On an early Saturday morning, Caleb didn't care if his neighbors were still asleep. The more important fact was that he couldn't sleep. There must be something else he could do besides stalking Franco De Leon on Youtube.
It was like a drug, watching him. When Caleb got home last night, he had immediately clicked on clip after clip of Franco's performances, absorbing all his details. Franco was clearly a master of vocal gymnastics, his voice tumbling, quivering, soaring then swooping strategically in different parts of the poem. But voice and words weren't Franco's only instruments; he used his whole body to convey emotions. He ran his fingers through his hair a year ago when it was longish, or through his scalp now that it was shorn. His face spilled a multitude of feelings—joy, frustration, giddiness, and defeat, his eyes constantly appealing to an unseen someone that seemed to be standing right in front him.
By the time Caleb had combed through a year's worth of performances, it was exactly 3 AM, the witching hour. He was bewitched, Caleb thought, as he forced himself to shut down the computer before diving into the sheets.
Three hours later, he was wide awake. After a quick shower, he'd gone downstairs to grab breakfast before settling in front of the upright piano he'd inherited from his grandmother. Their living room was so small, the instrument ate up most of its space.
He started playing, instantly filling all corners of their tiny home with music. Playing was his way of touching base with reality. His fingers, firm and solid, felt the smooth surface of the keyboard, pressing them either gently or forcefully to coax out melodies. He played the songs one after the other—classical, pop, a church song, even that Mozart piece that he had played at his practical exam. He needed to be sane again, to keep himself from spiraling down a tunnel of useless infatuation.
A tap on his shoulder rudely cut off Mozart's masterpiece. Caleb turned to see his mom, her shrewd eyes glinting behind thick lenses. "What time did you get in last night?"
Without batting an eyelash, he replied, "Before twelve."
She nodded, satisfied. "Okay. I didn't hear you come in. I fell asleep right away."
He knew that already because she hadn't badgered him with Where are you? text messages last night. Midnight was his set-in-stone curfew, but after guessing that she hadn't been waiting up for him, he went home at a little before two in the morning.
His mom slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "That new teller couldn't balance her transactions so I had to stay at the bank until dinnertime so I could help her trace the missing five pesos on the balance sheet. We had to go through all the debits and credits and anyway . . ." She sighed, and gave herself a shake. "I'm going to a church meeting, and the grocery after. You need anything?"
Caleb shook his head. "What's the agenda this morning? New curtains for the adoration chapel?" He bit back a smile. "A heated debate about the lectors' schedule?"
His mom's mouth stretched into a thin line. "This is no laughing matter, Caleb. If more young people like you volunteered to be lectors, we'd easily fill up the slots." She eyed him severely. "Father Mon has been asking me about you. He's wondering why you haven't been joining church activities."
Caleb averted his gaze, eyes landing on a framed photo above the sofa. Staring back at him was his seven-year-old self taken before his first communion. In his spotless white polo shirt and his palms pressed against each other, he looked like a priest in training.
"You know how school keeps me busy, ma."
"But you can always make time for church." His mom's voice turned wistful. "I miss your sakristan and choir days."
