The Boy I Thought I Hated

There is an unwritten, ironclad law among Filipino high school students, and it goes something like this: Huwag na huwag kang magtitiwala sa lalakeng ang tanging ambag sa buhay mo ay asarin ka tuwing flag ceremony at nakawin ang kalahati ng intermediate pad mo. I learned that law the hard way at sixteen. His name was Lorenzo Mercado. And before he became the boy who destroyed my entire universe, he was simply the most infuriating human being in Section 10-St. Jude of San Lorenzo Heights Academy. "Saldivar," Enzo’s voice had drawled from the wooden desk directly behind mine, accompanied by the persistent, rhythmically maddening tap of a Pilot mechanical pencil against the plastic backrest of my chair. "Psst. Bea. Tingin ka sa likod. May tatanong lang ako tungkol sa cosine." I gripped my Pilot G-Tech 0.3 pen until my knuckles turned porcelain white, staring fixedly at the green chalkboard where Mrs. Arboleda was scribbling advanced trigonometric identities with screeching chalk. "Mercado, kapag hindi mo tinigil 'yang pagtapik mo sa upuan ko," I hissed under my breath without turning around, "isusaksak ko 'tong stainless protractor sa baga mo. Kitang nagko-compute 'yung tao eh." "Grabe naman sa protractor violence, Saldivar," Enzo chuckled, leaning forward just enough that I could smell the familiar, clean scent of citrus cologne, fresh laundry detergent, and newly sharpened cedar pencils that always clung to his crisp uniform shirt. "Hihingi lang naman ako ng yellow paper. Isang intermediate pad lang naman ang binili sa'kin ni Mama nung enrollment, naubos na agad." "Kasi ginawa mong paper airplane nung physics class nung isang linggo!" I snapped, whipping around just enough to glare at his stupidly symmetrical, annoyingly photogenic face. "Pinatamaan mo si Mr. Ramos sa noo habang nagtuturo ng projectile motion!" "Aerodynamics research 'yun, Bea," he whispered back, his dark brown eyes dancing with unrepentant, boyish mischief. "Experimental methodology ang tawag dun. Bilis na, pahiram ng kalahati. Babayaran kita ng Choc Nut at malamig na Chuckie mamayang recess." "Ayoko ng Choc Nut. Gusto ko ng academic peace." "Two Choc Nuts, isang Chuckie, tapos ako na ang magbubura ng blackboard mamayang hapon?" I ripped half a sheet of yellow pad with aggressive, surgical precision, slammed it onto his desk, and muttered, "Four Choc Nuts. At huwag kang hihinga malapit sa ponytail ko." "Deal," he grinned, flashing that calm, crooked dimple on his left cheek as he tucked the paper under his notebook. "Ang sungit mo talaga, Saldivar. Kaya hindi ka tumatangkad eh. Puro galit ang laman ng bone marrow mo." "Manahimik ka, Mercado!" That was how our entire tenth-grade year unfolded. We were academic rivals, desk-mates, and mutual headaches. In Section 10-St. Jude, we competed for every single bonus point on the quarterly exams. If I scored a 98 on an English essay, Enzo would somehow manage a 99 by writing a concluding paragraph that made our literature teacher wipe tears with a tissue. If he won the district science quiz bee in QC, I would lead our debate team to annihilate his team in the intramural finals by systematically dismantling his opening rebuttal until he stood across the podium staring at me with a mixture of shock, frustration, and reluctant, glowing admiration. Everyone in our batch swore we would end up in a fistfight before junior prom. Instead, we ended up locked inside the student council art supply closet on a stormy Friday afternoon in late October. The rusted brass latch had jammed from the outside when a sudden gust of wind slammed the heavy oak door shut. The storm was rattling the jalousie glass windows, the corridor lights had failed due to a campus-wide brownout, and the two of us were trapped in the four-by-four-meter room between towering stacks of colored cartolina, gallon jugs of Elmer’s glue, rolls of crepe paper, and wooden drafting boards. For the first twenty minutes, we hurled creative insults at each other in the dark. "Kasalanan mo 'to, Mercado," I had groaned, sliding down the wooden floorboards with my back pressed against a metal filing cabinet. "Sabi ko sa'yo bukas na natin kunin 'yung mga Manila paper para sa United Nations backdrop. Nagmamadali ka kasing umuwi para mag-Dota!" "Ako pa ang may kasalanan? Ikaw 'yung nag-insist na pumasok dito kasi ayaw mong maunahan tayo ng Grade 9 sa acrylic poster colors!" Enzo had retorted, sitting down on the floor opposite me, extending his long legs in the narrow space until our scuffed sneakers brushed. In the dim gray twilight filtering through the high transom window, the storm outside cast shadows across his face. His usual teasing smirk had faded, replaced by something unusually quiet and observant. "Kasi kailangan nating manalo sa inter-batch creative exhibition," I said defensively, hugging my knees to my chest. "May regional scout galing sa Maynila na bibisita next month. Kailangan nilang makita 'yung architectural drafting portfolio ko." Enzo looked at me. Not with his usual sarcastic challenge, but with steady, serious curiosity. "Yung tungkol sa Meridian Institute of Arts & Design?" I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I hadn't told a single soul in our section about Meridian. The Meridian Institute was the most prestigious, painfully expensive private creative academy in the country—an elite design school in Taguig that sent its top scholars directly to Milan and Tokyo. To a middle-class girl whose father ran a modest neighborhood bakery in Project 4, dreaming of Meridian felt like trying to touch the stars with a bamboo pole. "Pano mo nalaman 'yun?" I asked stiffly, my defensive guard snapping back up. "Pinakialaman mo ba 'yung locker ko?" Enzo reached into his backpack, pulled out his worn black sketchbook, and flipped it open. Tucked carefully inside the front plastic sleeve was a folded, dog-eared printout of the Meridian admissions and scholarship guidelines. "Nakita ko 'yung brochure na nahulog sa ilalim ng desk mo nung library period last week," he said softly, his deep voice unusually gentle in the quiet room. "Binasa ko. Maganda 'yung curriculum nila sa spatial architecture and experiential design. Bagay na bagay sa style mo." "Wala lang 'yun," I muttered, looking down at my shoes, a sudden lump of vulnerability forming in my throat. "Suntok sa buwan. Sobrang mahal ng tuition. Mahigit dalawang daang libong piso bawat semester. Unless makakuha ako ng full academic scholarship na may living allowance, hanggang panaginip lang 'yun. Walang pambayad si Papa." "Bakit naman suntok sa buwan?" Enzo asked. His tone wasn't mocking. It wasn't pitying. It was completely, unshakeably serious. "Nakita ko 'yung mga structural plates na ginawa mo sa drafting class, Bea," he said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Mas magaling ka pa sa instructor natin. Mas maganda 'yung understanding mo sa light and perspective kaysa sa kahit sinong third-year student sa university. Kung may isang tao sa buong batch natin na karapat-dapat makapasok sa Meridian, ikaw 'yun. Walang iba." I looked up, caught completely off guard by the profound sincerity in his voice. In the dim, quiet art closet, with the rain drumming a steady rhythm against the zinc roof, my heart did a strange, unfamiliar, terrifying flip inside my chest. "Hindi ka nang-aasar, Mercado?" I whispered. "Mukha ba akong nagbibiro?" Enzo tilted his head, a small, genuine, breathtaking smile curving his lips. "Seryoso ako, Saldivar. Pag nakapasok ka dun, ako 'yung unang bibili ng artwork mo. Kahit ibenta mo pa ng isang milyong piso bawat painting, uutangin ko sa bangko para mabili ko." "Ang bolero mo talaga." "Hindi ako nambobola. Basta mangako ka lang." "Nang ano naman?" "Na kapag sikat ka nang creative director, hindi mo itatanggi sa press na ako 'yung nagpahiram sa'yo ng eraser nung Grade 10." I laughed—a real, surprised, ringing laugh that echoed softly against the closet walls. And when Enzo laughed back, his dark eyes crinkling in that familiar, infuriatingly handsome way, I realized with terrifying clarity that I didn't hate Lorenzo Mercado at all. We spent two years convincing the entire school we were enemies, only to spend the next two proving we were inseparable. Too bad the hating part wasn't completely finished.