Tamed By The Professor

The final bell of the term rang out across the courtyard of Little Saints Academy like a starting gun echoing through the humid Manila afternoon. Within seconds, the iron gates burst open with a metallic groan, unleashing a flood of navy blue uniforms with crisp skirts and shorts, white socks pulled high, backpacks bouncing like overinflated balloons. The air was thick with the scent of street food from nearby vendors selling sizzling fishballs on sticks, sweet lumpia wrappers frying in oil, and the faint, ever present tang of jeepney exhaust. Eliot Reyes leaned against the rusted gatepost, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his faded jeans, the other clutching a cracked phone that buzzed incessantly with notifications from unpaid bills. The screen was spiderwebbed from a drop last month, but it still worked, just barely, like everything else in his life. He ignored the vibrations, his eyes scanning the chaotic swarm of kids for the one face that mattered. There, Liam, his five year old bundle of chaos, with a gap-toothed grin wide enough to light up the smoggy sky. The boy's backpack was almost as big as he was, sagging under the weight of crayons, crumpled worksheets, and who knows what else he had crammed inside. Liam sprinted straight at him like a heat seeking missile, arms pumping furiously. "Papa!" The cry cut through the din of honking tricycles and chattering students. Eliot dropped to one knee just in time, bracing for impact. Thirty kilos of pure, unfiltered joy slammed into him. Tiny arms flung around his neck, sticky fingers reeking of glue, mango candy, and something suspiciously like classroom paste tangled in his hair. "Careful, little man," Eliot chuckled, his voice gravelly from a morning of lecturing disinterested undergrads on Shelley and Keats. "You'll knock Papa flat with that super strength of yours." Liam pulled back, his dark eyes shining like polished onyx under the relentless tropical sun. A smudge of what looked like chocolate adorned his cheek, and his uniform shirt was untucked, one shoelace trailing in the dust. "Teacher said it's Christmas break. Fourteen whole days of no school.No homework and no waking up when the roosters start yelling." "Fourteen whole days," Eliot repeated, savoring the words like a rare treat. He stood up slowly, his knees protesting from too many hours hunched over that ancient desk in his university office. Hoisting Liam's backpack onto his own shoulder, he winced because the thing weighed more than a sack of rice. He made a mental note to check if he had smuggled home half the classroom again. Last time it was a live chick from the science project. Father and son fell into step on the familiar route home, weaving through the labyrinth of Quezon City's streets. "Papa, can we get balut later?" Liam pleaded, pointing at the steaming cart where a vendor hunched over a mound of fertilized eggs. "Maybe tomorrow, champ. Budget's tight today." Eliot ruffled his son's hair, steering him past the jeepney terminal. The colorful vehicles idled there, engines rumbling like asthmatic dragons, drivers catcalling every female in sight. "Oi, pre. Pretty mama with the kid, ride for free", one driver bellowed, but Eliot shot him a glare sharp enough to curdle milk and kept walking. Next came the basketball court, a cracked concrete slab ringed by chain link fence, where teenagers played shirtless under flickering street lamps that buzzed like angry hornets. Liam paused to watch, mimicking their dribbles with invisible air balls. "Daddy, when I grow up, I'm gonna be taller than Lebron and dunk on everybody", Liam declared, jumping as high as his little legs could propel him. Eliot smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You already are, superstar. Taller than Papa, that's for sure." Truth was, Eliot stood at a modest 5'8", his frame lean from skipped meals and stress, not gym sessions. His once thick black hair was thinning at the temples, and faint lines etched his forehead like fault lines on parched earth. Liam skipped beside him, chattering nonstop about the Christmas play at school, how he had been a sheep in the nativity scene of "Baa, Baa, With real cotton on my head, and how Santa definitely knew he has been good this year because he only pinched his cousin once at the last family reunion. Eliot listened with half an ear, nodding at the right moments, but the rest of his mind was a whirlwind of mental math. Rent was two weeks late and Landlord Mang Tony had already left three polite notes taped to the door, each one a little less polite. The university had docked his pay again because he refused to pass the dean's nepotistic nephew, a lazy rich kid who slept through Eliot's Lit 101 class and expected a 1.0 grade anyway. "Integrity over income," Eliot had told the dean, only to watch his December bonus evaporate. His ancient laptop had finally given up the ghost during mid lecture yesterday, screen going black as he was waxing poetic about Wordsworth's daffodils. He had resorted to scribbling on the whiteboard like it was 1995, chalk dust coating his sleeves while students snickered and snapped pics for t****k. And Christmas was exactly fourteen days away. The fridge held instant pancit noodles, half a kilo of questionable chicken, and eggs that were pushing their expiration date. They climbed the narrow staircase of their old apartment building in Quezon City, the one with peeling turquoise paint flaking like dandruff and stairs that creaked under the lightest footfall. The neighbor, Tita Nena, blasted OPM love songs at 2 a.m. Her voice warbling along from behind thin walls. "Good evening, Professor", she called from her doorway, fanning herself with a Palmolive ad. "Liam, handsome as ever. Eat well, ha?" "Salamat, Tita", Liam waved, dashing up the last steps. Inside their one bedroom unit, the air was a cozy mix of instant pancit, lingering adobo from last night, and the faint mildew from the last rainy season. The space was tiny barely 30 square meters with a kitchenette that doubled as a laundry area, a sagging double bed they shared and a coffee table scarred from years of use as dining table, homework station, and occasional fort building base. In the corner, leaned the tiny Christmas tree Eliot had haggled for at Divisoria market for two hundred pesos for a foot high plastic abomination with sparse branches. It was decorated with paper chains Liam had crafted at school with glue sticks and colored paper galore, a single string of lights that flickered like a dying firefly, and mismatched ornaments scavenged from pawnshops. Liam kicked off his shoes in a flurry, dumping his backpack with a thud that sent a pencil rolling across the linoleum. He made a beeline for the tree, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Papa, can we put the star on now? Pleeease. It's the last one." "After dinner, champ. Can't have Santa's tree starving." Eliot ruffled his hair again, his messy black curls just like his own. He moved to the kitchenette, pulling out a battered pot from under the sink. The flame on the gas stove whooshed to life reluctantly. "Adobo tonight with extra egg. Your favorite." Liam's eyes lit up brighter than the tree lights. "And rice. A Lots of rice And then the surprise?" He clapped his hands, spinning in circles. Eliot felt the envelope in his back pocket, thick and official looking, crinkling against his thigh. He had been carrying it around for three days now, afraid to open it in public in case the emotions hit him like a freight train and he cried like an i***t in front of strangers. "Not yet," he thought. "Let the boy enjoy his adobo first." He chopped garlic and onions with practiced efficiency, his skills honed from single dad necessity while Liam set the table with plastic plates chipped at the edges. The sizzle of pork belly hitting hot oil filled the room, mingling with soy sauce, vinegar, and bay leaves. Eliot cracked four eggs into the mix, watching the yolks burst golden. "Extra protein. Kid's growing like a weed." Minutes later, steaming plates were set on the coffee table. They sat cross legged on the floor with Eliot on a faded throw pillow, Liam on a stack of old newspapers. Liam shoveled food in with the enthusiasm of a black hole, rice grains dotting his shirt. "Slow down, or you'll choke and Santa will have to deliver presents to a hospital," Eliot teased, savoring his own bites. The adobo was perfect with a tangy, savory taste, a small victory in a string of defeats. Liam swallowed a massive mouthful. "Papa, tell me about the surprise again? Is it a bike Or a PlayStation?" Eliot set down his fork, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. "Liam, how would you like to spend Christmas somewhere with real white sand, blue water so clear you can see straight through to the fish, and palm trees that sway like they're dancing?" Liam blinked, fork paused mid air, soy sauce dripping. "Like Boracay with the big waves and the paragliders?" "Better than Boracay. Way better." Eliot pulled the envelope from his pocket, hands trembling slightly as he slid out two plane tickets. It was glossy, real, emblazoned with airline logos and destinations of Manila to Malé, Maldives. "Here in Maldives. Just you and me. Two whole weeks. Swimming every day, no school, no alarm clocks. We can build sandcastles bigger than this apartment, snorkel with clownfish like in Finding Nemo, and Santa might even deliver your presents on a boat. Resort with a pool, buffet breakfast every morning with pancakes and fruits you've never even tasted." Liam stared at the tickets as if they might dissolve into thin air like a magician's trick. His mouth hung open, a grain of rice perched on his lip. Then, with a shriek of pure delight, he launched himself across the table. Plates rattled, soy sauce bottle tipped with the adobo sauce splattering like abstract art. He tackled Eliot in a hug that nearly sent them both sprawling backward onto the floor. "Really really. The Maldives, For real?" Liam's voice was muffled against Eliot's shirt, hot tears of joy soaking through. "Really really," Eliot laughed, the sound rusty from disuse, bubbling up from a chest tight with years of scrimping. He hugged back fiercely, inhaling the scent of his son, glue, candy, and unbridled hope. "I sold my old books, the entire shelf of hardcovers from grad school. Took extra tutoring gigs with rich kids who hate poetry. Even begged the dean for a pay advance on my knees, practically. We leave in four days. Pack your swim trunks." Liam scrambled up, dancing around the plastic tree, singing a mangled version of jingle Bells. He grabbed a paper star from the table and taped it crookedly to the treetop, where it dangled triumphantly. Eliot cleaned up the spilled adobo with a rag, smiling so hard his cheeks ached. For the first time in years, the shabby little apartment felt almost bright like lights flickering steadily now, as if approving. He didn’t think about the credit card debt piling up like storm clouds maxed out for those tickets, the resort deposit, the airport transfers. He didn’t think about Maria, his ex-wife, who traded him and their newborn for private jets, European shopping sprees, and a tech bro half his age. "You're too ordinary, Eliot," she sneered five years ago, leaving him with a colicky infant, a stack of hospital bills, and a heart in tatters. He didn’t think about the Maldives resort being the cheapest he could find online, a budget spot with shared bathrooms down the hall and rooms the size of their apartment kitchen. All he thought about was the look on his son's face, bright as the flickering Christmas lights, mirroring the joy Eliot hadn't felt since his own childhood, before poverty bit down hard. As Liam finally crashed into bed, clutching a toy plane and murmuring about fish and Santa's boat. He pulled out his phone, silencing the bill alerts, and booked the final transfers. "Worth every peso," he thought. "Worth every sleepless night."