Philippine Speculative Fiction (14 page)

Shet. Ano ba to? Parang may mali sa
atmosphere. Why does everyone look scared?
Di ba
enough
ang
beauty
ko
?

I looked at my mother with tears in my eyes. I knew I wasn’t getting the role. Another one down the drain.
Palagi na lang
. I felt sorry
talaga
for my mom. All her
bragging was for nothing. Pero at least,
naka-harap talaga ako sa
camera. All those other auditions,
eh hanggang linya lang ako
. They always pick the girl they want before they
even got to me.

But still. My mama would be doubly disappointed.

“Excuse me, Joraida? Joraida?”

I snapped out of my
pagkatulala
and saw that Kuya Jepoy was trying to catch my attention.

“
Po
?
” I replied immediately.

“
Pwede ka bang sumama sa amin
?”

“
Ho? Ano po yon
?”
Kinabahan na ako ng konte
. A million thoughts rushed through my mind. Did I do something wrong? Are they kicking me out of the building?

“
Sabi ko, pwede ka bang sumama sa amin?
We’re giving you the role and we want you to sign the contracts now.”

I was stunned. My knees felt weak and my heart started racing. Did I hear that right? Are they really giving me the role? Is this really it?
Ito naba ang simula ng
career
ko sa
industriya? Isasama na ba ako sa mga mukhang makalagay dun sa
hallway
? Hindi talaga ako makakapaniwala. Nawawalan na ako ng hininga.

“So, what’s your decision?
Sasama ka ba
?
”

“
Oo po. Sasama talaga ako
!
” I beamed and turned to look at Mama. She wasn’t by the door. I looked around and she wasn’t in the studio room also.
Baka nag-
CR.
Nerbyosa kasi yun
.

“
Halika na, punta na tayo.”
Kuya Jepoy motioned his other members to come with him. One of them took my scarf and covered my face with it. I had chills run down my spine.
May
PA
na ako agad. Sosyal!

I suddenly remembered Mama and how she hasn’t come back yet. She might wonder as to where I went.

“Kuya Jepoy,
si
Mama?
Di po ba natin siya aantayin
?”

“Ay Inday, don’t worry. OK
lang yung mama mo
. She’ll catch up with us later”

I nodded. And slowly walked after Kuya Jepoy with my head down.
Di pwede ang
paparazzi
ngayon.

We passed by the row of posters I paraded through
kanina
. I couldn’t help but imagine my face plastered on one of them in the future. Photoshopped, yes. But famous
pa
rin
.

Pero
my gosh, di talaga ako makakapaniwala na nangyayari talaga ‘to
. People walked by us waving to other employees who were with us, and occasionally squinting their eyes to see
kung sino ‘tong nakatakip ang mukha. Ngingiti lang ako sa ilalim ng
scarf
ko.
Sooner or later, they’d realize
na ako na pala
ang susunod na
hot item
ng
showbiz
.

And that they had passed by me. (And even passed me over some girl who could simply cry on cue.)

Ha. Karma
talaga
. Bitch
kung
bitch.

My thoughts were interrupted by two employees chattering loudly as they passed by us.
Parang si
Mama
pag nagma-majhong.

“Hoy, mare.
May nagsabi sakin na may babaeng tikbalang raw na na-
discover
dito sa
building
.
” Said one of the women.

“
Oo nga e. Totoo kaya yun
?” the other replied.

I heard Kuya Jepoy scoff at the last girl’s comment.
Ako din, napangiti. Mga chismosa talaga ‘tong mga ‘to
. Why would anyone even think of a finding a
tikbalang
in the station?

But I didn’t give it much care. Petty thoughts
lang yun
.
At saka, dumating na kasi kami sa kung saan magco-
contract signing.

“News and Current Affairs Department”
ang sabi ng
door sign.

Weird.

Press conference agad?
Bilis naman.

“
Wag kang likot
, OK Joraida?” Kuya Jepoy whispered to me as we went in the conference hall. “Let me do all the talking.”

I looked around.
Wala pa rin si
Mama
.
But I know she’ll come soon. I mean,
siya pa
?
Tamang-tama nga siya eh. Bagay na bagay pala sa ‘kin
‘to
.

Eliza Victoria is the author of several books, including the science fiction novel
Project 17
(2013) and the short story collection
A Bottle
of Storm Clouds
(2012). Her fiction and poetry have appeared in online and print publications in the Philippines and abroad, and have won prizes in the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for
Literature and the Free Press Literary Awards. She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the National Children’s Book Awards, and has been included in the Honorable Mentions
for
Best Horror of the Year.
Visit her at
http://elizavictoria.com
.

“IT WAS AN accident,” Lucas said, and I wasn’t sure if I should believe him, but he looked tormented enough, so down we went to lift Noelle between us in the
dark, the headlights of his car the only glow to guide us, and dumped her like a sack of garbage in the backyard of a family who had left Santa Monica years and years ago we couldn’t remember
their name, their house an empty shell, their land overrun with weeds.

We fought before we lifted her. We cried. We covered our mouths in horror and disgust. We should take her to the hospital, I said, load her in the backseat and just drive. Even though I knew the
nearest hospital was two hours away, and Noelle was already dead after the car hit her and ran over her body. We wanted to think we weren’t monsters, but it didn’t matter. Our grief,
our early thoughts of taking her to safety, our reluctance to just leave her there—it didn’t matter, because we did leave her there. When we lifted her she was as light as a bird, the
bones shifting beneath the skin. I remembered my hatred of lifting kittens, those ribs that I could feel beneath the fur, my irrational fear that my fingers could somehow pierce through their skin
and hurt them.

Lucas wanted to leave her inside the empty house but I was smeared with blood, Lucas had already fallen once and had scratched his knees and legs, and I didn’t want to walk any longer. We
left her on top of the tall weeds, the wild grass surrounding her like a wall.

Somehow, we got back to the old house. It belonged to Lucas’s family before they moved out of Bulacan to Manila. Now it was a vacation house in a dying place you
wouldn’t wish to have a vacation in. A development area that never got developed. Most of the families had moved out. Now there was nothing but unfinished houses, a playground gone to rust,
and miles and miles of weeds. Sixteen, I thought. Noelle, Lucas’s cousin, was sixteen.

“What happened,” I said, after what felt like hours, my voice falling flat, making it not sound like a question but like a whisper in a dream. We were sitting on the floor by the
coffee table in the dusty living room, Noelle’s blood drying on our clothes.

“I was planning to drive back to Manila,” Lucas said, a faraway look in his eyes. He idly scratched at the edges of his bleeding wounds. “She suddenly stepped out of the grass.
I didn’t brake fast enough.”

The Perezes, I remembered all of a sudden. The house and lot, and now Noelle’s grave, belonged to the Perezes.

“You’re driving back to Manila? But you said I could meet you here.” I remembered the bus ride north, the branches knocking against the windows and whipping past.

“I was planning to stay here for a while,” he said. “Noelle’s parents just made her hitch a ride with me. She was supposed to get on a tricycle to San Agustin to see her
high school friend.”

Lucas disliked Noelle, the way he disliked most teenagers. Also, a year ago, Noelle had caught him smoking marijuana in this house and told his parents. His father was furious. That tattletale,
Lucas told me, his lip cut and his face swollen with bruises. It seemed to me that Lucas would never forgive her.

“Then how the hell did you end up here?” I asked.

“She jumped out of the car.”

“She jumped out of the car?”

Lucas shook his head, once, a quick movement. “Fuck,” he said.

“Lucas—”

“I parked out front and she jumped out of the car and ran away. I drove around looking for her, and she jumped out of the grass and I hit her. It was an
accident,
Tom
.”

We should have called the police, I thought. There were streaks of blood and loose soil on my hands. I am an accomplice, I thought. I wondered how long Lucas stayed in his car after the impact.
He said the accident happened just seconds before I arrived.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said.

“I won’t tell her parents,” Lucas said, not listening. “If they ask, I’ll say she went off to her friend and I haven’t seen her since. They’ll assume
she ran away. It’s happened before.”

That was true.

“Lucas,” I said, “Noelle’s body’s not even covered.”

“Who even goes to this place?”

That was true as well.

“And your car?” I said.

“Shut up!” he said, and buried his face in his hands. As I watched him cry, I thought of my rented unit in Makati. That morning I had fixed my bed, I had done my laundry, I had
checked my notifications on Facebook. I had had bread for breakfast, fish and rice for lunch, some quail eggs with salt on the bus. A normal, boring day, with a small moment of drama and excitement
when Lucas sent me a text message, asking to meet him here. And now I had helped dispose of a body.

“I’m so sorry,” Lucas said, sitting up.

“Are we leaving her out there?” I asked. There were snakes in the grass, and stray dogs prowling around the empty lots.

“I can’t—” He stood up. “I need to lie down, Tom.”

I’m not coming with you, I thought.

“Come with me?” he said.

I stood up, but I placed an extra mattress on the floor and lay awake for hours. I debated with myself, over and over during the course of the night, whether I should go out and retrieve Noelle
from the Perezes, or do nothing. I formulated reasons to support both sides.

The next morning I opened the door and found Noelle standing there, looking impatient.

I DID MANAGE to sleep. I read somewhere that only the guilty sleeps well in jail, knowing he is where he belongs, while the innocent remains awake, thinking of ways to escape
his predicament. Lucas slept well. When I woke up the sun was bright and high in the sky. It was probably eleven when I heard the knock on the door.

I felt something explode behind my eyes; fear, making me dizzy, nailing me to the spot. Nobody goes here, Lucas had said. Was it a relative? A new friend? The blood on my clothes had dried and
made me feel as if I were wearing a newly starched shirt. I shook myself from my paralysis and started to take off the evidence.

The knocking grew louder and more insistent. Should I pretend I wasn’t here?

“Lucas! Open the door!”

I stopped. “Noelle?” I said.

“Is that you, Tom?” Her voice was muffled by the door, but it sounded like her. “Open the door, it’s hot out here.”

This is a dream, I thought. I am dreaming. I opened the door and there was Noelle, in a spotless peach dress, sipping a fruit shake through a straw. Her bangs, damp with sweat, were plastered on
her forehead. She was wearing the same peach dress last night, but now it was as spotless as her skin. No bruises, no blood. No broken bones.

“Oh my God,” I said, but Noelle drowned my voice with her own scream.

“Oh my God, Tom, is that blood?” She was staring at the shirt I didn’t manage to take off. But she was just being dramatic; she didn’t seem to be too jarred by it. She
walked past me into the house, smelling like raspberries and the noonday sun.

Lucas had stepped into the living room at that moment, hugging himself. He saw Noelle and took several steps back.

“What?” Noelle said. “What is wrong with you two?” She looked from Lucas to me and said, “Wow. I sure hope that’s ketchup on your shirts because you look like
you just killed somebody.”

We couldn’t say anything. She sighed in frustration, left the living room, went up the stairs, and closed the door to the guest room with a soft click.

FOR AN INSANE moment I was convinced that the moment she closed the door she would disappear in a puff of smoke, or simply disappear—a doppelganger, a hallucination. But
we heard her click open the door again and enter the shower. We heard her humming.

“Oh my God,” Lucas said. “Oh my God.”

He ran up the stairs, averting his eyes from the door to the bathroom, and entered the master bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. I closed the door.

“Did you see that?” he said. “You saw that, didn’t you?”

“Calm down.”

Lucas shot forward and barricaded the door with a chair from the study table and an ottoman.

“Calm down, Lucas.” I glanced at his elbows. “You haven’t even cleaned your wounds yet.”

“But what is going on?” he wailed. “She wasn’t breathing last night. I checked before we—”

“I don’t know.” I went to the bathroom and retrieved a first-aid kit.

“It can’t be her.”

I sat Lucas down, lifted his arm, and dabbed antiseptic on his wounds. He didn’t even flinch; he was so distraught by what he had seen. I felt as if I were going out of my mind, but
Lucas’s panic had calmed me down, as what usually happened.

“Who else could it be, Lucas?”

I finished with his arms and started cleaning the big gash on his knee.