Under Stormy Skies

Rowan stood with the university officials on the stage, certificate of scholarship on her hands, smile is all pearly white. The flashing lights from the cameras look like twinkling stars, too flashy that it burns her eyes. When all of it was all gone and done, Rowan shook hands again with the people beside her and went back to her seat—front row—reserved for top-performing students at her university. Rowan sat on her seat like how she deserves it—all chin up and poised. She offered a delicate, practiced smile, the falseness of it clear in the slight tightening of her jaw. In the back of her mind, she is planning to take her leave. Rowan glances at her watch with its worn out leather strap. Her heart raced. She is behind schedule. She needs to go. Awardees for the scholarship grants continue to climb up stage, audience clapping and clicks of cameras here and there. Absorbed in their perfect-academe lives, no one noticed Rowan leaving the venue. She went in to a nearest bathroom, changed her black cocktail dress to baggy jeans and black hoodie. The corner of Valencia Street is as grim and depressing as the first day Rowan made her first drug deal on this street. Behind the abandoned bookstore, a car window rolled down, cash folded over. “You’re late,” a gruffy voice said. Rowan took the money, slid the package inside — a small ziplock bag, white pills rattling quietly — and walked away without looking back. Another two thousand pesos. Enough to buy three days of peace. Rowan adjusted the strap of her backpack, walking in a stinky alley, and headed into the street. Her heart thumped when a police car drove by. She tried her best to act nonchalant, like she’s just some regular college kid on her way home. Rowan’s footsteps started at a normal pace until her steps became brisk, and she ran fast into the main street. She blends into the tired, buzzing night of Raventhorn City. A hundred college kids just like her sat by the bus stop, carrying dreams too heavy for their bones. Sitting at the back of the bus, Rowan observes the people inside. Most of them are college kids like her. The kid by the door uses an iPhone—the latest model—hands manicured and hair is fresh from the salon. Yet she’s taking the bus home. Her mom or dad must be working abroad. An OFW perhaps. Another one by the window with glasses is watching a TED talk on his phone. Meanwhile, the group behind him stares at their phones, their faces lit by Mobile Legends’ light effects. They are unaware of the glaring old lady behind them. And there’s Rowan at the back of the bus, clutching a drug money inside the pockets of her hoodie. A vigilante anxious some police officer dressed in civilian followed her tonight—it’s the same anxiousness she felt yesterday, and the day before that, and to the very first day she traded her principles for survival. It was another long-commute night back to her crappy apartment, which completes the very essence of her depressing life. The bus hisses to a stop. Rowan stepped out of the bus and into a street that greets her with silence. As the city sleeps, Rowan is burning oil inside a cramp apartment she’s renting. Rowan completes her midterm paper in Political Theory by quoting Thomas Aquinas: For war to be just, there is required a just cause. Poverty is Rowan’s war. Selling drugs is her just cause. By three, Rowan steps into the shower, washing all the stains all over her. But she knows not all a single shower can’t clean them. It’s the fact she accepts when she realized virtue won’t buy her food nor pay the bills. Rein: Hey. How are you doing? It’s mom’s chemo session next week. Rowan: I’ll transfer it by Friday. Morning light cut through the dusty windowpanes of the old classroom, and Rowan let it slice right through her. A cheap pen in one hand, a cracked secondhand phone in the other underneath the armchair, away from any prying eyes of her classmate and professor. Rowan is answering a buyer’s text, tapping out a response with her thumb: Same spot. 9 PM. Cash only. “Rowan?” She blinked up. Professor Saavedra stood by the table, holding a thick stack of midterms. “Excellent work on your paper,” he said, setting a single sheet before her with a neatly circled 98. “You should consider law school after graduation.” Rowan smiled the way she knew she was supposed to—right, promising, eager. “Thank you, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded clean, polished — nothing like the girl she was and would be tonight. The professor moved on. Rowan tucked the paper into her bag without a glance. She couldn’t afford to believe in plans right now. Not when she owed rent. Not when she has a mother fighting for her life. Death seems to stand by the door every single day. Not when the first rule of staying alive was simple: stay two steps ahead. Always. After an hour and a half, Professor Saavedra dismissed the class. Rowan shoved her belongings into her backpack with little care. Her shift at the coffee shop starts in an hour. The coffee shop is just a few blocks away from the university, just a fifteen-minute walk. “Rowan!” Jam called her into the hallway. “Leaving so soon? Can we go over the presentation tomorrow? The paper’s due Monday.” “I can’t. I need to go now. Let’s just chat later. Ping the other members in the group chat. Don’t worry, I’m almost done with the paper. I’ll send the details later. Okay?” Rowan said in haste, before turning around and dashed in the hallway. The coffee shop was loud, cracked with noise — steam hissing, ceramic clattering — but Rowan glided like a ghost inside. Unnoticed. Insignificant. Hours later, Rowan was brewing coffee, manning the counter and mopping the floors clean. Handing back over the customer’s credit card, “You can claim your order at the claiming counter. Thank you. Enjoy.” Rowan took a swift glance at the wall clock across the room. It’s 8:25 P.M. By eight-thirty, Rowan was cleaning the counter and the coffee machines before handing over the counter to another barista, and slipping out the back into the thick summer heat. Rowan walks the familiar pavements of Raverthorn, and into the streets to secluded. No one would ever dare to walk here on their own. But despite the obvious dangers of the street, Rowan walks here to make ends meet. It’s another night of a familiar transaction in a dark alley. No words. No formalities needed. Just cash and a ziplock with fentanyls and morphine drugs. Rowan left the alley without looking back, blending into the street filled with depressed dreamers like her. Maybe some of them are just like her. To survive, she’s obliged to do things against her will. You have sent Php 5000 to Rein Sierra. As the summer heat intensified, and there’s only one week left before summer break, the requirements for the finals piled up, too. Rowan sits in a corner of the library, glued to her secondhand laptop, which she bought with drug money a few months ago. She’s writing her final paper on Political Theory 2, comparing two realists, Chanakya of the East and Machiavelli of the West. She wrote: The maxim “the end justifies the means” is frequently associated with Machiavelli, capturing his belief that the success of a political action, particularly in preserving the state, is the ultimate criterion for its judgment, potentially overriding conventional moral considerations. With her hands frozen over the keyboard, Rowan stared blankly at the blinking cursor. She could not help but relate the maxim to her own context. She’s not dealing drugs because she wants to. If life had a choice, she’d definitely choose another. But in order to preserve the state of her life, Rowan overrides conventional moral considerations. The end justifies the means. Rowan regains her focus. She was about to type something when a notification flashed on the screen. It was a post from the f*******: community of her university. The post caught her attention as she read the header. SUMMER JOB: LOOKING FOR SOMEONE TO TUTOR MY SISTER! Hi! I’m an engineering student. My sister is starting her senior year next semester in high school. We need an in-house tutor over the summer (preferably girl/female). You can go home on the weekends, but you’re welcomed to stay if you prefer. If you’re interested, email your resume here: dan.merc@gmail.com Rowan has always hated the picture of her being a teacher. What’s the difference between being tutor to a spoiled-brat high school kid over the summer? But it might pay her well. The thought of earning money from it, and having a change of environment just for a little while, motivated Rowan to take the chance. She has nothing to lose, anyway. Last day of class. Everyone is taking group pictures. “Rowan! Come here!” a classmate ushered her to the group so they could take a picture already. Rowan received an email from the tutoring job application. Apparently, she got the job. But it’s still up to her if she’s going to take it. When she got home that day, Rowan wrote them back: Thank you for considering me for the tutoring position this summer. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with Elara and supporting her academic growth.  Before we complete the arrangement, I would like to discuss the compensation.