That Sort of Girl

I checked my watch. It was almost seven o'clock in the evening. The invitation stated that registration had already started at six o'clock. I was still in the cab, stuck in an awful traffic. Why is it that every time it rains, traffic becomes horrible? I've been asking that question whenever it rains in the streets of Marcelo, La Isla Colonia. But why should I care? I'm not driving, I don't drive, and I hated it. I also hate being late. The rain and the taxi were making me grumpy, but I was adding to the mess with cruel thoughts and memories of my tumultuous senior year. "Ana Maria," our principal, Sister Corazon had shrilled at me in her office twenty-five years ago. Someone must have seen us or Neil's rocking car. "It has come to my attention that someone saw you hanging out with boisterous boys. Is that true? It's un-ladylike of you drinking liquor until wee hours of the morning." Sister Corazon was an old nun who maintained her antiquity by forcing old practices down our throats. I recoiled just thinking about her. I still don't know why my parents insisted on sending me to an exclusive Catholic school for girls. It was one of the oldest schools in Marcelo, founded by Spanish Franciscan nuns back in the 15th century. My teachers were either devout Catholic mothers or old maids; and I thought at first that my parents would send me to the nunnery. To me, that was not cool. Good old Convento de Santa Clara y el Colegio! "Sister, I just went out on a date with my boyfriend, that's all," I had said in a matter-of-fact manner as I straightened out my pleated skirt in front of her. If there was something I hate at that moment, es que usted y su oficina, Sor Corazon. I was such a brat back then. "How old are you, Ana Maria?" she asked, her face stern and stolid. "I am seventeen, going on eighteen, Sister." And why do I get this feeling that I know what you're going to say next? "But still, you're too young to have relationships. You should know that. Do your parents know about this?" Will I answer the question or not? Either way, Sister Corazon would still call my parents to discuss this matter. "You're behaving like you're not studying in this convent," Sister Corazon continued. She wanted to use some stronger words just what kind of a lady she thought I was. I was always getting in trouble with boys and that hadn't changed one bit. I bounced my knee in the taxi, glancing again at my watch. I thought of Sister Corazon's puckered face shouting at me for being tardy. The rains had stopped and the gate of Convento de Santa Clara y el Colegio was just a few meters away. I decided to walk instead, so I paid the cab driver and dropped off. I walked along the wet sidewalk, not minding the splatters my gray shoes received whenever I step. The new pair of shoes needs baptism after all. The cool wind freshened up my face as I walked towards the gate. I wore a gray, soft, woolen dress that flowed with the wind, and carried a gray leather shoulder bag over my shoulders. I entered the gate and walked towards the gymnasium, more excited to see my high school than worried. People were still pouring in the gymnasium as I fell in line to register for our alumni homecoming dinner. Good, I thought, I'm not the only one who's late. Women still crowded the registration table. I peeked to check if Sor Corazon was still lurking in the hallways with her wrinkled face and upturned nose. Then a hand landed on my shoulder. "Good evening," I heard someone saying. It was a young Chinese lady in her early twenties or much younger. She wore a t-shirt bearing our school logo; her long hair tied in a knot and secured with something that resembled a chopstick. She carried bottled water and a brown bag, looking tired like she had been there since the event started and just took a short break. Her smile washed away the tiredness on her face. "Let me help me with your registration. What year did you graduate, ma'am?" "Oh, thanks!" I said. "1987." It's been a long time. I couldn't even remember when was the last time I've been in Convento de Santa Clara y el Colegio. I could have sent my two daughters to school here but for some reasons, I decided not to. One was the location. I have now moved to Buenvenida, a suburb about an hour ride outside Marcelo; not practical for the three of us. She turned and looked for a folder among the pile on the table. She pulled a folder marked "1987" and opened it. She handed it to me together with a ball pen. "Sign beside your name," she instructed. I took the folder and looked for my name. I saw the maiden surnames arranged in alphabetical order. So I looked for mine under T. T for Torres. There are only two Torreses in our batch, Maria (Yes, her name is Maria.) and me. I found her name below mine and saw her married name as Salcedo. She has signed already, meaning she was already there at the venue. I saw my name: Torres as my maiden surname, Ana Maria, then a blank married last name. I signed my name beside it and returned the pen and folder to the young lady. She smiled as she took it from me and checked my signature. "Aren't you going to update your last name?" I shook my head, "No. I'm a single mom and never married." And I'm proud of it. "Oh," she said as if she had never heard of it. Or she might have thought that an alumna like me would end up like that. Was it social discrimination? She handed me a set of colored cards and explained, "Here are your tickets. The blue one is for the dinner buffet. The red is for the complimentary drink. The yellow is for the raffle, and the green is for the souvenir items. You may drop your raffle ticket at the box located near the stage. The souvenir booth is on the right. Buffet dinner starts at eight. There are booths around that you can check out for other food and beverages as well as other products and services from our sponsors. Enjoy your evening!" "Thank you!" I said. Wow! She sounded like a winding toy. I left the table and entered the gym. It didn't look like a gymnasium the way I used to remember where we played volleyball and held cheering competitions. A creative hand must have transformed the gym into a grand ballroom. The soft lights and the background music from string quartet made the gym looked classy. The flowers, balloons, and candle arrangement on each table transformed the gym into something elegant. A big stage stood at the far end of the gym with a set of big, brown, shiny tiles that comprised the dance floor in front. The tables and chairs around the dance floor wore white and blue linen. The buffet table stood on the left and I saw waiters bustling to and fro bringing cocktails to guests. I heard someone called my name. "Ana, over here!" I turned to where it came from. I saw Maria, my seatmate back in high school. Her long, wavy, blonde-tinted hair flowed over her shoulders. It covered the straps of her velvet black cocktail dress that followed the contour of her slim body. Oh my God! She looked much more glamorous in person than in magazines. But then again, she's Maria Torres-Salcedo, the supermodel. "Maria!" I said as I approached her with open arms. We kissed on each others' cheeks as I continued, "How are you?" "I'm fine, been busy lately. I just returned from the U.S.," she said. She stepped back to look at me, "My God! You haven't changed a bit." At the side of my vision, I saw other women staring at us. I turned my head and saw them. I recognized them all. So I approached each one of them, greeted them just like how I greeted Maria. There was Chloe, the obstetrician-gynecologist, still chubby since the last time I saw her three years ago. She wore a long silk dress full of floral prints; she's still wearing her trademark --- minus the floral headband. Then Camille, the widow, no longer wearing black as she used to during her mourning years and now sporting a short hairdo. That's good. At last, she has finally moved on. Eva, the housewife, and I've heard became a widow recently. Oh my God! What happened to her? She used to be beautiful back in high school but her weight gain (and probably widowhood) masked her real beauty. The last one was Irene, the executive, tall and slim in her brown blouse and skirt that matches her serious face. Ugh! She still looks too corporate, and intimidating. No wonder... I promised myself to be more civil to Irene than to anyone else this evening. This is not the time to lose friends, my dear. Back in high school we were best of friends, all six of us. We call ourselves The Vixens. Female foxes, sly bitches. But when we reached college, we drifted apart. During the past 25 years, two or more of us (we rarely meet all six) have met on a handful of occasions. So now, everyone was catching up at our reunion. Maria motioned her hand for us to sit. She seemed excited to have all six of us in one table. I took a vacant seat and I didn't notice that I sat beside Irene. Why did I sit beside her? (Sigh) I would remind myself to behave this evening. Next to Irene were Eva, then Camille, Maria and Chloe. There were four vacant chairs in all between some of us. But these women had put their bags and other things on them that prevented other people to take it. I think they decided to have this table with the ten chairs only for us six. Just like the old times, huh, bitches? "How are you now, Ana?" they asked. "Are you married?" "How old are your kids?" "Where do you work?" Wow! They bombarded me with questions. Was it because I was the last one to arrive? "I'm doing fine as a manager of a clinic in Buenvenida. My kids now are ages 24 and 18. Single mom," I answered. "I remember, you're the first one who got pregnant," said Eva. "Will I be ever late for that?" I replied. "Back in high school, I already knew all about s*x when all you guys were still curious about m**********n!" They laughed. There are words for women like me but few of them are complimentary. When I think about high school all my memories are about s*x. Yes, I was that kind of girl back then. Okay, to be fair I still am that sort of girl. I had my first boyfriend when I just turned sixteen. I'd given up my virginity, but it wasn't until the end of 1986 that I ever made love and brought up lost memories of Neil Gallardo.