Title: Three Seconds
The teacher said something funny and the whole class erupted with laughter.
The teacher was like a conductor who stirred a group of teenagers with spur of words; a well-planned symphony that was rehearsed to every class before us. The performance was a success as it elicited our attention at the center of the room.
But not for long.
Laughter, a rapid pulse of happiness, is something we like to share. And the attention to the one who caused it was long gone as students conducted their own little stage on their chair, and their neighboring seatmate as their audience.
But some stages are not meant to be seen. Some performances are only meant for one person, and one person alone. And in this room, there is only one person who I wish to share these moments with.
Even though rows of chairs separated us from each other, we cannot deny the pull of the invisible string that connected us together. And as if on que, our eyes found each other. It was a brief encounter, a second of a day. We were like a magnet slowly attracted to each other. And then suddenly, without even a warning, we would glimpse into each other's souls.
Neither of us dared to look for more than a second, afraid that we might open the pandora's box, afraid of what we might discover.
On one of the ordinary days that I cherish, we were assigned as cleaners.
We were left alone---together inside our classroom.
"Ballet practice?"
The sudden realization that he was talking to me made me still from cleaning the teacher's desk.
"Yes." I answered but did not dare to look at him.
After a minute of silence, I asked. "Basketball practice?"
"Yeh."
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time passed, but the moment stilled.
We did not talk after that. Cleaning was the farthest from my thoughts. My senses were heightened, sensitive from his presence. It was the type of silence where you could hear your heart beating fast, it was unbearable because I was worried that he might hear it too.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. The heart beats, faster than a second.
There were moments where my teacher's words would be inaudible. Because my thoughts are louder, and my thoughts would always lead back to him. Like this moment. What was he writing with a frown on his face? He would look up the wall and write something. And when he lifted his head sideways, our eyes locked into each other. Then suddenly, staring into his eyes was not as uncomfortable as before anymore. In truth, I discovered myself wanting for more. I found comfort in knowing that as much as I was looking at him, he was looking at me too. And for the first time, he broke the connection first. It was two seconds---our moment---and I wanted to have more. He then buried his head on his notebook as his ears were burning red.
Afterschool practice was hard. I had blisters all over my feet. I had to use my jelly shoes to school for me to walk. It did not help at all. I went to my locker to get my textbooks and saw him on my peripheral view. His was three lockers away from mine. It took all of my strength to pretend I did not notice him. I winced as a bite of pain coursed through my right toe. I cannot bare a step of pain anymore. I removed my shoes and saw a spot of dark red on my socks. I had to ask for permission to allow me to wear slip-ons starting tomorrow or else I will not be able to attend practice---I hope they would agree. I closed my locker and was about to drag my feet when someone called—he called.
"Wait, Mag!"
Mag. I was so used to my name that my initial reaction was to turn to the one who called, but I hesitated for just a moment for my name sound different on his lips.
He was flipping through his notebooks and textbooks until he was able to produce a Band-aid.
"Here"
"Than…"I was not able to finish my words as he bolted away from me.
His ears, burning red.
I went straight to the bathroom to put the Band-aid he gave me. It did not help much with the bleeding, but the pain was suddenly bearable. I could walk much better. And as I skidded down the hallway, it did not escape my thought that to bleed is not so bad after all.
Time helped me to be bolder. I wanted to have more moments with him--- almost out of desperation, or maybe out of need. I told him I have a list--- a list of things I needed to do. And it was only him who could do it with me. I made a lame excuse, which even I had to admit is odd for me to do, but it was the best option I had at the spur of the moment.
There are things needed to be done. Important things, like learning how to shoot three pointers on the ring. We would sneak out after practice of the basketball team. The court is empty but for the two of us. I proud myself of my control of my body, ballet does that to you. I have learned to control the movement of my body from the point of my fingers to the tip of my toes. That was why I concluded that as simple as shooting a ball in the ring would be easy. But oh god, never had I been so wrong in my life. Here I am struggling and there he went, earning points after points like it was nothing. He did it so effortlessly, the kind of shot that would make the girls chant his name. Maybe I could be one of those girls on the bench, screaming his name inside my head, praying that he would have a good game.
Frustrations built up for a week, and still out of hundreds of attempts that I made, I did not get lucky even just for one. But a clever idea occurred to me, the only rule was for me to shoot the ball. There was no need for me to shoot overhead like him. I don't need to look cool, I just need to do it. So, I shot it underhandedly and I succeeded on the first attempt.
On our second endeavor, I had to lie. I called in sick for the weekend practice. I guessed the quiver of my voice made it more believable. We needed to run a five-kilometer marathon. We had to wake up earlier than the sun. It was a peaceful morning, there was nobody at the school ground on a Saturday this early. I just needed to walk; this is easier than anything that involves a ball. But then again, after the third kilometer mark, I started to notice some things. Like how we passed by the window where I practiced so many times that it made me nervous. What if my ballet instructor would suddenly pass by? What if I would get caught with my lie? Oh, the dread. To be worried while heaving did not help at all; I was chasing my breath every added step that I took. I realized that a ballerina has no stamina at all. Details of the art is my forte, but any heart-burning related activities does not fit me. But I know he enjoyed this, his life as a basketball player, and that is all that mattered to me.
As if revealing my physical weakness was not enough, there went my fears too. I am afraid of people. But he likes them, so I asked him again to join me. It was the third on the list of the things to do---to volunteer on the elderly shelter. And it was not as bad as I thought it would have been. There's a reason why I only volunteer on the animal shelters. I hate talking, but they love to talk in here. Thankfully, they do the talking and I would do the listening. I got paired up with a grandmother with the red lips. She told me a summary of her life--- for one hundred and eighty minutes. But one story in particular caught my attention.
It was about her first love.
"Oh! Dear! He was gorgeous." She described him with a glint in her greying eyes.
"Yes, Dear. I could barely look at him in the eyes!" She giggled.
"But then we got to know each other… Oh, indeed. We knew everything there is to know from a lover. But my parents never liked him. They were bad… very bad. I was sixteen and was pregnant with his child. Oh! How angry my parents were, it was a scandal to get pregnant unwed. They separated us. Never saw him again. The babe was given for adaption. I only heard it cry, not able to hug it once. Never knew if it was a he or a she. The biggest regret of my life. Never forgave my parents for it…" She paused for a moment.
"…so young woman, once you find your love, never let it go." She concluded.
"How will I know if I found my love?" I asked her.
"Unfortunately, my dear, people find the love is true when its already gone."
She continued to tell stories on each of her lovers--- all nine of them. And it became the longest day of my life, longer than the lecture of my history professor.
The second to the last on the list was to learn how to play Do You? By Yiruma on piano. Aside from ballet, my mom enrolled me to learn piano too, so I know how to read musical notes. I asked him to play it with me---as a duet. I managed to reserve a music room, the one with the grand piano. We practiced for two hours before we could get used to the key arrangement. He could read the music sheet as much as I do, and he could play it too as much as I do. We played it as one. The melody is beautiful. It was longing and hope put into a combination of keys. Longing about somebody even before you knew her, hopeful about the future that you may spend it with her. And at the ending of the melody lingers a question. A question of: Do you? Do you feel it the way I do? I smiled to myself. Is this the melody he wanted me to hear? I wondered if this is what he felt. I wondered if I am reading things right.
Only this time, I'm wrong. I'm doomed. I'm going to be kicked out. I watched a YouTube video on how to pick a door lock. And it worked! I was hoping for it not to work, but it did. I was able to open the door of the school rooftop. It was the last thing to do on the list. We were lucky the sky is clear, so he and I was able to see the sky filled with the stars. It's a spectacular view if you're living in the city--- one of those rare times. And look! A shooting star! It was the first time I saw one. Then make a wish, he said. I closed my eyes and made a wish. What did you wish, he asked. I wished this moment will last.
And for a moment, it did.
This was the first time I went against school rules, and I found the fun of it. I don't regret this at all. It was not about going against the authorities; it was about doing things you've never done before. It was not about the adrenaline of fear, it was about the comfort of being with someone. I get to know myself better when I'm with him; my bad side, my good side, everything of me. I get to know him a little bit too, and I wish I get to know him more.
People looked at me as I pass by the hallway the next morning. I was not aware that we were supposed to wear a white shirt. I was the only one wearing a blue dress. The school bell rang, signaling the homeroom is about to start, so I ran to the classroom and sat on my chair.
The homeroom teacher choked as he was saying something.
A scene not orchestrated; a dialogue not rehearsed. A voice barely audible as the audience held on every word. This is not a play; this is real life. Real life as it would always be--- a story without retakes.
The whole class solemnly cried.
And I immediately turned my head to him, just as I always did with string--- or without string--- that promised to bind us together. But there was no him. Instead, his desk was filled with piles of flowers and his entire chair is filled with scribbles and dedications from friends. He was in a car accident, forty days ago. Our moments--- gone. The pandora's box left unopened. The homeroom teacher told us to go outside to release a balloon--- for him. But I remained on my seat and only stood up when everybody were gone.
I approached his desk and reached for my pocket for a leaf of paper thorn from a notebook. It was a list, his to do list. It fell from one of his textbooks the day he gave me a Band-aid. I was too embarrassed to return it to him. And a week after, I cannot return it even if I wanted to.
"There's one more left on the list." Henry said, sitting on his chair.
I suddenly looked on the floor.
Yes, there was one. It was ridiculous. It cannot be done, not without him.
The last task on the list says: Ask Magnolia Grey out.
"So… will you go out with me?" He asked.
I did not answer. Instead I smiled timidly. I slowly lifted my eyes to look into his. For one. Two. Three seconds. Three seconds, our longest moment. Three seconds, and he was gone. My heart was beating so loudly that it huts so much—too much. And for once, I hoped that he was here to hear it too.
I folded the paper and buried it underneath the flowers. One task left unmarked. I reached for a sharpie and searched for a blank space on his chair that was filled with words of goodbyes.
I would have said yes, I wrote.
