"Florante and Larry and The Last Days of Summer"

Chapter 11

My head throbed when I woke the next day. The sun was like a huge microwave outside and it burned to ashes everything in its path. Even the birds knew better than flying around the sea of flames. They were not even in the mood for singing. I rose from bed and undressed my sleep shirt. I looked at myself naked in the mirror. I had no idea who I was looking at. Something had changed. I felt it inside. It was as if my body was a huge factory that has spun out of control. Always manufacturing things overnight. Lots of baby hairs on my face, chin and chest. I shaved it last week but they grew even faster as if they fought for their place in my body.

I tried to pull some weights outside but a stabbing sensation reverberated at the back of my hands. Scabs formed on the surface of the bruised skin and a purplish-red blood coagulated underneath. Frustrated, I dropped the weights on the ground and stamped on it. Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!

"What has that poor thing ever done to you?" Nana appeared from the kitchen still wearing her apron. I wanted to confront her about what happened in dad's room last night. Our family photos. I wanted her to be upfront with me. I wanted her to let me go after all that sadness inside of her and see if I could punch my way in.

"Nothing, I'm just..." I struggled to find the right words. Tears dropped. When words failed, my body had peculiar ways of speaking.

"Oh Florante, come here." She wrapped her arms around me and kissed my forehead. She knew what was wrong. I knew what was wrong. But none of us admitted it. Confessed it. Talked about it. We kept this little ping-pong game of knowing and not knowing. Guess we were both afraid to confront our ghosts so we locked them away in a cold and dark place inside our hearts.

"You've always treated me like a child." My voice broke.

"Oh, dear. You're my sweet little child."

I looked at Nana. Her face radiated like a million suns. She was a strong woman again. No traces of the weak old and defeated woman I saw in dad's room the other night. How'd she do that?

"Are you sure you're going to school today? You look pale! How about you let the fever pass?" It was about the twentieth time nana asked me the same question this morning.

"How about I stop school for good?" I said coughing lightly.

"Are we having this conversation again?" She gave me the look.

"School was your idea." I reminded her.

"I'll talk to your teachers to arrange a special exam until you get better." She put the back of her hand on my forehead sensing my body temperature.

"You promised not treat me like a child anymore." I protested weakly.

"Alright, alright. But don't force it, okay? Call me if anything happens." She kissed me on both cheeks and headed back inside the house reluctantly.

My hands were not in good shape. Bruises galore. Yellow pus like egg yolks lingered underneath the dry scabs. My body felt like it's being pricked by a hundred needles.

"You alright Florante? You look pale." Inquired Ms. Gomez, our adviser.

"I'm fine, ma'am. Just a little dazed." My voice trembled. I was freezing. Glad she did not pursue the topic.

I was the first one to finish the exam. One down, five more to go.
I rose from my seat to submit my papers when the room turned upside-down. Earthquake? I struggled to maintain my equilibrium. Fuck!

"Florante, you're burning!" Exclaimed Ms. Gomez. Our hands touched briefly when I handed her my answer sheet.

"Just a little fever but I'm good." I reasoned.

"No, you're not. Go to the clinic at once and have your temperature checked." She commanded. You could not hide anything from Ms. Gomez. Her senses were too astute. A student farted inside the room once during her class. His name was Peter. Peter was this kind of lumpy kid who thought he's a big shot. An annoying teen who looked like a chihuahua. Small head. Big eyes. Pointy ears. Peter did not want to be stared at. "You wanna fight?" That's his favorite line when you happened to stare at him longer than usual. He always looks for a fight but disappears in sight before it begins. Peter denied the smelly accusation and turn the blame to his seatmate Pancho. Ms. Gomez was never convinced. A tiny sniff in the air was all she needed to send poor Peter yelping in the corner when she smacked his ass off with a bamboo stick she carried along with her. Ms. Gomez was easily a Bloodhound. This breed's sense of smell is a thousand times better than humans. They could smell objects or people miles away. As for Ms. Gomez, that ability came handy in sniffing bullshits too. I stood no chance. I had no other option but heed her advice.

I was gasping when I reached St. Raphael's building where the clinic was. I had to climb the stairs all the way to the fifth floor. I felt the quake again. Magnitude 7.5 on the Richter scale this time. My consciousness was slipping away as I leaned against one of the beams. I desperately struggled to stay on foot. Images blurred and broke into even blurrier duplicate copies. The last thing that came to my senses before I completely blacked out was the smell of watermelon in the air.