuck Natalia. But—I don’t know. It’s tiring to be hateful and pessimistic.
What if things turn out well, right? Why don’t we think of that?
Or—” She points at me. “Or think of it this way: you need to refill your well. This can be that. If nothing else, it can be good material.”
My ears perk. I launch forward, reaching for one of my many journals. This one I’ve dedicated to this new writing project. I scribble like mad.
Field research for an exploration of class and its influence on culture and interpersonal dynamics within the confines of a three-act romance structure.
Think: Clueless (1995) or Emma by Jane Austen.
NO!!! Modern Les Liaisons dangereuses but in Manila?
Unlikable heroine, very messy—rich girl who thinks she’s above reproach?
Does she meet her match in someone from a similar background or different?
Love interest as the foil??? Rich girl as a class traitor?
???? Old vs new rich? If rich vs poor—what is there to say that hasn’t been said before?
Avoid the risk of romanticizing the ruling class/bourgeoisie.
Research: cultural capital, taste as a means of exclusion, fashion as a wealth code. Read Distinction by Pierre Bordieu. Brush up on Marx.
“Sabs?” Rocío prompts. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, good material,” I say. A story starts to take shape in my mind: the sharp banter, the witty remarks. Amparo will praise me for my rendering of a realistic scale model of the world of the rich youth, for my criticism of socio and economical disparity within the Philippines.
Contrast, I jot down. There has to be contrast.
“I’ll pick you up myself if she starts up again,” Rocío offers, “and then we can forget about all of it.”
I’ve never been interested in revenge. My whole life after leaving Walden, all I’ve wanted to do is put distance between me and that sordid time.
But if Natalia can be useful to me for once in her life, then we can call ourselves even.
She got her fun, now I get my publishing deal.
No harm, no foul; other writers have written thinly veiled portrayals of real people.
I’ll only be going to take notes on the completely different universe the one percent live in.
For research. And maybe a bit of character study.
Katy Hays, the author of Salt Water, called it a petty theft of humanity; that’s hardly anything compared to bullying, right?
But what if—? What if she does start up again?
What if it turns out that the wound is just as raw as it was eight years ago?
Or worse: what if I have moved on, and this just brings me right back in it?
Is it a sign of a true writer to risk the self in the name of art, or am I just a desperate masochist with impostor syndrome willing to walk over hot coals in hopes my boss will tell me I’m good enough?
“We have to show up so God can do His thing,” Rocío continues.
After what happened to me last year, she and I have started attending a youth group in her parish, coincidentally near Exeter Park.
It gives me peace to know that, if Rocío can’t come to fetch me, I can always run to Santuario de Loyola.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. I glance at the number on the invitation. Yes or no? Does my past hold the key to my future? I feel on the precipice of something big, something wonderful, or maybe regret.