Kit Castille didn't want to be one of the girls who worshiped Matthew Rondillo in college. She doesn't want to be one of the girls in his little black book now. But she gave her heart to Matthew all those years ago. Driven by revenge, she's on a mis...
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Five years ago. College.
I hate this course. I wouldn't have taken it if it wasn't my major. I don't understand why we have to bring our own typewriters to class when the computer lab is just across the hall. This is Journalism 211 and it's as boring as hell.
I hate this course. If not for the cute professor in very tight pants, I would have sat all the way at the back so I can sneak a quick snooze.
"Psst, Kit, wake up," my seatmate, Hazel, nudges me. "Sir Magic Pants is here."
I sit up straight, just in time for Sir Magic Pants to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Today, of all days, he is wearing a tight-fitting pair of khakis that hugs his crotch and buttocks a little too well. His face glistens with sweat but his dark blue, long-sleeved shirt remains free of sweat rings.
"Sorry I'm late," he says. "I came straight from a coverage in Malacañang."
He spends the next two minutes wiping his face with his white cotton handkerchief, probably monogrammed with CK, his initials, as we set up our personal typewriters. I wonder how some people can still look fresh after spending 30 minutes under the midday sun in Manila.
Sir Magic Pants is obviously one of those lucky people who are immune to the nasty pollution of this third world country. It's not fair.
"Hazel," he says. "You're up."
The light goes out and Hazel begins her presentation on the inverted pyramid style of writing. Sir Magic Pants decides to stand on the podium directly in front of where I am slouching. I spend the next ten minutes lusting after him because, well, what else can I do to spend time?
I have obviously taken the wrong course the moment I realized there are only three kinds of guys you meet in a journalism class – the gays (they're fabulous, I like them), the singles (they have every reason to be) and the straight men (most of whom are taken, sorry).
There are no athletes, no gorgeous nerds, no jocks and no superstars. How will I manage to find a boyfriend in this building filled with boys whose cat eyeliners are fiercer than mine?
Sir Magic Pants refused to sit through Hazel's entire presentation. He begins shifting his weight from one leg to another, giving the class a nice on stage performance of le bulge.
The moment of bliss gets interrupted by the flash of light. When my eyes finally adjusted, I hear the faint collective gasp coming from the mouth of every single girl in class.
"Look who finally decides to join the class," Sir Magic Pants is saying now. "This is Matthew Rondillo, a transfer from Bio."
Of course, everyone knows him. He's not just a new transfer, but the transfer from Bio. He's not just a recent member of the Journalism Society, but he's the hot new editor of the university paper.
Matthew is also the president of the literary club whose membership is so elusive that you have to be ready to kill someone if you want to join. Not everyone manages to do so, but everyone gets to buy the ridiculously expensive collection of poems they publish every semester. Including me.
