Keyholes To Flowerage

XI. Keyholes to Flowerage

XI. Keyholes to Flowerage

I COULDN'T elucidate this feeling.

How could something be empty and feel empty straightaway? From the fuel tank of a van at the gas station waiting for a refill, to the crumpled space on the edge of my greentea bed, to the drank Coca-cola bottle sitting next to the bullet journal on my desk and to something inexplicable within my rib cage—emptiness, at certain times, embraced my vocabulary and facial expressions that sent off stares alone to people who attempted to give me a talk.

We are scheduled to document today. I stuffed some necessary things in my sling bag, and packed the paper sunlight in to constantly tap my brain to never rot in times of meeting new eyes and souls. Dreading huge vehicles, with my legs wobbling, I tarried next to the streetlight. Many vehicles passing by, I couldn't cross the road—I just couldn't.  As though intentional, a car halted its engine to talk to me with sealed doors.

"You look stupid standing there," Gilman shot from the hips, pressing the window shield slide down.

Carley swung the door open, moved aside, and gestured me to climb in. "He means to say hop in."

"Ahm, hi," I greeted, beaming at Gilman via rearview mirror.

Arching a brown in return from him, my head bowed in embarrassment. I thought we were now friends, he really made it clear we'd never become close to him. I glanced up at a chuckle of him through the rearview mirror, he was struggling to stop his smile from stretching ear to ear.

"Since when did you two become friends?" Carley wondered, pinching her cheeks with her point fingers.

Gilman hastened to hold his drink, then guffawed. "You're the only one who's not my friend here."

"As if I'm wishing for that to happen," she refuted. "But hey, now you're swallowing all that you told us, huh?"

"So noisy," the latter mumbled. After the few talks, we stopped by the gas station for a refill. We only have an hour. Ruel invited us to their yearly culminating activity and school festival wherein he was tasked to be the room's representative to a speech competition.

"Done?" asked Gilman, handing a cash to the gasoline boy. He made good use of his time and flew the car in an instant to where we're currently heading.

DESCENDING TO the gateway of the State University where Ruel goes to, there were leaves from unidentified trees taken by the wind, beady stones scattered around the square that tickle layer-less feet on the ground, and booths of different themes to where numbers of students entertained themselves around.

"My gosh," Gilman started as he kicked a tiny stone dull. "Everything's in a complete mess."

Not anxious to grow another circle fight, Carley clicked her tongue. "I don't know what kind of eyes do you have, but I'm hella sure you have a speck, or a tear. Or whatever that makes this ugly to your sight but," she paused and went to approach the nearest booth. A photo-booth. "No words can seem to fit the fun that hides here. At least try to give this a whirl!"

"Girl, you can only find real fun in clubs." His phone brightened his face, he gave it a read and glanced at us afterwards. "Ruel says he's in the gym. You go find him."

"And you?" Carley arched her brow high.

"Staying here. What do you expect?" He whistled when a group of gorgeous girls passed by us.

She squalled as if she couldn't withstand the guy any longer, "Marceline."

However, before I could even utter a single word, Gilman already stepped in front to lead us and forced a fond smile. "I say let's go."

By the time we landed on the gymnasium, everybody seemed like they were accountable to man the division of labors. Cooperation remote-d their bodies to craft, which is always commendable. Balloons, monoblocs, backdrops, small buckets of paints, curtains and toolboxes were soaking in silence as they filled the vacant spaces of gymnasium.

With a plain white shirt, beads of sweat dripping off his chin, Ruel approached us with a smile. "Hey, guys," he queued speaking to wipe the sweats off with his palms. "I can't accommodate you for now, we're all so busy."

"It's all right," I assured, shyly handing him my hanky.

"Thanks, Marceline." He folded it into a small form and carefully wiped his forehead. "Since I can't really abandon my batch mates here alone, I hope you can have fun with the booths outside."

"I was planning to, actually." Carley crossed her arms against her long sleeve top. "But we have a KJ here."

"I can hear you, Nanny McPhee." Gilman took offense.

She rolled her eyes. "The KJ really knows of his nouns."

They were trailed off when someone called Ruel, a tattooed man sat cross-legged, with his pencil rested behind his right ear, I could tell art is part of his identity.

"Man, do you know someone who paints?" he asked.

Ruel stuffed my hanky into his pockets. "I don't, JC. Only those who draw but bad in colors so. Why, is there a problem?"

JC guy coughed into his arm. "Not really a problem, but I think the backdrop will look aesthetic with colors. It's so plain, I swear."

"Ahm, I paint." They looked at me, amazed and relieved.

Without further asking, JC clapped his hands to get rid of dirt and lifted the buckets of paint. I helped him carry the rest. "Please, follow me there."

Walking not too far away from them, I heard Carley volunteer to sort the balloons by colors and sizes.

"Sure, that will be a big help," Ruel rewardingly said. I also heard him ask Gilman if he wanted to help as well.

"No way. I'll just sit here and wish for an early ending of these all so I'd be able to go home," he responded nonchalantly.