Long queues of passengers snaked through the checkpoint. I took off my wristwatch and unbuckled the stainless-steel clasp of my black leather belt. I emptied my pockets and placed phone and wallet into a blue plastic basket. I opened my luggage for inspection. Holding a wooden stick in one arm, the security guard patted my body and motioned me to step through the metal detector. I waited for my things at the other end of the scanner belt, then caught up with John inside the airport.
My best friend and I got chosen to cover the Culture and Arts Festival in Puerto Princesa. John was the photojournalist, and I was the writer. Our university would compete, so we had to publish a special newsletter for the event. We were like kindergartens, the rollers of our trolley bags raking against the tiled floor. Just that we were teenagers now, too easy to fall in love.
Dragging my heavy suitcase, I trailed behind John. He wore a black and white striped shirt. The bottom of his jeans was rolled up twice or thrice to about an inch. His sneakers—I was not sure what color they were, moss green, dark gray? But the rubber soles were white. He stepped on his right foot longer than he did with his left, his other arm swaying lazily. He was as tall as I and of slender build.
“Boss Ipe,” he called, turning and passing me my plane ticket.
Here in this country, men call each other (kum)pare, brad(er), (u)tol, or—in John’s case—boss. How so naturally it sounds from them! Freely flowing like water from a faucet.
The flight attendant, whose smile was from ear to ear (like Alice’s Cheshire Cat), welcomed us aboard. The plane crawled along the runway that stretched like a gray carpet. Then up, up in the air, it went. Meanwhile, the world looked smaller and smaller below us. The takeoff felt like a lift inside an elevator. My eardrums started to bulge, so I kept on chewing bubblegum. Even if I had swallowed a whole tablet of Bonamine an hour ago, I still had butterflies in my stomach.
Whenever I would be away from home, my mother always made me carry a rosary in my pocket (in addition to the small torn novena in my wallet). Only now did I understand their purpose. I had read that if you passed away while praying, you would go straight to heaven. I am not a religious Roman Catholic. But in the back of my mind, I faintly recited “Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” and “Glory Be” for god knows how many times.
“Boss Ipe, why are your eyes shut tight?” John snickered, sitting on my left next to the window. I often wondered why people ask questions they already know the answers to.
A bit embarrassed, I just grinned at him.
I stole a glance at the cabin. A murmur of excitement echoed through the interior of the aircraft. Everyone else was busy taking selfies. John was no different, getting his Instagram story ready to be fed with heart reactions. In the slanted rays streaming through the window, I took in as much as my eyes could behold: a young, moreno boy aureoled with light. John’s face was a mixed shape of oval and diamond. As usual, his coal-black hair was sleek with Gatsby. But as a man, his eyebrows were unusual. Two pencil-thin curves above his eyes as if he had them plucked. The nose—ah! His was finely chiseled. I coveted the late-afternoon sunshine that kissed his cheeks. But I liked best his teeth, white and bright as pearls. John held his camera before him, the perfect smile plastered on his face. Snap!
He caught me staring at him; my heart skipped a beat. Quickly, I averted my gaze to the glossy travel magazines in the seat pocket in front of me. I picked one out and flipped it open, one page after another. Silently, John plugged in his earphones and played his Spotify. He tapped and swiped and flicked on the touchscreen, his fingers dancing.
After a moment, he pulled them off of his ears.
“Come on,” mumbled John. I raised my head from the mouth-watering Filipino cuisine. I looked at him past his phone facing me, my eyebrows furrowed. His words that followed suddenly changed my expression. “Let me take your picture.”
My cheeks blushed pink. The butterflies multiplied.
Felipe Hernandez Dimaculangan II, 21, is a fourth-year student taking up secondary education (majoring in English) at the Laguna State Polytechnic University-San Pablo City Campus.