miyako73
11-20-2012, 04:39 PM
... from Ruby Sky:
Martin and I were classmates from first grade to fourth. The nun who spoke French called him “L'enfant terrible”—and rightly so. His face, teeming with innocence, belied what he really was and what he could do. I thought a pair of tantalizing eyes could not terrify just with a stare or a set of passive lips could not speak bad words and tell lies. The permanent squint of his eyes like he had overslept and his ruddy bow lips he wet every so often with his tongue fooled me. I thought, at first, he could not hurt a fly. How could he not? He burned ants with magnifying glasses, threw bullfrogs onto the walls to smash, and pulled the long wings of dragonflies. I admired his curiosity though. He once opened the head of a lizard with a broken glass to find out the source of its croaking sound and dissected its chest to see if it had a heart.
Yes, he looked handsome even then, but I had avoided him like how I stayed away from someone drunk. Scared he might hurt me, I would not even glance at him or dare talk about him. He had bullied those who had not bowed to him for favor and protection, pushing and pulling them when his embarrassing pranks and incessant name calling would not make them cry. Most of the boys, who were as cruel and obnoxious as he, became his allies. They must have mimicked, but without guns, the American gangster movies they loved to watch. They would skip classes just to see those gory movies. For terrorizing us, I could not help but surmised what they would become when they grew up. Terrorists, maybe, if not petty criminals.
I gravitated towards the big girls in the class for their friendship and consolation, and they stood up for me when I found myself in trouble. I felt like we belonged together and I was one of them. We thought the same and shared the same likes and dislikes. Trisha, my best friend who weighed around one hundred pounds and measured five feet on the tape, twice my size, beat Martin with a bamboo stick when he once made me cry. She unintentionally hit his forehead, and a continuous stream of blood gushed and covered his face. He bled for calling me a sissy. The nuns brought him to a clinic for stitches, Trisha got detained in the principal’s office, and I went to see Grandma Azon.
“Stop crying now, Sweetie,” my grandmother said, her voice, as always, soothing. “You’re safe here.”
“Grandma, I didn’t do it.” I thought his parents would go after me, and that made me very nervous. “It wasn’t my fault. I swear.”
“How did everything happen?”
“Mmmm…”
“Tell me.”
“My friend defended me.”
“What did your friend do?”
“I did not tell her to hurt him.” I felt guilty for saying that. That I should stand by her since she stood up for me came to mind. “He pushed her first. Really hard. I saw it. I swear. You know, Grandma, I don't lie.”
“What kind of a boy is that?” My grandmother had a feminist streak in her. She once led a group of women who helped the victims of domestic abuse in our town. They did not called her Inang Tapang, Mother Courage, for nothing. “A boy should never hurt or hit a girl.”
“He’s really cruel.”
“Did you tell your father about this?”
“Please don’t tell him. I don’t want him to get mad at me. I don't want him to worry.”
“How about your mother?
“Not her. I’m sure she’ll tell my father.”
“What did the nuns do?”
“To me? Nothing, but they talked to Trisha.”
“Is she the friend?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Why did she defend you?”
I thought hard if I should tell her. My voice cracked from fear and embarrassment. “Because Martin called me…”
“Names?” She warned me about bullies before. She thought they had low self-esteem and had family problems.
“Yes.”
“They’re just words.”
“But he lied.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I’m a sissy. That’s not true, Grandma.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I know you're not.”
“He’s a liar. I’m not even a boy. I don't even feel like one.”
“Why did you say that?” Her brow furrowed, but it did not seem she just heard something really bad that needed a long explanation.
“Because, Grandma, I’m not.” I felt the time had come for her to know my secret that I had never divulged to anyone.
“Who told you all about this?”
I put my right hand on my chest and started crying again. “Nobody. It’s from here. I feel it all the time.”
“Don’t cry. Grandma understands.” She placed her hand over mine to feel the vibration of my heartbeat. "What does it say?”
“That I’m a girl.”
“Yes, you are.”
I did wonder why my grandmother said that. Did she really believe what I said? Did she say it, so I would stop crying? Whatever it was that made her agree and sympathize with me did not matter anymore that afternoon. After I told her my secret, I felt human and free. The sliced piece of cake she served on a small plate tasted so good, even though I hated carrots and cinnamon.
Martin and I were classmates from first grade to fourth. The nun who spoke French called him “L'enfant terrible”—and rightly so. His face, teeming with innocence, belied what he really was and what he could do. I thought a pair of tantalizing eyes could not terrify just with a stare or a set of passive lips could not speak bad words and tell lies. The permanent squint of his eyes like he had overslept and his ruddy bow lips he wet every so often with his tongue fooled me. I thought, at first, he could not hurt a fly. How could he not? He burned ants with magnifying glasses, threw bullfrogs onto the walls to smash, and pulled the long wings of dragonflies. I admired his curiosity though. He once opened the head of a lizard with a broken glass to find out the source of its croaking sound and dissected its chest to see if it had a heart.
Yes, he looked handsome even then, but I had avoided him like how I stayed away from someone drunk. Scared he might hurt me, I would not even glance at him or dare talk about him. He had bullied those who had not bowed to him for favor and protection, pushing and pulling them when his embarrassing pranks and incessant name calling would not make them cry. Most of the boys, who were as cruel and obnoxious as he, became his allies. They must have mimicked, but without guns, the American gangster movies they loved to watch. They would skip classes just to see those gory movies. For terrorizing us, I could not help but surmised what they would become when they grew up. Terrorists, maybe, if not petty criminals.
I gravitated towards the big girls in the class for their friendship and consolation, and they stood up for me when I found myself in trouble. I felt like we belonged together and I was one of them. We thought the same and shared the same likes and dislikes. Trisha, my best friend who weighed around one hundred pounds and measured five feet on the tape, twice my size, beat Martin with a bamboo stick when he once made me cry. She unintentionally hit his forehead, and a continuous stream of blood gushed and covered his face. He bled for calling me a sissy. The nuns brought him to a clinic for stitches, Trisha got detained in the principal’s office, and I went to see Grandma Azon.
“Stop crying now, Sweetie,” my grandmother said, her voice, as always, soothing. “You’re safe here.”
“Grandma, I didn’t do it.” I thought his parents would go after me, and that made me very nervous. “It wasn’t my fault. I swear.”
“How did everything happen?”
“Mmmm…”
“Tell me.”
“My friend defended me.”
“What did your friend do?”
“I did not tell her to hurt him.” I felt guilty for saying that. That I should stand by her since she stood up for me came to mind. “He pushed her first. Really hard. I saw it. I swear. You know, Grandma, I don't lie.”
“What kind of a boy is that?” My grandmother had a feminist streak in her. She once led a group of women who helped the victims of domestic abuse in our town. They did not called her Inang Tapang, Mother Courage, for nothing. “A boy should never hurt or hit a girl.”
“He’s really cruel.”
“Did you tell your father about this?”
“Please don’t tell him. I don’t want him to get mad at me. I don't want him to worry.”
“How about your mother?
“Not her. I’m sure she’ll tell my father.”
“What did the nuns do?”
“To me? Nothing, but they talked to Trisha.”
“Is she the friend?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Why did she defend you?”
I thought hard if I should tell her. My voice cracked from fear and embarrassment. “Because Martin called me…”
“Names?” She warned me about bullies before. She thought they had low self-esteem and had family problems.
“Yes.”
“They’re just words.”
“But he lied.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I’m a sissy. That’s not true, Grandma.”
“Sorry, sweetie. I know you're not.”
“He’s a liar. I’m not even a boy. I don't even feel like one.”
“Why did you say that?” Her brow furrowed, but it did not seem she just heard something really bad that needed a long explanation.
“Because, Grandma, I’m not.” I felt the time had come for her to know my secret that I had never divulged to anyone.
“Who told you all about this?”
I put my right hand on my chest and started crying again. “Nobody. It’s from here. I feel it all the time.”
“Don’t cry. Grandma understands.” She placed her hand over mine to feel the vibration of my heartbeat. "What does it say?”
“That I’m a girl.”
“Yes, you are.”
I did wonder why my grandmother said that. Did she really believe what I said? Did she say it, so I would stop crying? Whatever it was that made her agree and sympathize with me did not matter anymore that afternoon. After I told her my secret, I felt human and free. The sliced piece of cake she served on a small plate tasted so good, even though I hated carrots and cinnamon.