The Guitar Man

Chapter One - Strike Three! (1 of 3)

Chapter One (1 of 3)

Strike Three!

June 7, 1999, Monday, 7:01 a.m.

I kiss my mom hurriedly as she pulls over in front of the school gate. I am out of the car as quick as a lightning, with my mom’s voice trailing after me, “Don’t forget to pick your sisters up at three!”

I wave my hand to let her know I got her message and run along with other students on a serious marathon to get through the gate. A crowd of teenagers like me gather at a standstill in the space between the gate and the quadrangle, which the students call “the purgatory”.

I can barely see the quadrangle as I am still outside the gate milling with more and more students rushing to the entry, who are as determined as I am to get to the finish line. I know what’s causing the holdup and my day ahead looks ominous.

A hymn crackles in the speakers, at first it sounds jaded then grows livelier as if to wake everyone up. We stand alert, placing our right hand over our chests, as the national anthem plays. A thousand or so high school students sing in unison, pledging our love for the country.

When the last note falls into oblivion, the Patriotic Oath is immediately recited. The handful of us moves in to the purgatory. We are welcomed by the warden, with her black-pencilled stare, in the form of the strict third year teacher, “Ms Terror”. For a minute, I am relieved to be on my senior year. Surviving Ms Terror last year is definitely an achievement.

  As I move in to the formation, which obviously divides us by level, from freshmen to senior, a lanky boy run past me, squeezing between me and another girl in a bright orange pony tail. What a jerk! But all I manage to say is an irritated “ugh!”

He looks at me briefly, unapologetic. He makes his way in front of our line, guitar case looming large on his back, and chats with another senior as if nothing ever happened.

That thin airhead, sun-baked chinito, with out of bed hairstyle, has just jostled me! He did not even say sorry!

 “First year!” Ms Terror yells, silencing and agitating us at the same time, a skill she has perfected for 15 years. “You may proceed to the quadrangle and join your group. Your tardiness will be forgiven today, on your first day. I don’t want to see anyone of you back here tomorrow. Am I clear?”

The three frightened freshmen mumble their agreement. Off they go, free from the purgatory and on to the busy and ecstatic quadrangle, which for the moment seems a little like heaven.

“As for you old chums, you never learn your lesson,” she points her fan in the chest of a sophomore boy with parted hair in the middle, like delivering a stake to his heart. For a moment the boy stand frozen, holding his breath. As Ms Terror pace to the juniors, he let out a too audible sigh. I laugh with the crowd.

Ms Terror grabs the ID card of the junior in the bright orange pony tail. “Ms Abayan,” she sneers thoughtfully, “will you please share with us what is so comical about our routine?”

She knows better than to tell the truth. “Nothing, Ms Caballo. I’m sorry,” she mutters, her cheeks turning red.

“Well, you are a junior. We’ll have a lot of time to talk about it,” Ms Terror says, but not sounding defeated.

I can feel the seniors share my mischievous smile. We learned last year that her surname translates to “horse”; apparently, Terror is just her middle name. I know it’s not proper but this little thought crossing in the seniors’ brain waves afford us a little amount of time to relax from Ms Terror’s scare tactics.