Ginger Ale

Chapter 4: Rocky

I wake up on Wednesday to find the other bed already empty. Maybe Antonio has an early 7 am class. For two days in a row now. I feel like maybe he's avoiding me.

Ever since our introductions last Monday, I haven't talked to him. I haven't gotten the opportunity to do so. He would leave our room before I even wake up, and would only come back late at night, when I've already turned off the lights and I'm lying on my bed, trying to sleep. Pretending to sleep. When I got back to the dorm yesterday, I spotted him in the lobby, reading something on the lime green sofa. He was wearing rectangular spectacles. Stanley the cat was curled up on his lap. Beside him is a girl reading as well, with headphones on and her feet above the couch. I see Antonio struggling to flip the pages with only one hand, his other one busy stroking Stanley's back.

I should have talked to him then. And I should have talked to him on that first night. I was going to ask him to get dinner or something, but thought against it. He would've found it weird. I'd already ditched Tomas and Miguel for the whole day, so that night I just ate alone.

I wait for my Anthro 10 class at Mind Society's hangout spot in Palma Hall. It's a makeshift corner underneath one of the stairs. The landing sits above us, and when I'm inside I need to lean forward and bend my neck a little; my head would graze the landing if I were to stand straight up. The place is quaintly furnished and decorated with all the things needed to run a small club. In the front, there's a white board on wheels that we use during our meetings. Hanging on the wall is an oversized calendar and a bulletin board, stuffed with multi-colored sticky notes, club announcements, and reminders. Letters in mismatched styles and colors spell out THE MIND'S CRADLE. Throughout the school year, these walls will be covered by event plans, random notes and doodles, and submissions from our applicants. There's a worn-out couch, a coffee table, and two bean bags on either side, all donated by previous club members. It's an open space, but to separate it from the hallway, we've installed potted plants and two-tiered metal lockers we requested from the college admin.

"Hey, Mr. President."

A girl sways into the Cradle, wearing an orange camisole that accentuates her golden brown skin. She plops down one of the bean bags. I'm sitting on the floor, with one leg up and the other tucked underneath.

"Someone had a great summer," I say, flashing her a smile. I know that her brilliant tan is thanks to a combination of trips to local beaches and volunteering with Gawad Kalinga. I leap up and give her a hug. "Hi Mendez, what's up?"

"Well, since you're here..." Mattea Mendez fishes out her iPad and opens up a document. "Here're the plans I came up with for our recruitment this semester. Just wanted to run it by you before I refine it with my team."

I take the iPad and scroll through the file. For a draft, it was already incredibly thorough. Mattea had thought of a semester-long schedule of activities, a rough budget for each event, team assignments, even moodboards for promo posters that she'll hand to Creatives.

I continue scrolling. "Two months early. I expected nothing less from you, Mads."

She punches me softly in the shoulder. "Come on, you know me, Rocky. I can't do it any other way."

Mattea surprised everybody when she didn't run for President last April. Jamie, last year's President, was practically begging her to run. She was diligent, charming, and extremely competent. She was the reason for the Society's almost doubling of members last year. And history speaks for itself. More than half of the Society's past Presidents had all been VPs for Membership, the last three included. Mattea had it in the bag. She could've just announced her bid for the presidency, and we would've given it to her, no contest. But she didn't. Instead, she chose to run for VP for Membership for another term.