Ginger Ale

Chapter 9: Antonio

Even from afar, I can see the beads of sweat forming on Rocky's forehead. The front of his shirt is entirely soaked, and his hair is like a wet mop. I can hear his panting, but on his face remains a light yet permanent smile.

Since this morning, Rocky and I have been getting my things out from storage and lugging them to our room on the fourth floor. Only now that we're slowly dying of exhaustion do I realize just how many things I own. Two XL luggage suitcases packed with clothes, another suitcase for bags and shoes, a hamper with my beddings, a heavy-duty storage box filled with my books and room decor, two smaller boxes for school supplies and paraphernalia, a three-tier book shelf, a mini-fridge, a lamp. And a Sevillana guitar I mostly keep for sentimental value. When I was in Room 112 last year, setting up my space went by like a breeze. But now with four flights of stairs between us and our room, having these much stuff seems like a bad idea.

"You know you don't have to do this," I say to Rocky breathlessly. He's carrying the other end of the storage box, carefully going up the stairs as he walks backwards, facing me. I can see his neck getting red from weariness, and yet he smiles.

"And what, leave you all alone to haul 100 kilos worth of books to the top floor?" He manages to sneak in a chuckle between gasps. "Don't worry, I'm happy to help."

We reach our floor, and together we let out a loud sigh that echoes down the hallway. Rocky's dimples appear and then disappear as he takes big, long breaths. The soft line of his nose glistens with droplets of sweat. I turn away before he catches me looking.

We put the box down on its wheels and push it towards our door. As soon as we get it inside, Rocky and I simultaneously collapse to the floor. Our arms and legs have given up, and we stay there laying beside each other, not moving, laughing through our fatigue. The room is a mess, my suitcases and boxes all around us, left unopened. My wet shirt sticks to my chest, my heart thumps in double-time, and I feel numb below my waist. And yet, I am at peace. I cannot erase the big genuine smile that's forming on my face.

Rocky has his palms crossed to his heart, and he's staring at the ceiling. His elbows are bent and they're touching mine. And in that delicate spot, I feel a flutter. I too focus my gaze on the ceiling above us.

We stay like that for a while, not speuntil we notice that we've synced our breaths together, and we erupt in laughter. He turns his head toward me, and his eyes are soft, a deep hazel brown. A strand of hair is glued to his forehead in sweat, and I catch myself wanting to brush it away.

Rocky moves his mouth, about to say something, when we hear a shuffling coming inside the room.

"That's the last of it," says a tall man in uniform as he carefully places a storage box on the floor near my desk. It's Daniel, one of the house guards. Or, at least I think it's Daniel. Until now, I still cannot tell him apart from David, his twin and fellow Sycamore guard. Everybody loves them around here; they're thoughtful, funny, and fun to be around. But nobody can ever tell who's who without asking. Even their nametags both say D. Araw. The two of them often joke that you need to look for Daniel's birthmark on his right buttock to tell them apart.

Rocky and I hurriedly sit ourselves upright, leaving behind two oddly-shaped sweat stains on the hardwood floor.

"Thanks, Kuya Araw," I say, calling him like how everyone does when they don't know which of the Araws they're talking to. Which is all the time.

"Sure thing, kiddo," he replies. He's a big man, broad-shouldered, and his shirt always seems ready to pop at any moment. He carried one of the suitcases on his shoulders all on his own. Unlike Rocky and I who are dripping wet, Kuya Araw doesn't even seem to have broken a sweat.