Franco’s eyebrows crept upto his forehead. “Are you sure? We can work around your schedule.We’re not strict about deadlines or anything.”
It made Caleb feel like astubborn toddler, but since he couldn’t trust his brain anymore, hemerely shook his head several times. He had to get his messageacross.
Sighing, Franco shrugged.“Well, if that’s the way you feel . . . but shit, Tara’s going to beheartbroken.”
Annoyance flashed acrossCaleb’s face before he could check it. Was that a look of surprisein Franco’s eyes? Alarmed, Caleb covered up his reaction bybabbling on, “I watched Wordplay’s performances on the internet,and they were really good. I even caught some of yours.”
To his relief, Francosmiled. “Thanks. What was your favorite?”
“‘Closets are for clothes,not for that part of yourself you loathe.’” Caleb looked down,feeling his cheeks flush. “That poem stood out for me.”
Under the heat of Franco’ssearching gaze, Caleb squirmed in his seat.
“That’s nice to hear.”Franco’s voice was quiet. “Thank you for telling me.”
Caleb got up quickly. “Ihave to go. Sorry again.”
“If you feel like comingback, you’re welcome anytime.”
“Great,” Caleb mumbled.“Thanks.”
He turned on his heels andleft. Eyes glued to the ground, he berated himself for sharing toomuch information. He shouldn’t have told Franco the truth aboutliking that poem.It had been too revealing, too personal.
A clump ofmakahiya fringed thepavement, small ferns reaching for the sun. Feeling a surge ofanger, Caleb stubbed them with his toe, prompting the leaves torapidly fold inwards, like an accordion fan being snappedshut.
Chapter 7:Interlude
When Caleb was in thesixth grade, his favorite subject was Math. It wasn’t because heexcelled in it; in fact, it made him want to tear out his hair ashe tried to make sense of fractions, factoring, integers andsimilar forms of torture. But he looked forward to class becauseof him. The Mathteacher.
In the assembly ofsour-faced teachers who were old enough to be Caleb’s parents, orworse, grandparents, Mr. Castro stood out a mile. With boyishsmooth skin and hair that tended to spike at the top, he lookedmore like a high school student instead of the fresh college gradhe claimed he was.
Caleb wondered if thisfascination stemmed from his father’s absence. After all, it hadonly been a year since his mom found out about his dad’sinfidelity. Maybe Caleb just missed his dad.
But no, Mr. Castro didn’tlook or act anything like his dad. Mr. Castro wore high-cutsneakers and put on bright yellow headphones stamped with skullswhen he checked papers in the faculty room. When Mr. Castro wasaround, Caleb’s mouth went dry and his heart fluttered likehummingbird wings.
In safe and secretmoments, Caleb would write down their names side by side. RichardCastro and Caleb Salve. Richard and Caleb. He read it as a fluidline, like Yin and yang.Lancelot and Guinevere. Mangga atbagoong.
After Mr. Castro, Calebbegan to be aware of his schoolmates, and the many intriguingthings about them. Like the shape of one’s legs. The curve ofsomeone’s smile. The way a boy leaned against his locker or the wayhe jutted his chin.
In junior high, there wasa group of boys who called themselves TheGreats. They went everywhere together—inthe cafeteria, the restroom, among the benches strewn across theparking lot where kids waited for their rides after dismissal.Always, they huddled in a tight and protective circle, like aschool of fish protecting itself against sharks.
Because of the school’sstrict disciplinary actions, The Greats were always careful to looklike other students. But there were small clues to theirrebellion—like the stuff they talked about, which often includedmusic videos, clothes and the latest rom-com movies. In an age wherevoices were supposed to deepen, some of their voices remainedhigh-pitched, the ends of their sentences curling up likeeyelashes.
“Faggots,” snorted Caleb’s seatmatein the cafeteria as the table next to theirs erupted in shrilllaughter. Caleb’s head had jerked up, surprised at the look of deepdisgust Elmer was shooting at The Greats.
“Bet they’ll end upas trannies whenthey leave school,” Elmer smirked.
Up until that point, Calebthought that his own group of friends, TheNerds, were the bottom-dwellers in hisschool’s social pyramid. But with the way Elmer had glared at thenext table, it was as if The Greats were even worse than scum. Itscared Caleb, strengthening his resolve to guard hissecret.
A few years later, deepinto the night before his sixteenth birthday, Caleb had switched onthe nightstand and crawled out of bed. In the glow of light, hestood before the mirror and stared at his reflection. Stared andstared until his face looked like a collection of shapes thatdidn’t make sense.
“Fag.”
“Pansy.”
“Homo.”
Ignoring the twinge in hischest, Caleb raised his voice a little.
“Flower boy.”
“Daffy.”
“Bayot.”
His eyes stung. His voicecracked. Still, Caleb didn’t look away, watching himself with eyesthat watched him back.
“Worthless.”
“Scum.”
“Piece of shit.”
Out loud Caleb said all thethings he imagined people would say when they found out that heliked boys. His reflection blurred, but Caleb held on, steadyinghis voice.
“Gay.”
“Bakla.”
For a long time, Calebgazed at himself until the tears stopped, until his breathing wentback to normal. Outside, a motorcycle gunned its engine. A catwarbled its mating call. The chorus of crickets swelled.
The world was still thesame. But in the sphere of Caleb’s thoughts, something hadshifted.
* * *
Sometimes, life showed itssense of humor. No sooner had Caleb started to play Chopin’sRaindrop than it began raining.
Thanks to the weather, theimages came easily while he played. Rain that tap-danced on theroof. A soft shower that felt like fairy kisses on your skin. Aface looking out a rain-stained window.
When the melody becamemournful, the images shifted. He saw rain falling in gray sheets. Aperson caught in the downpour with no umbrella. Winds raging, theircold and clammy fingers wrapped around bare arms.
Feeling a movement besidehim, Caleb stopped playing and turned to see his mom’s wistfulsmile.
“Your lola often played that piece on thatvery same piano. I didn’t even know what it’s called.”
Caleb took the sheet andhanded it to her. She lifted her eyebrows when she read the title.“Really? I’ve always thought it was about Christmas. It reminded meso much of twinkling lights during SimbangGabi.”
Caleb shrugged. “It doesn’tmatter, right? Chopin might have been thinking about a particularthing when he was
