Date: Sat, 24 May 2003 11:53:10 +0800 (CST)
From: Nelz Agustin <isaw@nelz.org>
Subject: The Vow Part 3

THE VOW
Part 3 of 3
by Nelz Agustin

***********

"The Vow" is part of an original unpublished novel I wrote called
STARS. You can read it at < http://www.nelz.org/stars/ >. To read my other
writings, please visit www.nelz.org. For comments or other pertinent
information, please e-mail me at isaw@nelz.org. Your input and feedback are
very much appreciated. Thanks for your time! -- Nelz

***********


The months flew fast, and before we knew it, we were on the verge of
graduation. There was an intense sort of panic in the air as the seniors
struggled to finish their papers before finals week. Allen Ginsberg's
HOWL-although a magnificent piece of beat poetry-was very difficult to
critique. Paul provided his own insights, but he'd rather pull me off
somewhere and make love. Our lustful activities were no longer confined to
the library. We did it under the school bleachers when the rest of the
soccer varsity team had already gone home. We did it in the shower room,
and sometimes we'd even lock the boy's toilet and do it there. He seemed
tireless. He could come three or four times, and my jaws were already
sore. At one point, he asked me if I could take his cock in my ass. I was
not sure, but I was also powerless to refuse him. He got intense when he
started ploughing me. It was painful at first, but seeing his strong, hard
body pumping me got me over the edge. I've never been
  so hedonistic in my life!

We submitted our paper to Ms Calderon at the end of the grading period. She
had heartily approved what we wrote, but when we received our final grades
before graduation, we were shocked. I got the highest mark in English, but
Paul barely passed. We went together to Ms Calderon's office to demand an
explanation.

"Your paper, Mr Morales and Mr de Vera," she began, fixing her steely gaze
on us, "is very exceptional and insightful. The way you critiqued
Ginsberg's Howl is something that a college student had never even thought
to tackle."

We waited as she paused, hardly breathing. She looked at Paul first, then
to me, then back to him.

"Though it is only fair that both of you should share the same grade," she
continued, her voice dry as parchment, "I really do not think that Mr
Morales had any hand in writing the paper."

"But Ms Calderon!" I protested before Paul could speak. "It was Paul who
provided me his insights about Ginsberg's poetry! You remember what he did
last year!"

"Mr de Vera," Ms Calderon snapped. "I know how you write."

"But-" Paul's face was pale.

"You, Mr de Vera, can leave," she said dismissively. "Mr Morales, you'd
have to prove to me you can also write as well as you think! I am giving
you until Friday to hand over an essay on Ginsberg. Then perhaps," she
paused, raising an eyebrow at me, "we shall reconsider your final grade."

Her tone was definite and final, and we had no choice but to shuffle our
way out of her office. Paul's face looked clouded. I tried holding him, but
he moved away from me.

"Hey come on!" I said, reaching for him again. "It's not my fault! I didn't
expect her to give us this!"

Paul shot me a wounded look.

"Don't look at me like that," I retorted. "Look, I can even help you with
that essay!"

Paul just looked at me before turning his back and walking away.

"I'd like to be alone for a while," he said.

"Paul!"

But he kept walking, not looking back, leaving me standing in the middle of
the quadrangle.


The following week, senior class rehearsed their graduation rites in our
church. While everyone was chattering excitedly, Paul just sat beside me,
looking sullen.

"Did you submit your essay?" I asked him softly.

Paul just shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I don't write, remember?" he snapped.

I fell quiet. I felt that he was not as boisterous as before. He barely
talked to me, keeping mostly to himself, as if he had withdrawn from me. I
tried talking to him, but he just shot me that wounded look. I gave up
trying. I felt uneasy, however. He had this look in his eyes that he'd be
liable to pull an outrageous stunt.

The valedictorian, salutatorian and the honorable mentions were announced
before graduation night. It came as no surprise that I got a medal in
English. I also learned that Paul just barely passed his subjects. I
suddenly realized that he needed English to pull everything up, but of
course, Ms Calderon had not been cooperative. He took to sulking during our
rehearsals, refusing to sing the mass songs. The feeling of unease was
prickling my back. I was anxious at what he might do during graduation
night.

The rehearsals went fine, until we were all prepared to march one evening
in April for our high school graduation. We were in our barongs, and
everyone looked neat and tidy. Mother was with me, looking proud. I saw
that Paul was alone-it appeared that his parents did not come with him. He
was just sitting pensively in one of the back pews. I wanted to approach
him, but something inside told me not to. It was like walking on eggshells
around a seemingly silent and crouching tiger.

Verdi's AIDA filled the air, signalling the start of the graduation rites,
and everyone lined up in the dying afternoon sun to march in all their
pompous glory inside the church. While there was an electirfying excitement
in the air as proud parents watched their kids in the graduation march, I
felt my feeling of unease heightened as ever. Even as we took our seats for
the High Mass to begin, I felt my whole body perched on anxiety-as if
expecting something out of the ordinary to suddenly happen. Not that Paul
was capable of doing the most unexpected things.

The High Mass went without a hitch, and then the graduation rites
began. After much waiting and more droll speeches from the class
valedictorian and salutatorian, we were asked to stand up by class sections
and the names of the graduates were rattled off. The valedictorian was
immensely honored-his medals were clanking on his thin frame like heavy
trinkets. The salutatorian was also bemedalled. Then the honorable mentions
and the other subject achievement medalists were called to receive their
honor. When my name was called to receive the English medal, I stood up and
ambled off to receive my award. There was a scant applause. I saw Mother
nearby, beaming at me. I didn't know what to feel: I knew I'm supposed to
feel proud, yet I felt so empty-as if my heart wasn't in this.

Perhaps I was I so lost in musing over my feelings that I barely
anticipated the heat of the next moment.

As the principal was handing me my medal, Paul suddenly stood up and
started shouting at me:

"Martin de Vera does not deserve that medal!"

It went deathly still inside the church, all heads turned to him. I stared
at him, my mouth hung open, unable to believe he had sprung his moment of
anarchism at my moment of honor.

"Martin de Vera is a faggot!"

I felt my heart stop.

"Martin de Vera sucked my cock for our English term paper!"

There were gasps from the crowd. I felt as if cold water was thrown over
me. I glanced at Mother. She was pale; her hand was on her mouth. Farther
among the teachers, I saw Ms Calderon, her face expressionless but her lips
were drawn very tight.

I turned to Paul, glaring at him, but unable to speak. He glared back at
me. I couldn't understand why he looked so angry.

"Martin de Vera is a faggot!" he repeated. "He sucked my cock! He wanted me
to fuck him!"

There was a ripple of murmur in the crowd, and then it became a droning
buzz. The principal looked at Paul, then at me. I couldn't meet his
eyes. Mother's face was in her hands.

"Martin de Vera is a faggot!" Paul cried.

I felt myself trembling, like something wanting to burst out from me. I
grabbed my English medal from the principal, and then sprinted down the
church aisle. I felt the eyes of the whole congregation on me, shame
burning behind my ears. I ran out of the church, still hearing Paul's cries
ringing above the buzzing din:

"Martin de Vera is a faggot!"


I didn't stop running. I didn't know where to go-just anywhere but back
inside the church. I didn't know where my feet took me, I didn't even know
where I was headed. My eyes were blurred with tears, everything a haze.

I found myself running across the football field. It was quiet and still,
and a night breeze cooled the tears on my face. I kept running until I
slumped down at the goalpost at the end of the field. I brought my knees
against my chest, and I cried. I still clutched my medal on my hand. I
still felt my ears burning, and I have this inexplicable need to hide
myself where no one could see or find me. My barong was rumpled, my sleeve
wet with tears. I didn't know if I could face my classmates, my teachers. I
didn't know if I could face Mother. It was just so unbelievable that Paul
could do that to me!

Paul, my best friend, my lover. I couldn't understand why. His angry face
was still fresh in my mind, shouting at me, humiliating me in front of the
whole graduating class. I bit my lip, breathing deeply, trying desperately
to staunch the fresh flow of tears.

There's just too many grief over the past year, and I really had no wish to
cry again. Not now, not ever. I looked up at the clear night sky, the
myriad of stars strewn across the heavens winking and glittering. Each
resting high above its astral perches, alone and yet blazing in their quiet
beauty. I wanted to be like one of the stars. I wanted to be untouchable,
and unafraid. I wanted to be where no one else can ever reach me. Not even
Paul.

I have no wish to cry again.

I suddenly wished my Father was here-my protector and guardian-to hold me
and to comfort me; to tell me that everything's going to be alright. But
he's not here right now, but how I missed his warm embrace and his fuzzy
chin snuggling against my neck. His memory still haunted me, but I was not
afraid of him anymore. I knew that he'd always be watching over me, like
the stars above. And knowing that, I felt more resolute to go on my life
despite the pain of humiliation.

I sniffed and wiped my face. I stood up, facing the stars twinkling in the
clear night sky.

"I swear I will never come back here again.

"I swear I will never see or talk to Paul Morales ever again.

"I swear I will not cry again.

"Not now, not ever!"

The stars in their multitudes and constellations seemed to smile and wink
at me, witnessing and hearing my vows. I bit my lip grimly, breathing
deeply the soft smell of grass, the knot inside me feeling a bit looser. I
started walking across the football field, feeling the night breeze rumple
my hair.

I slowly made my way back to the church to find Mother.


I never really did look back afterwards. I passed the entrance examinations
at the University of the Philippines, and when the schoolyear started in
June, I was already buckling down to work. The pain was still fresh, and I
did all I can to forget by burying myself in books. It was a totally new
environment for me here-there was so much freedom! Though no one knew me,
it was quite easy to make friends. It was like starting anew.

Mother never said anything about that graduation night. She just kept
quiet, and just told me she was proud of me, even prouder when I entered
U.P.

As for my vow to the stars, I intend to keep that promise until my last
breath.

Not now, not ever.


***End of Part 3***

Copyright (C) 2002, 2003 by Nelz Agustin. www.nelz.org