Blast From Two Pasts

Chapter 2: Basti and His White Handkerchief

He was known then as Basti. He was fifteen; I was thirteen. A transferee from a school for rich kids, I heard students whisper in hushed voices that his father, a wealthy businessman, left them for another woman and without a peso to their name. I found it hard to believe they were broke. Our school, St. Therese Academy, was a private institution ran by nuns. My parents could barely afford the steep tuition and had to work many jobs just so I could keep studying here.

As the new kid in school, all eyes were obviously on him. Add the fact that he was the best-looking human being my thirteen-year-old self had ever laid eyes on. He was always mistaken for a foreigner because of his brown eyes and fair, glowing skin. Girls were forever on his case, possibly because that dark, wavy hair kept bouncing around as he played superb basketball in the afternoons.

Plain freshman having a crush on heavenly junior was the norm but this was not just any crush. I was deeply and utterly in awe. I knew I had no chance of getting close to him, though. He easily made it to the popular clique, and there was absolutely no way he’d notice a freshman like me. So I admired him from afar, I did. I knew all the cliché tricks in the book: using the restroom two floors up so I could walk past his classroom and catch a glimpse of him, heading to the gym to watch basketball practice when I found out he made it to the squad, those things. As a sign of my undying devotion, I filled my notebooks with “Cara loves Basti” doodles complete with hearts and flowers.

But lady luck would smile down on me one sunny morning and turn what could’ve been the most embarrassing moment of my young life into an unforgettable encounter that would be etched in my memory.

***

It was our school intramuralsand I was playing stealing bases with friends at the outdoor volleyball court. Five of my teammates were already held “prisoners” by the rival team and we were losing. They were held “captive” at the other side of the pole where volleyball nets were tied. I tried to tag more “prisoners” to make the game even, but I realized none of my teammates were as intent on winning as me! I ran to the side where there were few opponents and quickly circled their base to tag my teammates. I “saved” them!

Too bad for me the boy assigned to guard my captive teammates was a sore loser. He couldn’t accept that a frail-looking freshman got past his burly self. He accused me of cheating as he grabbed the collar of my uniform and pushed me so hard that I scraped my knees when I hit the pavement.

Cara, you’re a strong girl, I told myself as I tried to get up. Whatever you do, don’t cry!

Too late. Tears gushed down my cheeks as I saw my knees scraped and bleeding. How dare you accuse me of cheating, I shouted as I got up and hobbled towards him. But the burly, ugly boy didn’t hear me; he was too busy screaming his head off and arguing with my teammates. Suddenly, he turned his attention to me and pushed me again! His anger was red-hot and we could all see it in his burning eyes. I was just as mad but was too hurt to do anything more than growl in protest. My teammates, on the other hand, got scared and took to consoling me.

Then, it happened. A taller, athletic student made his way to the already swelling crowd of young onlookers. My hero shoved the bully and screamed at him to get lost. The bully snarled back and retaliated with a hard push. But the new boy was quicker, more agile. He swung his torso to avoid the burly boy’s charging arms and instead swung his right fist, which landed squarely on the bully’s nose. Everyone gasped as Burly Boy’s butt hit the ground, his nose all bloodied.

Mortified Bully mewled like a wounded cat and staggered into nothingness.

“Are you okay?” the hero crouched down and asked me, concern dripping from his creamy voice.

It was Basti. Cara now really loves Basti.

I just sat there with my bloodied knees and galloping heart, while my teammates thanked him profusely. The guys shook his hand; the girls cooed in high-pitched voices. And I was on the pavement, staring at him like a moron, too shocked to do anything else.

He didn’t wait for me to respond and instead pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. He started dabbing my wounds with the clean piece of cloth. All that time, I was motionless, unable to breathe freely and couldn’t believe my good fortune.

A nun rushed in a few moments later, accompanying the bully and a school nurse. Ugly Boy had cotton balls up his nostrils, and was pointing at Basti as the one who punched him. Instead of defending Basti, I kept quiet. It wasn’t my finest hour.

In the end, the bully and I were taken to the clinic for treatment. Much later, we—Ugly Boy, myself and Basti—were summoned to the principal’s office and asked to explain what happened. By then I was still too embarrassed and dumbfounded to say anything in Basti’s defense. What happened next couldn’t have been more horrible: the principal called our parents and suspended Ugly Boy—and Basti. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow my thirteen-year-old self. How could I have let my love down like that?

I never had a chance to thank Basti for coming to my rescue and apologize for my cowardice. I also never got to return his white handkerchief. I kept it inside my shoebox of mementos, which was now gathering dust in our attic.