Every Girl's Guide to Boys (8 page)

Rule number 8:

 
Pay attention to technicalities.

“Dude!” Nico exclaims
, slapping a tall, very handsome boy several
times on the back. It is past five AM on a Friday holiday, and it feels like
we’ve been standing outside the airport waiting for hours. Enzo has toned arms
and muscular legs, striking eyes framed by perfect eyebrows, wavy dark brown
hair pulled back in a ponytail, lips that can totally bag him a Chapstick ad,
and caramel skin that, from where I stand, looks like it has no pores and produces
zero oil. In short, this guy is way prettier than me. Hello, insecurity. Fancy
running into you here.

He
slaps Nico on the back too, then turns to me. “Hello, Chrissy,” he says,
smiling his megawatt smile at me. “It is so nice seeing you again.” He says
this like we are long-lost friends, but he offers his hand for me to shake like
we are complete strangers meeting each other for the first time. His piercing
stare and solid grip make me uncomfortable, and I hope Nico doesn’t notice that
my cheeks are burning. I pull my hand away and compose myself enough to be able
to blurt out, “Hi, Enzo. Welcome to the Philippines!”

Enzo laughs. “Still
funny, huh?” I think,
when was I ever funny to you? We don’t know each other well
enough for you to be able to say that I am “still” funny, or “still” anything,
actually.
I really do not remember having any other form of interaction with
him aside from his thirteenth birthday party, which Nico dragged me to, and I
admit it is not a very pleasant memory because of the grape juice, which he may
or may not have spilled on my new white sneakers on purpose (okay seriously, I
have
to let that go). Maybe
he’s just really, really friendly? Guys who
are very good-looking tend to either be super aloof, or super feeling-close, and
maybe he’s leaning towards the latter.

At the crowded arrival
area, waiting for Nico’s driver to pick us up and bring us to his place for
breakfast, I wonder if the three of us look like we’re all related, or if we
look like a small
barkada
, or if I look like the girlfriend of one of them. I wonder
whether or not I’ll pass for twenty-one, and whether or not I’ll pass for
Enzo’s girlfriend. Of course, in my glamorous attire of jeans, flip-flops, and
oversized faded sweatshirt, I think I already know the answer. And then Nico
spots his car and grabs my hand as we weave our way through the throng of
balikbayans
, and I think I feel
better.

They load Enzo’s
luggage into the trunk, and I stand there unsure whether to get into the
backseat or ride shotgun. This is the problem with being part of a trio and not
knowing exactly who the third wheel is. On one hand, Nico and I are sort of an
item. On the other hand, Nico and Enzo are cousins, and I am just tagging
along. I do not want to assume that Enzo is the odd one out, but I’m iffy about
volunteering myself as well. So I stand there and wait for directions. Finally,
to my relief, Enzo declares, “I’ll stay in front,” and opens the back door for
me.
Thank
you, Enzo. I guess I forgive you for the grape juice now.

Over breakfast, Enzo
tells us about college in New York, being an exchange student in France, and
his modeling stint in LA. I am impressed with how he rattles off his
achievements but manages to come off sounding so humble and down-to-earth. His
parents separated when he was twelve, and since then, to assuage the guilt of a
failed marriage and to distract their son from the abandonment, they’ve
provided permission and finances for his shuttling back and forth among
different relatives in various parts of the globe. “The trade-off hasn’t been
easy,” he says. “If you ask me now, I’d still choose a happy family over all
these experiences any day. I miss seeing my parents together. But I don’t know,
maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”

“Well,”
Nico says. “You’ve still got family right here.”

“I know, man,” Enzo
grins. “So, what’s the game plan for today?”

“We’re on the VIP list
for a party at the Rockwell tent tonight,” Nico replies. “Mama’s designer
friend is launching a new collection, and she needs, quote-unquote, young
people to attend the event. I promised we’d show up, but we can always leave if
it gets boring. And since the folks are both out of town for the long weekend,
we can stay out as late as we want to.” I yawn, and Nico continues,
“But for now, I think Chrissy needs to go home
and sleep. You should get some rest too. Your stuff’s in the guest room
upstairs. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“Yeah, that sounds
good,” Enzo says, standing up and stretching. “I’ll see you later, Chrissy.”

I’ve never been a party
person, and if this were a regular weekend, I would have rather stayed at home
catching up on my reading, or spending time with Justin, or watching classic
FRIENDS
episodes
on DVD and swooning
over the timeless love story of Rachel and Ross. But hanging out with Enzo
basically ups the potential coolness factor of a night out, and I am actually
looking forward to getting dressed up and wearing heels and having a few drinks
and maybe even dancing. “Later,” I say, more excited than I would care to admit.

I hop around
my room on one foot, howling in pain. Mom
calls out from the kitchen, where she and Dad are preparing lasagna for a
potluck party at her office, “Honey, are you alright?” and I yell back, “I’m
still alive!” I was busy practicing my dance moves to Britney’s “Womanizer” (I
always
knew
she’d be hot again), and have just stubbed my big left toe on the
ancient wooden cabinet. My poor toe is bleeding, staining my cotton candy
pink-polished toenail a deep red, and I sit on the edge of my bed to inspect
the damage. I take a Band-Aid from the box on my dresser drawer and wrap it
around my toe. I guess this means I won’t be wearing my new open-toed kitten
heels tonight. Hmm. Now what? I am wearing a royal blue minidress that would
have looked fabulous with them, and I stare at my shoe rack willing it to
magically produce a pair that would hide the ugly Band-Aid and still look
presentable for a night out. I wish I had unlimited footwear options, or at
least predicted this would happen so I could ask Rickie for help. I am
considering wearing my purple Chucks and pretending that I am making a fashion
statement instead of hiding a bloody toe, but suddenly, a glimmer of hope
presents itself to me, literally. At the very bottom of my shoe rack, a silver
box sparkles, and I remember—it contains a pair of black pointy pumps
that I only wore once and swore never to touch again because they made walking
hell. Those pumps would make my legs look amazing, and would match my
minidress. I tentatively slip them on, take several quick steps, and start
yelping. Ouch, ouch, OUCH. But I really don’t have a choice, because my phone
starts ringing, Nico’s name flashing across the screen, and I grab my purse and
head downstairs. As long as I walk slooooowly enough, I can travel a few meters
without fainting, and I guess they’d have to do. “Mom, Dad, I’m leaving,” I
announce, peeking
into the kitchen. “We’ll
be back from our party by two AM,” Dad says. “Make sure you’re home and in bed
at least thirty minutes before then.” I nod. Fair enough.

Black pointy pumps are
sexy, but not when the klutz wearing them is hobbling around and grimacing in
pain. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Nico asks as we pull to a stop in front of
the party venue and he helps me out of the car. I wince and nod. It’s not like
I’d change my mind and ask him to bring me home. At least I know the rest of me
looks great: My hair has been ironed into submission, I have managed to put on
mascara and liquid liner without getting raccoon eyes, my lips are still glossy,
and my cheeks and shoulders have been carefully bronzed. If I can get away with
sitting down the whole night, nobody has to notice my unsightly limp.

 
Fortunately, we find an empty table, and
Nico and Enzo sit on either side of me. They both look gorgeous, and when Nico
reaches for my hand, I think,
We are holding hands in front of everyone. Who
cares about stubbed toes?
Enzo glances at us and actually winks at me, and I laugh.
“Hey, I’m the only one who can’t walk properly,” I tell them. I am doing this to
prove that I am not KJ or uptight—just because I can’t have as much fun
as I expected doesn’t mean I have to ruin their evening. “You guys go and
mingle. Or whatever it is you’re supposed to do at parties like these.”

Enzo looks at Nico, and
Nico nods. He lets go of my hand and tells me, “We’ll be back.”

Enzo grins. “Don’t run
off anywhere.”

I laugh again. “Go,
seriously. Don’t let me cramp your style. Go mingle and be single.” I sound
like a cheerleader, only instead of cheering them on to run faster and score
better and make the perfect shot, I’m cheering them on to, well, go mingle and
be single. Way to go, Chrissy. That’s very generous of you.

Nico doesn’t correct
me. He doesn’t say,
I don’t want to be single,
or
Technically, I’m not single
. He stands up, ready
to jumpstart their Friday night. They head off to the bar to take advantage of
the free-flowing drinks, and I sit back to indulge in one of my favorite
pastimes: people-watching.

If the designer’s goal
was primarily to bring in “young people,” then she can consider this event a
smashing success. The guests are mostly in their teens and early twenties (or
at least they look like it), are dressed to kill, and are all having a
fantastic time. A runway is set up at the center of the tent, and the air is
buzzing with anticipation. A perky host in a gold cocktail dress welcomes
everyone, makes
pa-
cute for a few minutes, and finally chirps, “Let’s get this party
started!” Electronic music begins blaring from the speakers, and models appear
one by one to work the catwalk. The outfits are a tad too high-fashion for me
(think bold prints and over-the-top patterns), but they are brimming with
novelty and creative energy, and the entire collection is art in its less
accessible form—you can appreciate it, but you don’t pretend to
understand all of it. Then, the finale: the lights dim, a silhouette flashes
against a white backdrop, and a very stunning Queenie Cooper comes out to strut
her stuff on the ramp. The dress is cut so low I can almost see her belly button,
her legs go on for miles, and she is skinny and curvy in all the right places.
The crowd applauds approvingly, the designer takes her bow, and the show ends
on a high note.

Enzo comes to check up
on me, and I assure him I’m fine. I do not ask him what Nico is doing, but I do
ask him to send food my way. “I’m starving,” I explain, and he replies, “I’m on
it.” I smile gratefully at him. A server approaches me with a large tray full
of hors d’oeuvres, and I transfer about one-fourth of it onto my plate. He offers
me some red and white wine, and I think,
Why not?
and he asks, “Which
one, Ma’am?” and I say, “Both, please.” I accept the two glasses he sets down
in front of me, he tells me to enjoy, and I proceed to polish everything off in
five minutes flat. When he returns to take away my empty plate and glasses, he
does not ask if I want anything else. But I scan the room for any sign of Enzo
or Nico, and from the corner of my eye, catch a glimpse of Queenie Cooper
schmoozing up a storm in her fancy-schmancy gown. Right now, it is no longer a
question of whether or not I want anything, but of whether or not I
need
anything. I wanted to
come here with Nico and Enzo. I wanted to dress up and dance and party like a
pro and be grown-up and glamorous. I wanted to act like I belong, but now I
need to forget about the fact that I just don’t. I put on my most charming
voice when I ask Mr. Server, “Would it be possible for you to bring me a whole
bottle of red wine? It’ll spare you the hassle of all those refill trips,” as
if we were talking about bottomless iced tea instead of liquor. His eyebrows
shoot up to his hairline, and I hastily add, “Oh, it’s not just for me.
Siyempre
hindi, ‘di ba
?
I have, uh, friends who... just went to the bathroom. They’ll be
back here in a jiff.” He does not seem thoroughly convinced, so I resort to
regression: “Come on. Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar and
sprinkles on top?” He gives in and says, “Yes, Ma’am. Right away.” Thank you,
Kindergarten strategy, for still being effective in the adult world.

Here’s the
thing—I have never, ever had more than two glasses of wine in one
sitting. The first and only time I tried tequila, I practically had to pour a
pitcher of water down my throat afterwards to get rid of the taste in my mouth.
Once, I got tipsy after a single mug of beer and started talking to a tree
(Rickie and Anna caught the whole thing on video). And if tolerance really does
increase with practice, then I am dead meat because the last time I had
anything alcoholic was last year, during
Noche Buena
. I have just consumed
three-quarters of the bottle of wine in less than an hour, and I can feel my
throat burning and my head pounding. I might as well have hooked myself up to a
booze IV and let it all seep right into my system.
 

I stand up. Whoa, huge
mistake. The room is spinning, and I just need to find either Nico or Enzo so
one of them can bring me home. I should not be out in public like this. The
good news is that the alcohol has rendered me numb to the pain in my toe. The
bad news is that I wobble with every step I take, and I am obviously,
embarrassingly drunk. Wait, I can call them. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
I fish my phone out of my purse and dial Nico’s number. It rings and rings but
he doesn’t pick up, probably unable to hear it over the booming music and the
steadily rising noise level of the guests’ chatter. I try Enzo, praying he had
enough common sense to maybe put his phone on vibrate mode. No answer, either.
I have to sit again, and I plop down on the nearest chair, earning dirty looks
from the guy and girl beside me who look like they were about to start making
out.
Well,
excuse me for interrupting. Don’t mind me. Carry on, then.