Strongwill Shorties

Dating the Preacher's Daughter (Part 1)

Originally posted on Kendii
Kendii Prize 2015, First Place, YA English Category

Quantum physics proposes a possibility of more than one, single conceivable universe of thousands, or even millions of other universes, each moderately or drastically different from the one we live in and know. I still perfectly remember the time I distressed over the idea of a multiverse: I thought of how I was stuck in a world where my love for her couldn't be reciprocated, whilst somewhere out there was a world where the opposite was true.

My vision consisted of asphalt and my bleached, old beige Top-Siders. The door creaked open. Slowly did I raise my gaze till I saw Michael's face framed in blond-dyed curls. His presence ushered away my doubts (or hopes) of having the wrong address. "Felix?"

"Hey," I sighed. I stood still by the doorway, reflecting upon the momentous amount of energy I'd released to reel myself into wearing a decent shirt and pair of jeans-into catching an overflowing jeep along Commonwealth just to arrive late, sticky and tired.

"Glad you came!" Michael's brows shot upwards, his eyes widened, dashed with enlightenment. "Rhema's in the kitchen," he prompted, as if my appearance must be exclusively for her.

Michael was right, though: I only came to see her, perhaps to exchange, if she would allow, a word or two. Parties weren't really my thing, especially if it was a senior post-prom celebration. The only one I had attended so far since I could say, "No; I ain't coming," to Grandma was my first-now-ex-girlfriend's fourteenth bash. She'd asked me to try being sociable for once and I swear I had tried; but I hadn't known a single Wattpad book and couldn't care less about Gilas' lineup for FIBA, so I'd ended up hogging PepsiCo chips and Coke in the kitchen, alone and anxious, while the other boys and girls played painted Twister and Pinoy Henyo.

"Thanks." I watched another boy in denim overalls stagger towards Michael and slip a hand in his jean's back pocket, before finally stepping inside and bringing my gaze somewhere else because the boy started licking Michael's neck.

I swept through the room of hot bodies, probably sporting a heart-shaped sweat stain on my back. The design palette of the apartment was of the dullest shade of every odious color I could think of: taxi cab, desert sand, hot pink, and lime. The lights were dimmed to emanate a yellow haze, thus, adding to the outright repulsiveness of my surroundings. In addition, the air smelled like milk and vinegar, which made me wince and breathe through my mouth. Good thing nobody recognized who I was and stopped me for a chat.

An acoustic song played in the background, cradling the feverish chatter of my batchmates. Lately, I've been waking up alone... But the music was changed to an EDM track, which incited everyone to shriek as they stomped their feet and flailed their arms about, drinks in hand. I was trying not to listen, to push the audible vibrations to the undersurface of my hearing and save myself from nausea and an impending migraine in the left side of my brain.

I found the dirty kitchen and salvation. I closed the door behind me, and the music was repressed to a muffled bass. My head cleared. But just till I heard her raspy voice and distinct accent anew-her glowing and carefree projection, the same one she used to teach the youth department in Vacation Bible School, or to tell me that I should eat more vegetables. I nodded to my side and there she was in flesh and blood, holding a beer mug swamped with pink liquid. She was in her usual plaids and jeans, perched on the round table, raising her flag of holy modesty amidst a group of girls wearing pekpek shorts. She was always the Oxford comma.

Shortly horripilatic sensations birthed in my chest and crawled towards my back and arms. I hadn't seen her for the last two weeks when for some reason I had proved myself to be aversive.

"Why do I scare you?" I'd asked.

"Because you've started to become the sun and moon, and stars, and rain to my welkin."

I didn't push for a more specific answer. We'd already dated a few times though I knew she wouldn't take a relationship with me seriously: in her religion we were unequally yoked.

"Do you hate me now?" she'd asked; and I'd answered:

"I'd only hate you if you left me." This had been my threat, hoping she would never want me to hate her, even though I'd believed that I had no ability to hate her at all.

"Very well then. You'll hate me soon."

Rhema and I locked eyes for such a brief moment I could've mistaken her side gaze for a slide squint if it weren't for her lips curling up ever so slightly at the corners. One of the girls suggested karaoke and the rest were excited. They pushed past me without a greeting. A chicken egg of unpolished quartz slid down my throat when I realized that Rhema had stayed. I stared at her, watched her swig her drink. She then jumped off the table, deposited the cylinder in the sink, and, snickering, slithered her way out through the backdoor.

I followed, my breath on fire, just like on days when she and I would skip classes. Her mind was always on bizarre trips, albeit never mischievous ones, and I always gladly accompanied her. There was a time we visited a village in Cainta, and wallowed away time in the labyrinth garden, naming the roses and carnations on the trellises till the skies turned magenta and tangerine. Once we stayed in the parking lot of Harrison Plaza, and climbed the swiveled trunk of an old pine tree, taking turns in reading our favorite poems aloud. But of all our escapades, my favorite so far was the time we lingered at the school's abandoned building where there was a room filled with dusty, broken or out-of-tune instruments. We sat by the piano, her head on my shoulder, as I played Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 8 in C minor.

When I got outside, Rhema was leaning back on her father's matte black two-door 1979 Lancer. "Hey," she said so casually, arms crossed, as if it hadn't been seventeen days since we'd last talked-so much like the young woman I'd known who was certain of her being part of the Rapture.

The warm air almost choked me. I had done this before: stood beside her, whist, as she tackled my heart on to a hook and swung the fine thread around her thumb. I had known that my trust in her could someday be the death of me. "Hey," I croaked back. My cheeks and nose burned. It was like talking to her for the very first time.

She giggled. Shit. How I missed her laughter-the tranquil notes of a steady shower in September.

"Are you sober?" I joshed.

"Is that a question?"

"Why d'ja leave so early?"

"Don't I always leave parties early?" She shook her head ever so slightly, her shoulder-length virgin hair daintily swaying with her neck's movement. "Are you planning to stay any longer?"

"Is that a question?" I bit my lower lip, feeling the heat reach my ears.

She was still smiling, her pearly whites gleaming in the moonlight-a little kid hunting for and keeping loose changes. "Wanna go for a quick ride?"

"Aren't we asking too many questions?"

"Weren't you the one who said we never could?" She giggled again, now throwing her head back-the head I wanted to cup in my hands and bring to my face-the head that held worlds unknown, unkempt, unwittingly witty-the head that believed I was special and that I deserved to be loved-the head I fell in love with.

"Really?" was my lame comeback.

Rhema dug in her pocket and threw me a ring of keys.

I caught it.