The First Class Officer Hates Me: My ROTC Senior Enemy

Chapter 1: The Makeup Incident

The first day of NSTP orientation was boring.

The covered court was hot, crowded, and full of sleepy first-year students. In front, a line of senior ROTC officers were standing like statues.

I was in the crowd. Louella Dela Torre, BSED English 1-A, CHED scholar, part-time tindera in my cousin's store in the market.

I wanted ROTC.

Not CWTS, not LTS. ROTC.

When the officer with the microphone asked, "Why do you want to join ROTC?", students gave common answers.

"For discipline, Ma'am." "For benefits in future job, Ma'am."

When it was my turn, I stood up straight.

"Ma'am, I want to join ROTC because I really want to experience military training. I want to be a police officer someday, Ma'am. And I want to learn discipline."

The officers nodded and wrote something.

Then they started discussing the benefits and the strict rules.

"Benefits of ROTC: Leadership certificate, discipline, advantage if you apply for PNP, AFP, or teaching," one officer explained.

"But rules are strict," a female officer added in a serious voice. "No makeup. No lipstick. No powder. No long nails. Cut your nails short. No nail polish. Hair must be in a bun. Properly tied. No loose hair. No earrings. No accessories. Uniform: plain white t-shirt, maong pants, garrison belt, white rubber shoes. If you violate, you will have punishment."

I listened. No makeup? Okay, I can do that. My nails were already short because I work in the market. Hair in bun? Easy.

I thought I could handle it.

I didn't fight with anyone on the first day. We just listened, filled up forms, and went home. I even thought ROTC was easy.

I was wrong. The hell started on the second Saturday.

Our ROTC starts at 4:00 AM. Every Saturday.

So I have to wake up at 2:00 AM.

2:00 AM, Louella. While the whole town of Bulan is still sleeping, I am already awake. I wash my face, I tie my hair in a bun, I wear my white t-shirt, maong pants, garrison belt. I walk in the dark from the market to the school field. No tricycle at that time. Just me, my flashlight, and my sleepy eyes.

I do that because I wanted ROTC. I chose this.

Second Saturday, 4:00 AM, the field was already full. Military training exercises.

Jogging for 30 minutes around the oval. Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Then marching drills.

The sun wasn't even up yet, but we were already sweating like pigs.

I was trying my best. I was the only girl in my platoon. I was small, I was a tindera, not an athlete. But I was doing it.

Then the inspection came.

First Class Officer Aris Gotladera.

He was walking in front of the formation. Suplado. Tahimik. Hindi pala-ngiti. Strict. That was his image. He never smiled. He rarely talked, but when he talked, it was an order.

BSED English, irregular but advanced, same age as me, but already a senior. President of English Club. Head of ROTC.

He stopped in front of me.

I was breathing hard, my bun was a little messy because of jogging.

He looked at my face for two seconds.

"Dela Torre."

"Sir?"

"Are you wearing makeup?"

My blood went cold.

I did. Just a little. Just a very light powder and a little lip tint. Because I woke up at 2 AM and I looked like a ghost. I thought in the dark, no one would see. I thought it was okay.

"Sir, it's just—"

"What is Rule Number One?"

"No makeup, Sir..."

"Then why do you have makeup?"

"Sir, it's just powder, Sir, because—"

"I don't care if it's just powder. Rule is rule. Did you not listen during orientation? Or are you just hard-headed?"

His voice was not loud, but it was cold. Tahimik pero nakakahiya. The whole platoon was looking at me.

I wanted to disappear.

"Go to the comfort room. Erase it. Wash your face. Now."

"Sir, I—"

"NOW, CADET DELA TORRE!"

I ran to the comfort room. I was so pissed. So embarrassed. I scrubbed my face with water. I erased everything. I looked at the mirror. My face was pale, tired, with dark circles from waking up at 2 AM every Saturday. Is that what he wanted? To see me ugly?

When I came back, my face was wet, my eyes were red from anger.

He was still there.

"Done?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. For violating the rule, 30 push-ups. And 30 squat thrusts."

My mouth opened. "30, Sir? Yesterday others only did 15!"

"Do you want to make it 50?"

I clenched my fists. God, I was so pissed. So, so pissed.

"No, Sir!"

"Do it now. Unli exercise until I say stop."

So I did push-ups. 30 push-ups while he was watching. My arms were shaking. My white t-shirt got dirty from the field. The other cadets were counting.

"1, 2, 3..."

I hated every number.

After push-ups, 30 squat thrusts. I thought I would vomit.

When I finished, he just said, "Fix your bun. It's messy. Next time I see makeup on your face, I will make you wash your face in front of everyone in the field."

I stood up, my knees shaking, my face burning not from the sun, but from anger.

I, Louella Dela Torre, CHED scholar, tindera sa umaga, student sa hapon hanggang gabi, waking up at 2 AM for ROTC because I wanted it — was being humiliated by this suplado, tahimik, hindi pala-ngiti, strict officer.

From that day, I decided: I hate Aris Gotladera.

Every Saturday after that, it was the same. He always targeted me.

If my nails were a little long, "Dela Torre, unli push-ups!"

If my bun was not perfect, "Dela Torre, fix it! 20 push-ups!"

If I was 1 minute late because I came from the market, "Dela Torre, 3 rounds jog!"

Always me. Always unli exercise.

And I was really, really pissed off.

I didn't know that this pissed-off feeling would be the start of everything.