Always Around

Chapter Two

Roxanne

My first day as a senior high school student went by like any other high school day before - classes, club activities, and ignoring drama along with my only friend Drew. Nothing worth noting, but I'll choose this high school life any day over my elementary one. 

Everyone still tries to avoid me, talk behind my back due to my reputation - the overachieving snob with a messy, poverty-stricken life - but I think I've outgrown, outcried, my capacity to care. I've had more pressing issues than a group of kids trying to undermine my self-worth. Plus, I undermine myself every day, so they have some hard-hitting competition! I don't blame them entirely, either. Maybe there are underlying reasons why they behave the way they do. I am in no position to assess their psychological health at the moment, so I just let them be. Also, in a twisted way, I agree with most of what they say. They need to up their game if they want to earn a living space in my brain. 

After wrapping up everything I had to do - meeting with the Commandant regarding CAT schedules and filing paperwork for the clubs' provisions, I decided to stroll to the nearest convenience store and buy myself a new notepad before heading home. I doodle a lot. Note pads to me are like cheap alcohol to my classmates. 

It is 5:30 PM, two and a half hours after classes, and thirty minutes after the dismissal of clubs. Almost all the students already went home. Drew, as well. He never was one to stay here late. An unusual silence fell over the campus building. The only distant sound was the high-pitched, creaky noise of a working copier machine in the faculty room, five classrooms away. 

"Eeeeeeeek. Eeeeeek. Eeeeeeeeek. Shk-shk-shk-shk", the copier said.

From outside the window, the cold breeze blew in and reached the wind chimes hanging at the door. Its relaxing sound was a welcome companion in the darkening room. This peace, I couldn't even get at home. 

"Eeeeeek. Eeeeeek. Shk-shk-krrrrk."

I closed my eyes, and for a while, I could let go of everything. Why are people afraid of being alone? I embrace it, the freedom it provides. The momentary relief from being with people you might end up disappointing. This. This isolation from the rest of the world, albeit just a short while. It soothes my soul and quiets the disapproving voices in my head and heart. They scare me. I can't show it, can't admit it out loud, but they scare me.

"EEEEEEEEK. EEEEEEEK. Shk-shk-shk-shk."

"Oh, for the love of-", I blurted out as I was pulled out of my head and back in the present. Teachers should be chatting in the canteen, or out at this hour. Who is still working here? 

I went to sneak a peek in the faculty room, and there I found a crouched figure standing right under fluorescent lights, staring dangerously close to a piece of creased paper. 

"Knock-knock," I slowly spoke, hoping not to startle them.

"Oh my, hello there!" they said as they turned to look in my direction, realigning their reading glasses. "Can I help you? It's late. Why are you still here?" they asked, slowly re-folding the paper in their hands and slipping it in the chest pocket of their button-down.

"Good afternoon, Professor Rye. I... just finished cleaning our club room," I responded. 

"Oh, well, thank you for doing that. Has anyone helped you? Did you have difficulty cleaning up?" they asked as they slowly walked toward the copier machine to retrieve a ream of documents.

"Uhm... I'm fine, Prof. Thank you," I said, approaching to help them clear up their desk as they replaced the bulk of papers on it. 

"Thank you. Do I know you from any of my classes, Miss? You'll have to forgive me. I am not good with names or faces," they said with a delighted, slightly abashed smile.

"Senior Physics, section one, nine to ten. I'm Roxanne, Professor," I chirped. I enjoyed their class. It's a no-nonsense, fifty-fifty combo of book learning and applied learning. They even started with a one-sentence introduction then jumped right into the first lesson. I loved it.

"Ah, you are the one sitting at the front-left corner of the room! I thought I recognized that hair," they stated, snickering to themself as they waved me to a seat next to their table. "So, what can I help you with, Roxanne?"

"Oh. Nothing, Professor! I was just peeking here because I heard the machine whirring. I thought all the teachers have gone," I replied quickly as I instantly worried that my curiosity might have caused inconvenience to them.

"I was about to go as well, but someone forgot they were printing a bulk of the back-to-school snippet of the monthly campus journal. I think it will be a hit with the gamers here," they shared with a sense of pride one might hear from the people who actually wrote the journal. It is a rare sight here for teachers to be excited about student interests. Maybe this is because they just transferred here, but it made me happy to know that someone in the faculty still cares.

However, I didn't know how to respond to this, so instead, I tried starting a new topic of conversation. "Uh, I saw you trying to read a piece of paper there. Do you need help with that?" I proposed, hoping I didn't sound like I just insulted his vision. 

"That is kind of you to offer, but I have read it in full. It is from one of the students here, a delightful young man with a unique mind. The emotion behind this is raw, and it was written in a rush. I am quite worried about this boy." We sat in silence for a while. Then, they perked up from their formal sitting as if an idea came to mind.

"Roxanne, can I maybe ask for a favor? I have to send you home now because it is quite late, but perhaps you can read this in your free time and provide me with your opinion tomorrow during school hours? I have been wondering all afternoon if I am just too old that I think this is too dark to be written by someone so young. Maybe a second set of eyes would be beneficial?" The professor said, pulling out the folded paper again and holding it in his hands. "This is in no way an extra assignment. I can understand if you refuse to do so. But I think I can help this young boy better if I can gain more insight."

I smiled, knowing full well what it feels to want to help the best I can despite my limitations. "I have time, Professor," I responded. They thanked me as they giddily handed the writing to me. I read the title. "Loving Alone." I think the title's supposed to be "Living alone, but the first "I" was crossed out and replaced with an "O" written on top of it.

"Ooh, why do I have a feeling that this will be depressing," I commented as I looked at Prof Rye.

So, new plan. Go to the convenience store, buy a notepad. Also, buy an ice cream cone and eat it while reading.

I bode goodbye to my teacher and headed to the store. They sell pricey notebooks here, but I think I saved up enough to give myself a treat. 

"Ding-ding!" The bell hanging by the store's door greeted me as I opened it. I said "good evening" to the cashier, paid for a cute plain blue notepad with a pen slot in its spine, then ordered a vanilla chocolate swirl from the counter. I sat at an available dine-in seat by the shop window, facing outside to avoid looking at and getting tempted by the many, many snack options. 

This place is my favorite spot to go people-watching. I went here whenever I got the budget and/or the time. It is interesting for me to see people of all ages, across all walks of life. Students going home from school or walking as a group to wherever they'll hang out, adults stopping by to buy something for their spouses or kids, elderly walking to the nearest market to buy ingredients for their dinner, lovers holding hands while talking about their day. 

Not today, though. Today, I have to relax and read. I tried to be as comfortable as I could be in a public dining space. I placed my bag on top of the table, the best position for it to not be pick-pocketed, slashed, or stolen entirely. The paper Prof lent me stuck out of the front pocket. Let's get to reading now.

"LOVING ALONE"

"Love is a lie. I learned this from my parents. 

It is a scheme that hopes to justify unmet responsibilities with an imaginary connection. 

It doesn't matter if it's one-sided. 

It doesn't matter if it's enough. 

You're only supposed to take it, be thankful for it, and ignore the fact that you want, deserve more than what is given. 

Father gives me money. 

Mother buys me expensive things. 

I tell them I love them. 

They tell me they love me back. 

Then they leave me alone in an empty home. 

I think I am most thankful for that. 

I wonder, which one of us loves better?"

Short and depressing. Love is a lie, huh? It is both saddening and impressive how a student already knows what love means to them. Wait, maybe it is more arrogant than impressive? I'm not sure. 

From my experience, I think love, romantic or familial (although I have never been romantically involved before), is not defined by what one gets from the other person. It's about what you are willing to give, how much you prioritize their needs over yours, how eager you are to help them be better. You value them, and you only hope they value you in return. Their reciprocation should not be your meter for how much you love them the next day. 

I learned this from Papa and Kuya. Love, for us, is when my brother and I argue with Papa because he's working too hard. It is when he retorts he's fine, and we need the money. It's when Kuya disapproves of gifts because he says I should instead "spend the money on myself." It's when I insist he should just accept it because I don't need anything, plus he deserves new, albeit cheap, art stuff anyway.

As I found myself staring blankly at a passerby, who looked at me confused before hurrying along, I felt a cold sensation on my left knee, under my skirt. "Oh f---," I snapped. My ice cream was dripping from the cone, onto the table, and down my skirt. I hurriedly asked Kuya Cashier for tissues and a wet rug to clean up. After cleaning the table and floor, and wiping off as much ice cream as I could from my uniform, I collected my stuff to go home. I bet my brother's already there, preparing our dinner, waiting for someone to ask about his day.

Gladwell

"Ding-ding!" 

"Good morning!" said the young man running the cashier. 

"Do you have that budget pack for painkillers?" I asked.

"Yes, right there," he replied while pointing me to the self-care aisle.

I bowed my head in thanks, went right for the medication, grabbed a chocolate bar and notepad on the way. 

Today turned out to be an outstanding, out-of-body experience. 

After I rushed to the store from the talk Professor Rye and I were having, I couldn't keep myself from imagining the stories I wanted to tell, the ideas I wanted to explore. It's a special thing, writing for yourself, but an entirely different matter now that I can finally hear feedback from a living, breathing person. 

I was so excited that I did not do anything the entire morning but write. During the flag ceremony, I hid in the classroom so that I didn't have to line up and stand twenty minutes under the sun. During classes, I sat at the very back to hide what I was doing from the teachers. They were busy with introductions anyway, so no ground-breaking knowledge was missed there.

You know, I get why my parents don't want my writing. I already have low grades and was sent down to section three for this academic year. Now that all I could think of was write, I could already see them being summoned by my homeroom teacher. Not that they would come anyway. They'll probably just send the school an apology letter telling the teachers they can do ANYTHING to get my head straight. They've always been that way.

I wanted to follow through on the idea I proposed to Prof this morning - snap judgment - but nothing came to mind. Maybe it is better to write about a topic I am more familiar with? I should talk to the professor.

Professor Rye's physics class for my section was before lunch. Ten to eleven. Unlike the other teachers, their class didn't have fillers or ice-breakers. Is this how it is in universities? Lame.

I wanted to talk to them about my writing again, so I rushed to them after their lecture, hoping they had no plans for lunch.

"Professor!" I shouted while running to meet them by the classroom door. "Professor, do you have time?"

As they were about to answer, one of my classmates grabbed my arm.

"Bro, we ordered a thirty-six-inch pizza for lunch. Five flavors! Come on! It's in the canteen!" he said excitedly.

"I... was just asking Prof Rye to eat lunch with me," I explained. I wanted him to leave me alone.

"Oh, they can come too," he answered, also grabbing Rye. "Pizza, professor?" he asked. Not like Prof has a choice when we're already out the door. As we were herded to the canteen, Rye tried to continue our conversation. 

"What were you about to say back there, son?" they asked. 

"I was just about to ask you about my..." I trailed off. "Later, maybe?"

Rye looked at me as if they're trying to read my mind. Seconds later, they sighed and nodded, signaling that they understood why I was holding off our conversation.

I waited until everyone had their chance to take their pizza slices to their tables before asking Prof to talk again. This guy, Raven, the one who pulled us here in the first place, wanted me to sit with them, but I insisted on taking the farthest table from the group. 

As we took our seats, Prof inquired, "have you started with your story already?" They asked this with a pleasant tone. But when I turned to face them, I saw a smile more threatening than welcoming.

"I... uhh..." I stuttered, immediately recalling the entire morning, pinpointing all the things that might have made them mad.

"I saw you lost in your notepad the entire class," they explained. "Son, I understand you like writing, but please try to focus when you're in class. You'll find that it is easier to write convincing material if you have English down pat and know bits of historical and scientific information here and there. Think of it as writing research."

This is new to me - having someone explain what I'm doing wrong, point out the opportunities I am missing. Usually, it's just "you're an airhead," or "you're wasting our money," or "you're not worth our time or anger." At this point, I just kind of gotten used to being a disappointment, mostly because I was never coached on how not to be one.

A clear image came to mind. Mom and Dad leaving me here for the first time. Then it is them visiting months after that with boxes of the things I used to ask of them. Toys, instruments, gadgets, gaming consoles. Then it is them leaving again without asking how I have adjusted to this place.

"Do you miss your son, professor?" I inquired, trying to shake off my thoughts about my family.

"Every day. I understand how important his work is. He's trying to establish small learning centers in isolated towns in different nations. He's making the world a better place, and I am all for it. I am incredibly proud of what he does, but there are days when I wish he'd just stay, or at least have dinner with me once in a while." I could hear their longing, and I relate to it. They started chomping on a slice of pepperoni pizza. "What is it your parents do, Gladwell?" They started again, mouth full of dough.

"Dad's an engineer. Moms the engineer's assistant. They're always together."

"That must be convenient, in a way. That means they come home at the same time?"

"Yes, but not here. In our province. I'm the only one here."

"Oh." That's the professor's only reaction. No "I'm sorry," no follow-up questions.

I've never shared this much about my family with anyone. 

It's annoying.

Wait, is this me being annoyed... or me being sad?

I honestly can't tell the difference. 

"Why are you crying? What difference will it make?"

"It's your fault you didn't pass the test."

"Patch yourself up. It's your fault you fell. Why do I need to baby you?"

I heard my parents' words again and again.

And then, three words. Said in the most emotionless tone as they both walk away.

"We love you."

I quickly pulled out my notepad from my back pocket and wrote something in a whir. 

It was only after tearing it and folding it to the smallest square possible that I realized I was crying. I tried to look away from the professor, but it's too late. I saw worry, pity? No, that's not pity. I know pity when I see it.

I wasn't really thinking then, but I handed Professor Rye the note that I wrote. They accepted it, and with a reassuring smile, they said, "Thank you." They patted my head, and I lost control with the words they said next."

"I'm here. You're okay."

That was probably the freest I felt in years. I didn't care that my classmates were suddenly watching us from afar. I didn't care that I was being loud. It didn't sink in that I was lonely for so long. What is this warm feeling? Whatever it is, I am thankful. I wept for a while, and Prof never left my side. They never looked away. Not once.

Roxanne

"Kuya, I'm home!" I shouted while walking through the front door and slowly loosening my shoes by stepping on its soles. 

"In here," he shouted back, his voice coming from the kitchen. I carefully placed my shoes on the rack beside our doormat, hung my bag behind the door, threw my socks in the laundry basket as I ran through the living room, the bathroom, and to the kitchen.

I saw Kuya ripping through two plastic containers of pancit palabok and placing them in two separate plates. I helped out by grabbing a pair of forks from the dish rack.

"You just got here?" I asked. "How was college?"

Kuya waved off my questions and grabbed the two plates as he led us to the table in front of our broken television. It's no longer working, but since we grew up watching TV while having our meals, just sitting in front of it while eating felt right.

"How was your first day as a senior?" he asked back. I'm guessing it's about CAT. Before he graduated, he was our Corps S1 Adjutant. Not going to lie - I was pretty pissed throughout our training as cadets under his batch. I think they were trying to make us experience the hardships they had to endure under the batch that trained them. That's how the world is, right? Give what you get. 

"Well, I made sure we will not do what you guys did to us. Punishments must have valid grounds under my leadership. Not just for the amusement of my officers."

"Good luck implementing that. You know they'll just do what they want when you're not around," he responded. Pretty sure he's talking from experience.

"Then... I'll always be around," I quipped. Kuya laughed at this.

"What's so funny? You were always around when you were S1. Why can't I do what you did?" I questioned him. 

"I wasn't self-righteous though, and there were two people higher than me to tell me if I am acting like it. And I know you'll do what you say you want to do. I just feel bad about your officers. You know how it is. They'll be itching to make this year's cadets suffer, but they won't be able to do so because a sentinel's around," he then gestured to me while stuffing his face with a pitcher full of water.

Kuya, with his buzz-cut hair, thin build, and face almost identical to Papa, can be this infuriating, but I find it hard to be annoyed by him. No matter his choice of words, he always presents good points. This is how he shows support - First, he'll ask about what he thinks might be a point of concern. Second, he'll drop truth bombs. Third, he'll say he'll still support your decision. Fourth, he'll end with either a joke or an insult. I've grown to understand this, after years of squabbling and fighting. Most days, it's just us two so being angry with him is tiresome.

We talked about how his college is. He says it's full of trying-hard teenagers who have no clue what they're doing. Kuya got a scholarship from a private IT college for his high grades, CAT rank, and art skills proved by his medals from regional poster-making competitions. The bad thing about that school, they say it is a dumping ground for rich kids with no brains. We tried to give the school the benefit of the doubt, but hearing bad things from Kuya, who is the epitome of frankness, I'm having second thoughts following him there next year.

"What's your plan for college?" he asked, looking intrigued and troubled at the same time. 

"I don't know yet. There's still a year left to decide. Do I need to answer that now?" I answered while grabbing the empty plates and taking them to the sink. Kuya stood up and followed me.

"I think you're gonna have to. Someone's expressing interest in your decision", Kuya said.

"Who? Papa? He knows he doesn't need to worry about tuition fees. We'll secure scholarships for sure."

"No, not him."

I looked at him, piqued.

"Mother called today."