Heartstruck

Chapter

1

The table at the rightmost corner in the cafeteria is our place. It’s been our spot since we started junior high, where every second of our breaks was spent in endless laughter, lively chatter, and getting caught up with the latest gossip. And today is no exception.

Kate drops the latest issue of Jellybean on the table, throwing it open to a full two-page spread on three teenage boys. They look familiar, but I can’t wrap my head around who they are, and what they’re called. I really should have known that my friends are going to make a big fuss out of them. They always make a big fuss over things

like

this

.

Next month. Trinity is going to have their first major concert at the Big Dome next month, Kate announces, pointing at the magazine pages. "We have

to

go

."

Oh my gosh, seriously? Setting her plate of carrot sticks aside, Sarah makes a grab for the magazine and drags it to her side of the table. As discreetly as I can, I peer at the pages myself, trying to figure out just who these Trinity boys are before my friends notice that I’m not following their conversation. Not

at

all

.

It’s only when Michelle starts singing a few lines of what is apparently Trinity’s latest hit that I finally recognize them. They’re this newly-formed boy band that debuted on the local music scene a couple of months ago. The three boys, with their good looks and shared passion for music, easily rose to fame. It has become nearly impossible to turn on the radio without hearing their songs, so even someone like me, who is not really into music, has come to know their overly enthusiastic but strangely catchy pop rock sound. They’re also everywhere on television. If I’m not mistaken, their

frontman

is

...

Matt Navales is a dream. You girls know I have a thing for guitarists. We should definitely go, I say, even though the thought of watching a concert with hundreds of people seems really bothersome. I’d rather watch a recording in the comforts of my home any day, but I can’t exactly admit to that. I’m the Alexa Zamora,

after

all

.

Sarah squeals at my words. Looks like I said the right thing. "Matt’s so awesome, isn’t he, Alexa? And his voice is just something!"

Yeah, but I still think Rick Acosta’s hotter, insists Kate. "He sings and plays the bass like a pro. He’s got great moves too, unlike a certain

front

man

."

As Sarah and Kate continue their usual bickering about who’s hotter, Michelle grabs my hand, saying that I need to accompany her to the restroom. I let myself be dragged along, knowing that Michelle won’t stop pestering me until I agreed anyway. As we start down the main aisle of the cafeteria, walking in plain sight, I prepare myself for the inevitable barrage of questions and requests that is sure

to

come

.

There you are, Alexa! I seriously need your opinion on these bracelets.

"They’re gorgeous. A little too flashy for my taste, but I think they look good

on

you

!"

"Alexa! We’re going karaoke tonight. You have to come

with

us

!"

"Aww, I’m sorry, but I can’t. Have somewhere I need

to

be

..."

"Girl, have you heard the new Trinity song?! It’s

seriously

good

."

"Of course! Matt’s voice is to

die

for

!"

I’ll probably never get used to this. It’s something I’m thankful for every day, to be surrounded by friends, to be liked, to not be alone. Junior high is my new beginning, after all, but the past four years of just trying to get to this point have not been easy. I’ve worked really hard—and I still have to. I’m doing everything that I can to keep things like this. Exactly

like

this

.

You’re really something, A, says Michelle, as we finally manage to get to the restroom. "As expected of our

It

Girl

."

"You know, I still don’t know what ‘It’ is, this ‘It’ you all insist on saying that

I

have

."

Charisma? Charm? Presence? Michelle grins as she positions me in front of the mirror. She grabs my shoulders as the two of us gaze at our reflections. All of the above?

Raising an eyebrow, I swat Michelle’s hands off my shoulders. Is this the part when you try to coax me into giving you my pink mini bag again? Enough flattery, because it’s never going to happen.

I can’t believe you think I’m only saying these things ‘cause I want your absolutely adorable, totally stylish, rose pink mini bag. Michelle gasps in mock offense. We share a laugh, and I actually have to lean against the wall to keep from

toppling

over

.

Michelle eventually recovers and smiles. "But seriously, Alexa, whatever it may be, I bet ‘It’ has something to do with how beautiful, smart, and talented you are. And as if all that’s not enough, you also happen to be one of the nicest people I know. Gosh, I’m willing to bet you can’t even hurt

a

fly

!"

His crumpled face. His cries of pain. The flashbacks last for only a split second, and I immediately shake them away, hiding behind a forced laugh. Thankfully, Michelle doesn’t notice anything amiss.

I head for the sinks as Michelle disappears inside one of the cubicles. I take time to wash my hands as well as sprinkle water on my face. After drying off, I take a deep breath to collect myself and inspect my reflection. Not a single hair out of place. The girl I see in the mirror is perfect, as perfect as the image everyone in school has of her. Shoulder-length black hair with subtle chestnut brown highlights. Not a single strand out of place. Bright, round eyes. A rosy complexion complemented with the gentlest touches of make-up. She’s who everyone wants to be. She’s New Hope Academy’s

It

Girl

.

And she’s also supposed to

be

me

.

So whatever ‘It’ is they think I have, I’ll do everything and anything I can to hold on to it. Anything to keep this picture of their perfect girl alive. Anything to keep things as they are, so I can keep my place

with

them

.

Even if it means never taking this

mask

off

.

My Guro enters with his ever-powerful stride, reflective of all his years of hard work. With a rattan stick in his right hand, he makes his way towards the front of the studio. Finishing the last of my seated leg stretches, I scramble to my feet, taking hold of my own rattan stick. Feet apart and with both hands holding the baston in front of me, I stand at attention, but small laugh escapes. Of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

I place my armed right hand across my chest and bow my head in salutation. Pugay! He returns the gesture and I immediately return to attention stance.

What’s so funny? he asks. We are basically mirror images now, standing in front of each other with the same stance, except that he’s way taller.

I shake my head in reply. Nothing. I’m just glad to see you, Tito. And I really am. After another long day at school, there’s nothing like arnis training with Tito Tim to lift my spirits. There’s no place I’d rather be than our little practice studio

at

home

.

His eyebrows instantly go up. "I’m glad to see you too, Alexa, but don’t think flattery will get you out of basic drills. We both know you need a refresher, what with the mistakes you’ve been making over the past couple

of

days

."

I groan. "But,

Tito

Tim

..."

"No buts. Handa! Begin with the basic strikes."

I should have known that messing up my routines last week would have its consequences. Not that I have a problem with basic drills, but I was really looking forward to a bit of sparring. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good sparring match.

Isa. Strike to the left temple.

Dalawa. Strike to the right temple.

Tatlo. Strike to the left elbow.

Apat. Strike to the right elbow.

Lima. Strike to the navel.

Every swing of my rattan stick is liberating. Here, I have no image to maintain, no mask I have to hide behind. There’s no one to judge how I look like with my hair in a messy bun, dressed in a loose t-shirt and baggy red training pants. It is only during these few hours with Tito Tim that I feel free to be myself, to let go of all the walls I’ve built.

I am free to strike.

A Lakan Tatlo black belt holder in modern arnis, Tito Tim has been my instructor for ten years now. He’s my uncle by blood, but he’s really a father to me in all the ways that count. I lost my parents to a car crash when I was just five. I have vague memories of my dad and mom, bits and pieces of loving gestures, careful reminders, and good night kisses. I never had reason to want for a parent’s love though, because Tito Tim and his wife, Tita Becca, have given me more than I could ever need

and

want

.

I remember watching Tito Tim training by himself in the backyard of our old home in Cavite when I was six. I was so awed by him that I picked up a rattan stick for myself and started swinging it around. Tito Tim tried to pry the weapon from my hands so I wouldn’t hurt myself, but his attempts only resulted in me almost hitting him in the groin. I don’t exactly remember what happened next, but Tito Tim has told the story countless of times, so it might as well have been a real memory. I was so persistent back then that no matter how many times Tito Tim tried to keep me from the bastons, I still managed to get one for myself and stubbornly continued doing drills on my own. Eventually, Tito Tim gave up and decided that if he can’t keep me away from the rattan sticks, he might as well just teach me the proper way to hold and

wield

them

.