CHAPTER 1

The crows perched on the branches of an old mango tree were having their morning concert. I wondered what the hell had them so excited. I would have risked getting late for school for a couple more minutes of post-sleep nap but these goddamn birds won't shut the fuck up. I grabbed my sling-shot and fired at them from my window. I was gonna murder some crows, no pun intended. The stone projectile filled with my murderous intent swirled into the damp cold morning air, travelling at supersonic, hit a branch and ricocheted off to where I stood. "Bloody hell!" I groaned as I took cover. The failure was so epic in proportion that even the crows didn't bother looking my way in an attempt to save me from embarrassment. In the end, I got all worked up and sleep abandoned me.

I slipped on my school uniform after I took a bath and left a clattered mess of unwashed clothes in my room. The self-absorbed radio deejay was rapping silly beat in the airwaves skrrrt skrrrting his dumbass on an impromptu rhyme he learned from Timbuktu school of deejay-ing where other sad middle-aged men undergoing mid-life crisis have found their purpose in life in the art of taking away the 'good' in the morning by spewing unsolicited life advice and some random rap shit.

"You're late for school,

That ain't cool,

You're the country's future,

Don't be a failure,

So get up early cos now it's eight thirty,

Check it out yo..."

Who hired this Eminem wannabe? Then he said something that hinted a little hope for his career's salvation if that's not too late yet, "Today's the 62nd death anniversary of Amelia Earhart. Let's spare some thoughts to the Lady of the Air with the song Amelia Earhart's Last Flight by Kinky Friedman. A sad melody was played on the radio and as the heat poured in from the windows and the sly clouds hung like wet clothes under the sun, I wondered what Amelia Earhart's last thoughts were before she plunged to her watery grave never to be seen again.

"A ship out on the ocean,

just a speck against the sky,

Amelia Earhart flying that sad day..."

It was a sad day indeed. That's the best I could hope for since I was still young. Young people do not have the license to be miserable, so I settle for sad. What's miserable was nana in the kitchen, smoking tobacco, at her usual spot near the furnace, staring at the flames as if they had all the answers in the world. Did she even catch a sleep last night? She never talked to me about her miseries, the things she saw behind the flames and stuff like that. At this point, she could either be miserable as hell or she could be fighting Balrogs with Gandalf beneath the old mountains of Moria.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, puffing rings of clear white smoke into the air.

"I'm late!"

"I can see that."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I acted like I gave two cents about being late to lighten her mood.

"Isn't that what your alarm clock is for?"

"It's broken." I chugged a bottle of fresh milk from the fridge.

"It went off five times, just so you know."

"Should've gone six for good measure."

"What is it with you and sleep?" She asked.

"What is it with YOU and the smoke?"

She flicked the cigarette butt and lighted another one. The smoke erupted from her lungs and burst into the air in a shape of a mushroom.

I tied the lace on my shoes dusting it off with my hands.

"Gotta go." I grabbed her knuckles and touched it lightly on my forehead.

"God bless you, hijo." She jammed the lunchbox in my bag." Do you need anything else?"

"If you can stop sending me to school that'd be great." I sighed.

"We already talked about this." She brushed my hair with her hands. "Why do young boys hate school so much?"

"Schools prevent us from becoming men." I answered.

"We already talked about this too." She frowned.

"My opinion did not count." I said.

She gave me one of her looks that signaled it's time to cut-off the bullshit. So, cut-off the bullshit I did.

"Off you go." She kissed me on the cheeks. Her breath smelled like nicotine but I did not mine. "Here, take this." She slipped a hundred-peso bill on my pocket.

"I don't need this." I protested.

"Can you stop being a boy?" She raised her brows, or whatever is left of it.

"School wants us to be boys forever, isn't that what you want?"

"Use that money to buy yourself some ffriends, smartass."

"Haven't bought one yourself yet?" Was my smartass reply.

"I have friends!"

"Imaginary ones don't count."

I grabbed my bag and flung it on my right shoulder. I adjusted the black baseball cap on my head and pedaled to school. Half-way through, the structural integrity of my bicycle caved in. The chains broke and split in two sending me off-balance.

"Sunavabitch!!" I muttered in frustration.

I dragged my bike across the pavement leaving a trail of black stain on the road. The sun blasted the earth with ultra-violet rays and my skin responded with droplets of fat sweats. My white polo uniform was soaked so I undressed it and hang it on my left shoulder. As if going to school was not bad enough, now I had to walk under the scorching heat of the tropical summer sun. I had been thinking of running away from school and all these bullshit for quite some time now. Just waiting for the perfect timing. This could be it. The last straw. What's the big idea of going to school anyway when I could work full-time, earn myself a living, save a little and get the hell out of this accursed town. I heard lots of establishments downtown hired kids my age to save labor-cost. Kids unlike adults did not complain about the pay. Besides, I was no longer a kid because my balls have already descended a long time ago. I presented the idea to Nana many times before but she chided it citing child labor. She said social workers would be all over her and that she had no plans spending her few remaining years locked up in prison. As if the government really gave a rat's ass about child labor.

I estimated 4-5 kilometers of sweat-drenching walkathon when a maroon pick-up truck honked and circled back. The tinted windows slid half-open. A boy just about my age peeked from the driver's seat. He wore a black Ray-ban sunglasses which concealed his eyes from view.

"Need a lift?" Said the Ray-ban boy. He dragged his sunglasses at the tip of his nose and looked at me behind his suspiciously long eyelashes many girls at school would have killed to have. We wore the same uniform that had a blue-colored school logo on it.

"Do I look like I needed help?" I laced my voice with a healthy amount of sarcasm but he did not get the hint. He carefully examined my devastating state; broken bike and all, sweat and all and smiled, like that kind of smile that would land you a deal with a toothpaste commercial. "Yes, you do. Hop-in," he said casually like I was an old friend. Something told me I shouldn't trust an odd boy with long eye lashes, blue eyes and blonde curls popping out of nowhere but I hopped in anyway. Kidnappers aren't this good looking, aren't they? And even if this turd was, I would've thanked him earnestly for seeing some value in me.

When we arrived inside the campus, I jumped off of his pick-up and fetched my bike. I walked towards the driver's seat and said "Thank you." He wore his Ray-ban on top of his head like a headband so some of his blonde curls dangled in front of his face like strands of wet noodles. He playfully blew the wet noodles with his mouth and it fell flat on his pale-white freckled face. He repeatedly did it like it was a bad habit. Where on earth did this kid come from? I surmised. I had my fair share of bad habits too. I assigned dog breeds as pseudo-names of the people around me to help me tolerate people. The idea was simple: I liked dogs. I hated people. So, if I associated one to one, maybe I could tolerate people and school and become my country's future like what Rizal said before he got stuffed with bullets for talking so much. Life would have been much easier if we're all dogs. No school. No worries. We could just lick our balls and chase vehicles for no reason. My unique way of pseudo-naming people was dead accurate than MBTI. Isabel Briggs Myers would have been proud. Truth was I desperately wanted to have a dog but nana said I was not old enough to get one. She had this thing about being old enough to be able to get this and that, to go here from there, to do this and that. It's frustrating.

Toothpaste commercial boy surely was a Golden Retriever. Everyone's friend type of dog. Blonde. Social. Loved to smile. Long eye-lashes. Ticked all the boxes. The kind of dog that would welcome a serial killer inside your house and offer him a cup of tea.

"No biggie." He smiled and pointed his fingers at me like a gun. I pictured him wagging his tail expecting me to pat him on the head and say 'good-boy' except I did not. Golden Retrievers were cute and all but they were not my type.