Page 17 of Between Love and War
Michael
One week down, eleven more to go.
I swear, time moves slower in Magnolia Heights. I’m half-convinced a witch (Kate Cruz) is manipulating the time.
My phone is filled with messages from my teammates asking how and where I am. I contemplate telling them that I’m hiding out in a small town with nosy people. But if I do, someone’s bound to visit, and that’s one paparazzi photo away from blowing up Heather’s entire PR plan of disappearing just long enough that, when the public finally sees me again, they think I’ve been quietly living a simple, humble life.
So, I keep it vague and tell them I’m just resting for a while. They won’t believe me of course. But they know well enough not to prod.
Our team is close-knit. Basketball in the Philippines is not like other countries where you grow up playing for your state or city. Here, corporations own the teams (and are named after themselves), so we can get drafted anywhere. And there’s reallynot much loyalty in hometown teams, because, well, there are no hometown teams. You just go where the contracts take you.
But when it comes to the national team, it’s a different story. No matter where we play during the season, we always come back to the same squad. One day we’re trash-talking each other on the court, the next we’re wearing the same jersey, acting like best friends. It’s weird, but it works.
Right now, I’m avoiding them. Because I don’t even know who I am these days. All I want is to leave this place. This nosy town. The preschool teacher who thinks she knows everything. All of it.
I sigh, tossing my phone on the sofa to go shoot some hoops in my backyard. I had the court installed yesterday. As I make my way out, I can hear music blasting next door at the Cruz residence.Right.The barbecue thing Manang Linda invited me to. Weird, because Kate never mentioned it to me the whole time we spent at Little League. And she lives there. Obviously she doesn’t want me there. So it would probably be best if I don’t show up.
I stretch a little, shake out my arms, and turn toward my basketball, only to stop short.
Something pink glistens in the sunlight, right on top of my ball.
I take a cautious step forward. Oh no. Are those… ants?
I get closer, squinting. Yep. That’s a swarm of ants. And they’re having a full-on feast on what was clearly, at some point, a cupcake. The icing has melted into a sugary mess, dripping down the rubber surface of my ball.
Stuck right in the middle of the carnage is a note, slightly crumpled, but still very readable.
‘Enjoy your cupcake, Kindle thief!’
I blink and stare at the note for a long moment, weighing my options. I could just wipe the ball clean and move on with my life. I could pretend this never happened.
Or…
I could retaliate.
A slow grin creeps onto my face. Yeah. That sounds more fun. It’s time for her to get her Kindle back, anyway.
I pick it up from where it’s been gathering dust on my shelf. I crack my knuckles and get to work rebuilding her library. First, the books. I scour the depths of the internet for the strangest, most mind-boggling titles imaginable.The Art of Raising Exotic Chickens? Downloaded.How to Communicate with Ghosts: A Beginner’s Guide? Oh, absolutely.The Billionaire Alien’s Accidental Mermaid Bride? A classic. I don’t stop there. I throw in a cookbook that only features jello-based recipes, a self-help guide calledManifesting Your Inner Possum, and a three-part series on the benefits of speaking to plants.
I sit back and admire my handiwork. By the time I’m done, her Kindle looks like it belongs to an exorcist with a farm and a deep, unsettling love for gelatin.
But why stop there?
I make a beeline to my desk, where my fan merch samples are tucked away. I rifle through the stash until I find exactly what I need: stickers of my own face. Not just any stickers, though—these are premium, over-the-top, ridiculous stickers. Some are zoomed-in, cursed close-ups of me. Others are me with thumbs up, grinning like a politician. I peel off her original cute stickers and replace them, one by one, with my masterpiece.
I lean back, admiring my work. Beautiful. Devious. A true work of art. I wrap it up in a bag, and make my way next door.
Technically, Iwasinvited.
“There he is!” A chorus of voices scream. Suddenly, I’m the main attraction in a gathering of all the titas in the village who have no concept of boundaries and personal space. In mere seconds, I’m being poked, patted, aggressively pinched in the cheek like I’m five. Some even go as far as giving unsolicited comments on my last game.
I smile and wave awkwardly at every person I see, waiting for someone I recognize.
“Welcome to the village, MVP!” A woman comes up to me and introduces herself as Freida. Beside her is a balding man named Jim. Probably her husband. Or boyfriend. Or brother, I don’t know.
After rounds and rounds of greetings, I finally reach the table where the food is. There’s nothing like a Filipino banquet. I personally never had one with my family, because I only have Tricia and Polly, but I’ve attended some of my friends’ parties. And it’s always the same spread—lumpiang shanghai, kare-kare, lechon, pastries, dessert, and heaping trays of rice.
I sit down and help myself to about three servings until someone comes up to me.
