Every Girl's Guide to Boys (2 page)

Nathan looks at
me. “Chrissy. What are you doing?”

The answer I give him
is, “Why, what’s weird about what I’m doing?” Which technically isn’t an answer
because it’s also a question. We are driving to Flaming Wings in Katipunan for
lunch, and for the last five minutes, I have been leaning forward in the
passenger seat, resting my hands on the dashboard and inspecting my
newly-purple-polished fingernails. The real answer, of course, is “Trying to
get you to notice my fresh manicure and ask for a closer look and therefore
hold my hand, you dimwit.” I’m not really sure why I’m doing this now. Maybe
because the last time I saw him was during our semi-disastrous movie date, when
his hand was on the armrest for the entire two hours and my palms were gross
and sweaty and I panicked because I knew he wanted to hold hands for the first
time. I dealt with the situation by crossing my arms tightly over my chest so
he wouldn’t have access to my hands. I have no idea what the movie was about,
or why he keeps asking me out despite my mixed signals. I just know I have to
make it up to him somehow, unless I want him to give up and go ninja (i.e.,
disappear without a trace) on me.

“Can you
please
put your seatbelt back
on?” he says, sounding irritated and PMS-y.

“Fine,” I sniff. “
Sungit mo
naman
.”
I lean back, snap on my seatbelt, take out my phone, and pretend to be texting.
For all he knows, I
might be texting another guy and saying, “I’m so glad you don’t make me wear a
stupid seatbelt. And for that, you totally win over this idiot Nathan.” I
rearrange my face into what I hope could pass for a
kilig
,
texting-with-a-cute-boy expression. At one point, I even giggle in fake
delight. He grunts and rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

Hold up—in case
you start wondering why I’m even out on a date with this guy, let me make it
clear that this isn’t like Nathan at all. This irritable, PMS-y person beside
me is not Nathan, or at least not the Nathan I know. Because the Nathan I know
defies the broody, tortured artist stereotype by being cheerful and
good-natured and impossibly optimistic. The Nathan I know caught my attention
by making the school’s cranky canteen lady laugh with a really stupid joke, way
back in freshman year. I was picking up a dozen packed lunches for a Student Council
meeting, and she was giving me this lecture on not expecting people to wait on
me hand and foot, all because I had asked her (very politely, mind you) for
some string to tie the styrofoam containers with. I was explaining to her that
I needed it to carry everything at once, when someone behind me piped in, “
Manang
, I have a joke for
you.
Sinong
banda ang
palaging nanghihingi ng
string?” Surprisingly, the cranky canteen lady shrugged and
said, “
Ewan ko
.
Sino
?” He cleared his throat for emphasis and said, “
Eh ‘di
Metallica!
May tali ka
? Hahaha!” There was
eerie silence for about twenty seconds, and I was deathly afraid she would
throw her cash register at us. I was about to run for cover when she laughed
and told him, “
Oo iho, meron. Sandali lang ha
.” Before I knew it,
she was handing him an entire roll of string, and he was giving it to me, and I
was blushing and saying thanks, and he was introducing himself and shaking my
hand. And yeah, I’ve had an enormous crush on him since.

The Nathan I know is
sweet and caring and one of the most patient guys I have ever met. The Nathan I
know asked me out on our first date by leaving a note attached to a single red
rose in my locker—a cheesy and outdated gesture, but a sweet one
nonetheless. The Nathan I know would never pull into the parking lot, get out
of the car, slam the door behind him, and stand there scowling in the midday
sun, waiting for me to open my own door.

I run to catch up with
him and ask, “Who are you and what have you done to my friend?” I say “friend”
because I don’t know what else to call him—we’re not officially together,
although we have been dating (exclusively, I think, although we never agreed on
that either) for almost six months. Besides, we’ve been friends since that
Metallica incident in freshman year, and have gotten closer while working
together for the Student Council, which means our platonic relationship trumps
our sort-of-romantic one in terms of longevity.
Who are you and what have you
done to my potential boyfriend
would have been presumptuous, and
Who are you
and what have you done to the guy I’m dating
would have been, I don’t know,
complicated. But the moment I say “friend,” I realize what a huge mistake I
have made, as proven by the fact that he just shakes his head sadly, pulls out
a chair for me, and sits down.

Okay,
seriously, what is going on here? The
sungit
scowling,
I can take, or at least ignore—it can even be amusing because it is so
out of character. But this disappointed silence, like I am a pre-schooler who
has done something wrong, is strange and unsettling and, as far as I know,
completely uncalled for. Because I haven’t done anything wrong, except for that
holding hands incident, and I really don’t see how that can amount to this much
fuss. I feel like I am five years old again, except when I was five and in
trouble, I was always told exactly what I was in trouble for before being
subjected to disappointed silences.

But today, the
disappointed silence stretches on until our lunch arrives, until he asks for
the bill, until we leave the restaurant, until we get back in the car, until he
drives me home. And now I am sitting in front of my computer, staring blankly
at the monitor,
gathering my confused
thoughts into one big blob of
disbelief.

On my computer screen,
there are three new comments for the latest post on my online advice column.
Remember what I was telling you before, that it was a shame to let my amazing
insight go to waste? Well, I might as well use it to make the world a better
place—and maybe stir up some drama in my life through other people’s
problems so that the hypothetical hotshot director can give me a happy ending.
This online advice column, which I put up three months ago, is my answer. Let
me explain how it works. Readers e-mail me their problems about school, family,
friends, love, etc. As expected, most of the problems that come in are
love-related, which is fine because they make way for some really interesting
discussions. I choose one problem every week, write a lengthy response full of
wise advice, put it up online, and allow the other readers to react. Comments
don’t require approval because sometimes it takes me a couple of days to check
my mail and I want everyone to be able to post their thoughts right away;
besides, the site visitors are a tame, well-behaved bunch—no bashing or
inappropriate remarks, and everyone seems to want to help everyone else. In
school, people would come up to me to say thank you, or tell me what a
wonderful idea the site was. It made me happy, the fact that I was making new
friends and maybe even building a small fanbase, all because of my ability to
solve a few problems here and there. In a nutshell, the way it works is
actually pretty simple. No, scratch that, it’s
supposed
to be pretty simple.

A week after the birth
of my online baby, someone who called himself “N” started leaving messages
like, “Your readers are lucky to have you,” and “You are extraordinary.” Soon,
the messages turned to, “You make my day a little bit brighter every time I
visit this site,” and “If I admit to being one of your many secret admirers,
does that still make me a ‘secret’ admirer? ;-)” To that last message, I
replied with a flirty, “I think I have an idea who you are, N. You make my days
brighter too. :-) But just for fun, let’s keep pretending your identity is yet
to be revealed. Your ‘secret’ is safe with me.” I was glad Nathan was being
supportive of this little venture, although every time I’d bring it up, he’d
deny having anything to do with it. “But if you’re not N, then doesn’t this
make you the least bit jealous?” I’d ask playfully. He’d grin and say, “No,
because I know at least five guys in school who have a thing for you, but I
also happen to know that you only have eyes for me.” And then I’d punch him in
the shoulder and we’d laugh about it and move on to another topic.

The three latest
comments are all from “N,” and all in response to one post:

July 14, 2008

Dear Chrissy,

      
My best
friend and I have always been attracted to each other. We’ve never said this
out loud, but I know for a fact that we are definitely more than friends. We go
out on “dates” all the time, we text and YM every day, and we spend our
weekends hanging out with each other’s families. The problem is, we’ve been in
this in-between, are-we-or-are-we-not-a-couple stage for quite a while now,
almost a year. Sometimes I try hinting that I want us to make things official,
but I don’t want to be the one to spell it out for him. I’m starting to get
confused. Why isn’t he making a move? I’ve been giving him all the right
signals. Does this mean he’s not really interested?

Sincerely,

Love Stuck

Dear Love
Stuck,

      
One year is
a long time to be in that stage. Based on experience, guys our age are not
known for their patience, which means if they really want to be with you,
they’d want to be with you as soon as possible. Guys our age will wait only
because they want to get to know you better, but seeing as you two are already
best friends, I don’t see why this should be necessary. And if you go out on
“dates,” text and YM each other every day, and spend weekends with each other’s
families, then you are definitely giving him all the right signals. He sounds
like he’s interested in you too, yes, but it also sounds like he is not yet
willing to get into a relationship with you. This strikes me as a bit unfair,
especially since at this point, YOU are ready for a relationship. You don’t
deserve to be kept waiting, Love Stuck. Maintain your friendship with him
(because I’m not saying he’s a bad person), but maybe you should find someone
who wants to be with you now, not later.

Love,

Chrissy

3 new
comments:

July 14, 2008,
9:08 pm

      
I agree.
Nobody deserves to be at the losing end of the in-between stage. Nobody.
Especially not you, Chrissy. —N.

July 14, 2008,
9:25 pm

      
Okay, I’m
sorry for that comment a few minutes ago. I hope you understand; I mean no
harm. I would never want to cause trouble for you. But I really think you
deserve to be happy, and I think you deserve so much more than what you are
being given now: clichéd gestures and six months of waiting. This will sound
pushy and arrogant, and you will probably tell me to take a crash course in
subtlety, but I know somebody who wants to be with you now, not later—me.
And based on experience (that lovely conversation we had over dinner the other
night, in fact), I think you may want the same thing too. —N.

July 14, 2008,
9:32 pm

      
Last post
for today, I promise: Yes, Chrissy, I’m back for good. And I’m not Nathan.
—Nico

Nico. Nico is the
secret admirer. Not Nathan. I think I finally have an idea what I’m in trouble
for, and for once in my life, I’m not sure I want to know.

What I’m sure of is
that this is turning out to be a really bad idea. Because the moment when I
actually decided to do something about my lack of problems was the moment when
all the REAL problems started pouring into my supposedly boring existence. And
the moral of this story (which for novelty’s sake shall be provided to you
before I even begin telling the story; awesome, I know), is that when you are
lucky enough not to have any problems, you should actually also be smart enough
to keep it that way. Don’t create problems just because you have nothing better
to do with your life—do the world a favor and go sign up to save the
dolphins, or plant a tree in your backyard, or take up cross-stitching or
something.
In other words, don’t go looking for trouble. Because you won’t
find it—but it sure as hell will slowly, sneakily come to get your sorry
little ass.

  
Rule number 3:

   
Know their strengths

and weaknesses.