Tara nodded. “So we decidedto start a group in school. Sure, we go through each other’s workbefore the performance, but it’s more of to make sure that it isn’toffensive or discriminatory.” She grinned. “But we don’t havestrict guidelines on rhyme, meter or any of that shit. The emphasisis on performance, on setting yourself free onstage.”
Franco looked straight atCaleb. “I’ve always believed in trying things at least once. Youmay suck or may totally kill it, but you’ll never know unless yougive it a shot, right?”
Perhaps this was how warswere waged, Caleb thought. Religions established. Criminalsacquitted. Because of words, dripping with honey and conviction,making people want to lap them up. Appealing words that came withdark moons of eyes, pulling anyone who gazed at them into theirorbit.
“I . . . I guess you’reright.”
“So does that mean you’regiving Wordplay a shot?” Tara squealed.
Mouth ajar, Caleb whippedhis head to her.
“This is great, Caleb.”Franco nodded his head in approval. “It takes guts to try somethingdifferent. Don’t forget that we meet every Friday at 5 PM atthe Bahay Kubo.”
Caleb was still speechlesswhen Drew joined them, giving them a rundown of the dishesavailable. In the middle of his recitation, Franco captured Drew’shand, and Caleb watched as their thumbs rubbed against each otherlike sparring tongues in a heated kiss.
Forcing a smile, Calebpushed back his chair, inventing an excuse to leave. He walked out,unflinching under the pressing heat of the sun. As the soles of hisshoes crunched on the gravel, he thought about how his infatuationfor Franco De Leon was a monster he had to killinstantly.
Chapter 5: Hymn
For some people, thehighlight of Sunday mass was the gospel. For others, it was thehomily and the priest’s blessing. But for Caleb, it had always beenthe songs. He knew almost all of the church hymns by heart, andthose that were new, he learned by ear until he masteredthem.
Caleb knew he played thepiano better than he sang, but this didn’t stop his voice fromswelling along with the choir’s. The familiar songs of hischildhood gave him comfort, reminding him that though a lot ofthings could change and shake up his world, some things remainedthe same.
When Holy Communion came,the first few notes of one of his favorite songs glided from thechoir’s balcony. Caleb kneeled on the cushioned pew, folded hishands, and closed his eyes. Tunay naYaman was always sang by a soloist, afemale soprano voice that caressed the air, sounding like airitself. Instead of singing along, Caleb listened.
Kagandahanglikas
Pagmamahal nawagas
Nag-uumapaw nasaya
Tuwing kapilingka
Caleb’s eyelids flew open,gaze landing on his mom guiding the parishioners as they receivedcommunion. She wasn’t as old as the other Mother Butlers who hadgraying or dyed hair hidden under white veils. His mom’s hair wasstill a shiny black, gathered at the nape in a low ponytail, hercrisp curls bunched like a bouquet of dark blossoms.
On Sundays, she was dressedin a white version of her office uniform: a tailored, button-downblouse and a pencil skirt that fell below the knees. Back when shestill didn’t need to work, she wore colorful, flowy dresses thatmade her look like Caleb’s older sister. Now, she wore thesestiff-collared ensembles even on weekends, as if it were heruniform for getting through life.
Caleb couldn’t blame her.He, too, had learned that routines were crucial to staying saneafter a life-shattering moment. After his mom had found out thather husband had another family in Qatar, church activities becameher road map to recovery.
Ang aking tunay nayaman
Ikaw na akingsandigan
Caleb made the sign of thecross and sat back down. How was it possible for his dad to actlike he had loved his family with all his heart—all hislife—at the same time hewas betraying them?
“Loneliness,” her aunt hadsaid softly while consoling his mom that night six years ago. Calebwas supposed to be in bed, but his mother’s tear-stained voice hadwoken him up. He sat on the staircase, peeking through thebalusters as he eavesdropped on their conversation.
“These things happen allthe time with OFWs, usually with the husbands.” Her aunt’s voiceheaved with resentment. “Men . . . men are too weak againsttemptation.”
That night, Caleb hadwondered if this same weakness ran through his veins. That like hisfather, he would someday abandon his family by virtue of beingmale. Before he slept, Caleb vowed that he would never be adisappointment to his mom.
During puberty, when Calebbegan to feel the tugs of attraction toward the same sex, he hadfirmly pushed them down. Down to the pit of his stomach. Down tothe soles of his feet. Down to the earth beneath him.
But this part of himselfthat he had tried to suppress still took root. Against his will, itflourished, giving him urges and longings that had horrified him atfirst. In time, he had learned to give in to these desires in theprivacy of his thoughts and in his bedroom. He would feel terribleafter, asking for forgiveness as he said his evening prayers. Butthe cycle would begin not long after, and his aunt’s words wouldring in his ears: Men are too weak againsttemptation.
When Caleb, fresh from anall-boys Catholic school, entered college, the freedom came as ashock. At the university, he saw girls dressed like guys. Guysdressed like girls. Guys that looked like guys, but didn’t act likeguys. It was as if the lines between genders wereblurred.
He was itching to throwhimself into the colorful mix, but he didn’t know how. The facadehe’d built for himself had grown too hard to chip away. But hismost pressing reason of all: he was afraid that his mom would findout about his secret.
So he looked for a safe wayto express himself. One of his favorite TV shows, a musical comedy,had a gay character that wore bowties. The next day, he bought hisfirst bowtie.
Caleb would wear
