Every Girl's Guide to Boys (9 page)

My eyelids feel
exceptionally heavy, and I think,
Maybe if I just doze off for a while,
things will be better when I wake up
. My head slumps forward, and for a moment
there, I don’t even know where I am. And then I feel a strong, warm grip on my
arm, and I allow myself to be pulled up. “Chrissy, open your eyes,” the voice
says. I obey. And find myself staring at Nathan’s very concerned, very worried
face.

“Hi, Nathan,” I say,
giggling. “Why are you here? Wait, nope, don’t tell me.” I actually cover his
mouth with my hand. “You’re here with Queenie Cooper aren’t you?
Awesome
finale, by the way, she
is a very sexy lady, and you are a very lucky bay-behhh!” He pries my fingers
off and tells me, “Let’s get out of here,” and I giggle again and say,
“Alrighty-o, Nathan, you’re the boss!” I even stand up straight to salute him.
True story.

Out in the parking lot,
I tell him, “Hey, guess what’s up? My left toe is bleeding, and I cannot feel a
thing! Isn’t that just
wicked
?” I laugh so hard I have to lean against him for balance,
and he says, “Take off your shoe, Chris.”

“WHAT?! No way!” I
yell. He looks at me exasperatedly, crouches down, puts my hands on his
shoulders, and removes my left shoe for me. My big toe is red and raw and still
bleeding, the Band-Aid is peeling off, and poor Nathan looks like he’s about to
throw up. Before I realize what’s happening, I am hanging on to his neck and he
is carrying me to his car. In my wasted state, it occurs to me that this is The
Most Romantic Thing Anyone Has Ever Done for Me, and I wonder if this can be
categorized as cheating. I mean, technically, I’m single and can do whatever I
please. And technically, Nathan is so not the villain here—is it still
considered cheating if you leave behind the neglectful, MIA guy to drive off
into the midnight with the good guy who rescues you? He gently props me up on
the front seat, opens the glove compartment, and hands me a bottle of water.
“Drink up,” he orders. The last thing I recall is me wanting so badly to kiss
him. And then I pass out.

I wake up
to an insistent tapping
on my shoulder and a sharp, throbbing pain in my left foot. The sun shines
brightly through my window, and I want to reach out and grab it by its collar
and turn it off. I also want to scratch my eyeballs out and cut my head open to
extract the weight concentrated right in the middle of it. I hear someone clear
his throat. A
male
someone.

I sit up so fast the
weight in my head feels like it has doubled. The sun shines directly into my
eyes, and I squint. Justin is poking my shoulder repeatedly, like I am a
defective toy that refuses to work. “
Finally
someone wakes up,” he
grumbles. “
Kuya
Nico’s here.” He stomps out, leaving the door open, and Nico sits
beside me.

What is going on here?
Why is Nico in my room, and why do I have a feeling something is very, very
wrong? And then it hits me. Last night. The party. The drinking. The bloody
toe. The drive home. With Nathan.

Ohmigod, ohmigod,
ohmigod.

Nico puts a hand on my
back. “Hurry up and get dressed, okay? We’re going.”

Excuse me
?
Do you not
realize the gravity of the situation here?
“Going where?”

“Zambales. I told you
the other day, remember? Enzo wants to surf. We’ll be back by tomorrow.”

“I know you told me,
but I didn’t know we were going today. When did you decide this?”

“Enzo woke up today and
wanted to hit the beach,” he shrugs. “It’s a weekend. You don’t have plans, do
you?”

“No,” I retort. “But I
woke up today feeling like I am about to be guillotined, so I guess the beach
and the weekend totally slipped my mind.”

He laughs. “Oh come on,
Chris, stop being so melodramatic.” Nobody has ever called me melodramatic
before.
Ever.
That’s because I’m totally not. Like it’s some
groundbreaking revelation, he says, “It’s called a hangover. Just drink some
medicine and plenty of water and you’ll be fine.”

No, I will not
be fine
,
I want to tell him.
Because you abandoned me last night, and now you show up at my
house expecting everything to go back to normal. Because I have no idea what
happened with Nathan, and I do not want to be the girl who relies on
technicalities to wash her hands of the guilt of liking two boys at the same
time. Because I can’t believe you don’t even care about the fact that some
other guy brought me home, as long as I can get up to go on a stupid road trip
with you the morning after.
Instead, I say, “I was dead-drunk last night.
My parents would kill me before they let me set foot outside this house.”

He tells me, “When I
realized you had disappeared from the party, I tried calling you. It was around
midnight, I think. Nathan picked up. He said he was with you, and I asked to
speak with you but he told me you had just collapsed onto your bed.”

I gulp. It’s slowly
coming back to me now: I vaguely remember hurling my guts out into the toilet
with Nathan holding my hair up, pushing him out of the bathroom and locking the
door behind me, then changing out of my minidress and into my PJs
before
collapsing onto my bed.
So at least I’m pretty certain I didn’t strip down to my underwear in front of
Nathan. “I can explain, I...”

“No explanation
necessary,” Nico says. “What’s important is that you got home safe and on time.
And that your
 
parents didn’t find
out you were wasted.”

“But when they find out
I’m going on an overnight trip with just you and Enzo, they’re going to freak.”

“You underestimate me,”
he says smugly. “I’ve got everything covered. I already spoke to them before
coming up here. I told them the basketball team is having a weekend sports
clinic for public school kids in Zambales—technically, you
will
be in
Zambales—but majority of the volunteers backed out at the last minute and
we’re borrowing the Student Council members as replacements.” He looks quite
pleased with his clever little tale. “Besides, it’s not just me and Enzo, our
driver will be with us, too. So technically, there
will
be adult supervision.”

“Oh, well, now that
just makes me feel so much better,” I reply. “‘Cause the fact that your
chauffeur will be joining us completely makes up for the fact that HELLO, YOU
JUST LIED TO MY PARENTS!”

“Keep your voice down,”
he hisses. “Look at it this way, Chrissy: Fortunately, you’ve always been a
good girl. You’re thoughtful, obedient, trustworthy, the works. You’re lying
just this once, and technically, it’s not even your own lie, you’re just
backing up whatever I said. And I doubt you’ll ever do anything like this again.
Technically, this doesn’t make you an evil, reckless, heartless daughter at
all. So just pack your bags, get dressed, and meet me downstairs so we can make
the most out of the weekend. Okay?”

I chew on this for a
minute. And once more, I become living, breathing proof that in order to
seriously screw everything up for the second time around, it only takes one
word: “Okay.”

Rule number 9:

Know your boundaries.

For every episode
of The Greatest Show of
Our Time
(AKA
Gossip Girl
,
duh), the editors over at
Daily Intel
come
up with a reality index in which points are added, subtracted, and tallied to
show how close the plot comes to real life. I shall now be employing the same
method, except instead of determining how authentic an episode of a TV show is,
I shall be calculating the degree to which this road trip is a disaster.

The drive to Zambales
took five freaking hours. Enzo and I sat beside each other in the backseat, and
when he fell asleep, he leaned his head on my shoulder. (Plus five.) It would
have been
kilig
if he didn’t end up drooling all over my tank top. (Minus
ten.)

Like true-blue thugs,
Enzo and Nico played gangsta hip-hop all throughout the ride. Enzo was wearing
a basketball jersey three times too big for him, and silver bling around his
neck. Note to boys:
Never
wear an oversized basketball jersey or silver bling,
whether together or separately. It’s just not remotely appealing. I felt like
we were about to orchestrate a drive-by shooting. (Minus twenty.)

Because the road trip
took five freaking hours, my foot no longer hurt by the time we got to the
beach. (Plus fifteen.) Or maybe it still did, but the spotlight shone on the
numbness in my butt instead.

When we got to the
resort, I realized we had brought way too much stuff for an overnight trip, or
at least way too much stuff for four people to carry. There were five big bags
of junk food, a cooler of drinks, a boom box, several board games, plus our
individual bags of clothes and toiletries. (Grown-ups call these “personal
effects.” Why are they called “effects?” Just curious.) We trudge up to our
villas lugging what feels like half of our lifetime belongings, and because I
am the only weak girl in the presence of three strong men, I start whining.
Enzo and Mang Julio the driver pretend not to hear me. Nico just looks at me
and says, “Delayed gratification, grasshopper.” I roll my eyes, “Oh alright,
smartass, what gratification exactly am I delaying here? I am not looking
forward to anything today. And what do you mean ‘grasshopper?’ See, I don’t get
all these ninja references. Why can’t I be something prettier, like a butterfly
or even a ladybug? This is so unfair,” I call out to their backs. (Minus
thirty.)

Nico and Enzo have been
surfing for years, and can spend hours in the water. I cannot even swim. You do
the math. (Minus twenty five.)

Mang Julio says he
thinks Nico really likes me. Well, at least I’m guessing that’s what he meant
when he said, “Ma’am,
sa tingin ko lang ha, mukhang
type
ka talaga
niyang si
Sir
.
” Oh, yay. (Plus forty five.)

If Nico really likes
me, why has he not tried to kiss me today? That’s weird. Yikes, do I have barf
breath leftover from last night? I brushed my teeth
naman
this morning. Maybe he
just isn’t into PDA. (Plus twenty.) Or maybe he just isn’t into PDA
with me
. (Minus forty.)

I feel fat and bloated
and ugly. I don’t want to wear a bikini. I say this to Nico, and he tells me
calmly, “You’re not fat.” Hello,
everyone
knows that’s not
convincing enough. (Minus thirty.)

I have been worried about
my parents the whole day. I shouldn’t have lied to them. I shouldn’t have let
Nico lie to them for me. But it is too late to undo all that lying now. It’s
not like I’m going to call them to confess. (Minus fifty.)

I stay in my room and
sleep through the afternoon, and when I wake up just in time to catch the
sunset, my headache is gone and I feel much more cheerful. I go outside to see
Nico and Enzo sitting on the sand, chilling out to some Arctic Monkeys (the
hip-hop phase seems to be over) and a couple of beers. Aww, how cute. This can
be the start of a beautiful bromance. They are talking and laughing, and this
makes me smile. (Plus twenty five.) When I come up to them, Nico takes my hand
and gently pulls me down beside him, then puts an arm around me. The three of
us watch the sunset in silence, the stereo blaring, “All these little promises
they don’t mean much, when there’s memories to be made...” If our lives were a
movie, this heartwarming scene would make the perfect ending. (Plus fifty.)

Enzo
says he needs to take a shower, and asks us to text him when we’re ready to
have dinner. He glances around at the dark, nearly-deserted beach. “Don’t do
anything I wouldn’t do,” he jokes. Nico laughs. (Minus twenty.) But it is an
embarrassed laugh, not a
manyak
laugh, so I try
not to be offended. (Plus ten.)

Nico says, “I hope
you’re not sorry you came with us,” and I reply, “Of course I’m not. I’m happy
I’m here with you.” We are quiet for a few minutes, and I think,
Maybe nobody’s
perfect. Maybe I am just being too critical about the fact that he is not as
sensitive and soulful as I want him to be. Maybe I am being too cynical,
thinking he’s just leading me on and making me believe we have a shot at a real
relationship when all he wants is a meaningless fling. Maybe I should stop
having these nitpicky monologues in my head and start trusting him—we ARE
best friends, after all. And best friends don’t hurt each other.
He turns my face toward
him and leans in. The kiss we share is sweet and tender, and I feel my defenses
melting away. (Plus eighty.) We pull apart. We smile. And then he tells me (and
I swear I am not kidding—these are his exact words), “I’m really glad
we’re friends, Chrissy.” (Minus one thousand five hundred seventy two. At this
point, I obviously stop counting. What’s that? You want a final tally? Go
compute for it yourself, you point-obsessed geek. Okay, sorry. I got carried
away. Not mad at you. Mad at Nico. Let’s focus on Nico.)

Times like these, you
can only rely on two words to fully articulate exactly how you feel: “Fuck you,
Nico.” Fine, three words. You add the name of the person for emphasis:
Yes, you.
If you know me well
enough, you’d say this isn’t like me at all. Because I am rarely mad, and even
when I am, it is a profanity-free kind of mad. If you know me well enough,
you’d think perhaps you didn’t hear me right. Which is probably why a
dumbfounded Nico gapes at me and goes, “Huh?”

If you know me well
enough, you’d say I wouldn’t dare repeat myself. You’d say I’d most likely
pretend I had said something else, then spend the rest of the night trying to
forget about it. If you know me well enough, you’d say I can be “responsible”
and “mature” and “level-headed” in dealing with this. You’d say I can focus on
the “I’m really glad” part instead of the “we’re friends” part. You’d say I’d
rise above this. Because I can.

But I am done being the
bigger person. So I look him straight in the eye and tell him with conviction,
“I said, fuck you, Nico.” No explanation, no elaboration. I get up off the
sand, walk back to my room, and lock the door behind me. I need to talk to
someone I can really trust, and I hope Anna’s not busy. I reach for my phone
and blink at the screen. Thirty missed calls. One from Anna. One from Rickie.
Two from Nathan. Eight from Mommy. Eighteen from Daddy. It starts ringing, and
I stare at it with my mouth hanging open.

“Hi, Nathan,” I answer.
“What’s wrong?”

“Chrissy, where are
you?”

“I’m in Zambales with
Nico and Enzo.”

He
doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours. And then, “I’m really sorry,
Chrissy. I didn’t know.”

“What? Nathan, what’s
going on?” I am desperate for someone to tell me this is not what I think it
is, but all I hear are three short beeps at the other end of the line. Call
duration, 00:48:16.

My phone starts ringing
again. Crap crap crap. I press Accept in a daze.

“Dad,” I say, barely
able to keep my voice from trembling.

“You are going to pack
your bags and come straight home right this minute,” he tells me. He sounds
firm yet calm and detached, like a stranger barking out orders, and tears
spring to my eyes. “I don’t care how late it is, I don’t care what you’re
feeling, I don’t care what you think your mom and I did to deserve this. I just
spoke to Nico’s parents. The driver is bringing the both of you back here
tonight. Now hurry up and get ready. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

“Daddy, please, I’m so
sorry, I didn’t think you’d find out...”

“Exactly.” His voice
has softened—temporarily stripped of all the anger, it echoes mostly of
grave disappointment. “You didn’t think we’d find out.” And then he hangs up. I
wonder if I will ever be able to repair this damage.

Someone knocks on my
door, and I open it to find Nico with his hands in his pockets. He looks
nervous and scared and guilty. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. I am still crying, and
he tries to hug me but I push him away. I sit on my bed and he stands there,
shifting from foot to foot. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says. “You
know me, Chris. I would never do this to you on purpose.”

I
shake my head at him. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

He sits beside me. This
time, I don’t push him away. He says, “You know that’s not true.”

I stare at my knees. I
know we are supposed to be getting into the car at this moment, and that I
might subconsciously be doing this just to delay our return, but I also know
that if I don’t say this right now, I may never again have the chance or the
courage to. I know it’s about time I bring this up, because everything hinges
on whether it is fact or fiction: “I thought you came back for me.”

Nico struggles to come
up with the best way to let me down, then decides to just be honest and direct.
“I came back for myself.” Funny how we spend most days of our lives avoiding
the complex truths we don’t want to hear, and yet they always become so simple
and solid once they’re said out loud. The truth becomes irrevocable once it’s
brought out into the open—and maybe that’s why we’re constantly
concealing it in the shadows.

“I knew you’d be
different,” I tell him. “I expected the changes; I knew you wouldn’t be coming
back as the same person who left more than two years ago.” And this was
true—I was sensible enough to know that it was possible for him to
outgrow me, that it was possible for us to drift apart. “But no matter how much
two people change, I think they have to believe that underneath all the layers,
they are still fundamentally one and the same. I think that’s a requirement for
friendship, and for love, because otherwise, there just won’t be enough common
ground to build anything upon.” I cannot even look at him at this point, but I
urge myself to go on. “I knew you’d be different. But I didn’t know
we’d
be different. I would
never leave you by yourself at a party. I would never take advantage of our
friendship by stretching it as far as it could go without actual commitment. I
would never let you think you aren’t special or important enough. I would never
make you feel as confused and uncertain as you’ve been making me feel lately.
And I would never even entertain the thought of making you lie to your
parents.”

He cannot look at me,
either. “We used to be so alike, weren’t we?”

It takes every ounce of
strength in me to be able to admit this to him, and to myself. “It’s never
going to work, Nico.” And he just says again, “I’m sorry.”

Best friends don’t hurt
each other.

The ride home is quick
and quiet. He welcomes the silence without the slightest tinge of discomfort,
like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like it is something he is used
to, like it has always been this way. I don’t even have to tell him that I have
run out of things to say, that there is nothing right or real left between us
anymore. He knows. I guess he always has.

I sit on
the couch opposite my parents. Mom looks like she’s about
to cry. Dad looks like he’s about to start yelling. Both of them look like they
are trying and failing to make sense of me.

The first time I lied
to them was when I was nine. They gave me money to pay for my intrams shirt,
giving me strict instructions to put it in my wallet inside my bag. Instead, I
stuffed it into my uniform’s pocket, and after running around in the playground
during recess, discovered that I had lost it. Anna had enough cash for two
shirts, so she was able to cover for me. But I still had to pay her back. So I
lied and told Mom and Dad we were required to buy another shirt, which isn’t a
very brilliant idea because of course they asked to see both shirts and I could
only show them one. I wanted to die. Instead, I promised them I would never lie
to them again. And I’ve kept that promise. Until now.

So I haven’t had much
practice lying, which explains why I’m such a terrible liar. I can tell them
this is all Nico’s fault, that he was the one who came up with this intricate
scheme, that I didn’t have a choice but to take his lead. But this isn’t true.
I
did
have a
choice. I’ve always had a choice. I could have said no. I could have told him
to go ahead without me. This morning, I could have demanded he march right back
downstairs and retract all the lies he told
my parents. But I didn’t, because it
would have been too much work to stand up for myself. It would have been too
much work to stop Nico from turning me into someone I’m not.