The Girl Who Never Acts Like One

Chapter Four: Hidden Identity

CHAPTER FOUR

After hours of controlling her temper and embarrassment down, going home via carpool, even with her closest neighbor friend, Sam, as her carpool mate, still seemed like a bad idea. Awhile ago, she even purposely ignored Matt and Rogem to let them stay away from her, plus the 100% chance of reliving that damn…whatever issue. But speaking of which...

“Oh, I think I’m having a crush on him. He’s mooore haaandsooome in personal,” Sam said out loud. And for the first time, Rhainne wanted to strangle her.

Pissed, she shouted in irritation, causing everyone to stare at her, even the annoying, fat, talkative 1st grade kid who was eating her Cornetto messily, her Yaya trying her best to clean all the damn mess up.

“Could you just shut up?! Why the hell are you all crazy about him?!,” Rhainne demanded just as their van halted to a stop infront of their house’s driveway.

“Rhainne,” Kuya Marvin, the carpool conductor who was already outside, hands propped by the now open sliding door, called, “Time to come down.”

Rhainne glared at him, teeth gritted.

“What happened, Ate Rhainne? You are usually jolly—”

“Check the internet once you’ll reach home. I’m sure it’ll be damn in there!,” she shouted at Sam before hopping unto the ground outside. And remembered something. Kuya Marvin was about to slide the van’s door shut again, so she flashed him  a mania-cish grin first, before popping her head inside, facing Sam once more, “You liked Ian Lopez in facebook, didn’t you?!”

“Yes, but I thought you hate talking about him—?!”

Rhainne slid the door shut. End of conversation.

Shanelle Cruz’s mind is bombarded by one over the other hard-to-solve problems that she thoroughly forgot about the mail given to her by the young mailman who she met around 10 AM this morning, down the neighborhood’s street when she just arrived from her music shop, the business she ran for about a decade already. She forgot to check that mail, though she knew it was addressed to her from Mrs. Cabusas, Sam’s mother. 

She sighed, placing the green notebook she’s scanning at, a list of debts written on it, back on the table. Right now, by the overlooking window in the living room, enjoying the sunset, she reflected several things, before, and now. And as she did, her eyes accidentally caught sight of the years-of-untouched gray spiralled notebook lying peacefully beside her green one. Its pages are yellow due to age, and just caressing it again with her palms, relive her youthful memories, both happy and sad. She opened it, wanting to read it again, but then out fell a necklace, its pendant, a beautiful raindrop, which glistened beautifully once stroked by the sunlight. And before she knew it, out came her tears.

Then there came a knock on the door. Quickly, she hid her notebooks and necklace back to her personal box, wiping her tears away, putting on her best known acting skills. Nervously, she wiped her hands at her dress’ sides before opening the door, her now 18-year-old daughter— whose waist-length wavy hair was tied into its usual messy ponytail, its strands more tangled than ever—standing there, her personality, her father’s, her face, more of hers.

“How’s school?,” she, the mother asked. 

Her daughter’s—Rhainne’s—jaw flexed to the question, angrier than ever as the fact of being a new student hit her back.

“Well, you want me to say ‘it’s okay’, right?”

And before the mother could even reply, the rash daughter already swept past her, just right after grabbing her hand and ‘blessed’ (Filipino’s act of respect).