Chapter 3

I spend some time meandering by the bazaar booths in the plaza before getting home by four in the afternoon. I find Mom having her dinner. I'm thankful she picked something healthier than she commonly eats. She invites me to join her, but I tell her I just came from the food park, so she resumes eating. I go to my room and then browse the Internet for some art prompts before jotting them down on a piece of paper.

It's almost six in the evening when I finish sketching ideas on a few bond papers. I set them aside in a folder and then saunter out of the room. I get the already cold vegetable salad Mom left in the fridge and make a mug of black coffee. I sit in the living room and then open the television. While turning the volume down, my phone starts ringing.

I put the bowl of salad on the couch and press the green button on my screen, my brows furrowing at the anonymous number. "Um, hello?"

The other line speaks, "Great evening, Stella De Vega." It's a lady. She speaks so clearly, "I have found this website of yours, and am impressed by your works on the display case, so I ring your number."

"Yes," I say, suddenly.

"Can you somehow do a portrait in person?" she asks.

"In the art studio? Sure we can."

"No. In my address."

I hesitantly respond with "Um, I'm sorry, ma'am, but I only meet clients in the studio. It's the workplace's rules."

"I did not call you for you work in an art studio, lady," she says so fluently that I think she may be somebody of a higher social rank. "I called for your sake." Wait, what does she mean by that? She then adds, "I would like to offer you a deal. You go to the address, we recompense you double your commission in the art studio."

I heave a sigh of mixed 'All right then, I'll meet you' and 'Nah, because I don't know you.' She may be a bad person. If she isn't, then what she's offering is a good price.

"I will pay thrice, not just your commission, but the whole package," she states at a rather fast pace, shocking me. "The expense of your art materials, your time, your effort, your—"

"I'm only available tomorrow in the evening." I fix my sitting. "If you may want, next week's Sunday is a good schedule."

"No. The portrait is excessively needed on the day after tomorrow."

"Um—"

"Please," she says.

"Fine, ma'am," I utter. "But I'm only available for three hours."

"Three ours it is then," she says in agreement. "I will send you the address. Message me back when your time is already serviceable. I am hanging up now. Thank you." And with that, the call ends.

I've never done work smack-dab in somebody else's place. I've painted in my classmates' and peers' houses, but it's all for academic and nonfinancial purposes. The caller told me she'll pay thrice. She said 'Whole package?' I felt like I'm some kind of set of equipment when she let those words out. Anyway, it's a good deal so.

I finish my salad and coffee and then turn off the television. I take a quick, warm shower before hitting the hay. I have to spend the morning celebrating Mom's birthday. In the afternoon, we'll go out to her cousin's wedding anniversary. And in the evening, I'm on a three-hour freelance work. Tomorrow is jam-packed, so force myself to drift off to sleep.

*****

My phone's alarm goes off. I get off the bed and then tap 'Stop' on the screen. I get out of my room and make creamed coffee in silence. I don't need Mom to wake up this early. I have to surprise her, so I hasten my movements. I brush my teeth and wash my face. I get out of the apartment building and pedal to the bakeshop.

The gusts of the cold wind of early morning freeze up my skin. The sky is tinted bring orange. I pay for the cake, balloons, and candles as I turn up there. The combo is quite pricey, but Mom deserves to feel love, so I take them all and put them in the metal bicycle basket. Before going back to our apartment building, I buy each bowl of already-cooked spaghetti, salad, macaroni and cheese, and a few cans of soda pops.

I silently get into our apartment and, thank the Heavens, Mom isn't up yet. I inflate the lavender heart-shaped balloons and tie them all on the armrests of the two adjacent couches. While reheating the dishes in the oven, I put the cake in the center of the table. I then add the dishes around it and take pictures of them — perfect. Simple, but beautiful.

I then hear Mom's door creaking open. I see her surprised face while I stupidly raise my arms, my hands wiggling like mosquito larvae in an evaporating puddle. "Happy birthday, Mom!" I cheer so loudly that it kind of shocks her. I approach her and wrap my hands tight around her waist.

She embraces me as well while caressing my back. "Thank you," she mumbles.

Finally, some words. I hope she continues to have the confidence to speak up again. I get off her and wipe the tears off her cold cheeks. "No crying for today. I won't allow it."

She laughs. "I love you, my sweet, little girl."

"I love you too, Mom." I kiss her forehead. "Shall we eat now? I only had coffee earlier."

"Sure," she says.

After she makes a wish and blows her candles, we settle down on the couch and serve ourselves food. The spaghetti is cheesy and meaty and the macaroni and cheese are so satisfying on the mouth, the elbow pasta is perfectly cooked. The salad is prepared with ground peanuts and fresh, which I'm sure Mom is joyous for having. We slice pieces of the creamy cake and indulge in it.

While having our drinks, we talk about some stuff. I tell her about what I'm taking in college — any course related to arts or journalism — and about my good work in the restaurant and art studio, which she tells me she's proud of. And also, I remind her that I don't want her to skip meals and medicines while I'm at school and work. She just nods in agreement. I know she's been doing a great job taking care of herself, but it still bothers me that she's all alone here almost every day. I wish I could shield her from the depression and anxieties I know she's had for so long.

I then clean the table and she takes a bath. It's almost afternoon, and we only have an hour to squarely turn up at the wedding anniversary venue. I wash the dishes and then store the leftovers in the fridge.

I take a shower and then slide into a peach-colored midi dress. I style my hair into a neat chignon and apply light makeup on my face. I stare at my dark azure eyes in the mirror and put on light ochre eye shadows to compliment my pale skin. I wear lipstick of a lighter red shade and then apply gloss on it. I wear silvery cone heels with a crisscross pattern and then look at the entirety of my body in the mirror — acceptable. I think the look is suitable for the event.

I get out of my room with my stuff and find Mom in a flapper dress of the same color as mine. Her hair is laid down on her shoulders. Wait . . . "Did you cut your hair?" I ask. She nods. It suits her, really. We then get out of the building and hail a taxi.

It doesn't take us long to arrive at the venue. People gather in the main hall, dressed in dark suits and pastel dresses. Mom and I sit around the table with her cousins. Aunt Hilda settles down next to me, her son, Marco, sending me a facial expression of boredom. He's two years older than me and always helps me out with my frustrated senior year. I feel him right now. I'm not close with either of the celebrants as well.

The couple then gets on stage and shares their story of love, which I just cringe at, and then thanks the people who join their special day. Everybody claps and then proceeds to feast on the catered buffet. I tell Mom I'll get a dessert and then go to the long table with an array of dishes and drinks. The variety of the food almost makes me mentally throw up.

I grab a plate and am about to go back to our table with my leche flan and cheesecake when Kent appears before me. He looks down at me and lets out a wide smile. "Hey," he greets.

I find it bland, so he may just be really simply greeting. I utter, "Hey. Bye."

He holds onto my wrist, almost making me drop the ceramic plate of food. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. "Can we somehow talk for a minute?"

"No."

"Please."

"I said no," I immediately spit out. "What's it you want to discuss?"

"I want you back," he cheaply says, enough to inflict irritation upon me. "I know we can work it out again. Just please, give me another chance."

"No, and no," I proudly mumble and then smile at him. "Nice seeing you again, Kent. Bye-bye." I do it all purposefully to annoy him, which is effective by how he clenches his jaws. I go back to the table and hand Mom and Aunt Hilda the deserts.

Marco and I decide to wander in the lightly crowded backyard of the building. We excuse ourselves from our parents and walk and walk until I can't handle the curiosity about what he wants to talk with me about. I know he wants to tell me something. I roll my eyes and break the silence between us, "Let it out."

He pockets his hands. "What would you like as a present?"

"What? You're giving me something? For what?" I ask in great haste.

"No, of course not." He clicks his tongue. "As a girl, you know, what do you like to receive randomly?"

Oh. I see where this is heading. I teasingly jerk my brows upward. "You're hitting on some gal, huh?" I snigger, making his eyes roll once more.

"I hate you."

"Randomly?"

"Yes, randomly."

"So, the girl doesn't know you like her?" I query.

"Lower your voice, Stella," he commands. He crosses his arms and then turns to his side. After some seconds, he sighs and says, "She's in your batch."

What the . . . She's in our batch? A second-year collegian to a senior high schooler? Not bad at all. I wonder who she is. "Who's her?" I can't control my mouth.

"Reign."

Oh, no. O boy. Reign? Like Reign Hayes? The all-time beauty and brains of our batch? Not a bad pick. I just didn't see it coming. I look at Marco from head to toe and then nod my head.

"What does that mean?" he says with a hint of rage. Okay. He's totally annoyed now.

I then bring out, "You two complement each other, you know." It's a fact. He's an achiever, and so is Reign. He's gotten the looks, and so has she. They'd make an almost perfect couple. If Marco wasn't just overly introverted, he'd get a victory over this effortlessly. I guess he'll have to work hard.

"So . . ." he trails off.

"So, I suggest that you don't give her something anonymously," I say. "You have to tell her first you like before— You know what, don't gift her at all. Just confess and let the course of the river flow."

"That's why I don't talk to you about this kind of stuff."

"I'm dead serious, Marco."

"Whatever." He walks away. "Let's go back inside."

I send him a sigh of annoyance before entering the main hall. The crowd has already subsided until Mom bids our goodbyes to her cousins. At last. The sound of chaos in here disturbs me.

Marco stands up. "Mom, I'll also go with Aunt Mace and Stella. I've got to finish my presentation."

"Off you go then." Aunt Hilda taps Marco's forearm. "I'll wait for your Dad."

Marco nods. We escape the venue and then get in a taxi. While on the way, Marco asks Mom 'Aunt Mace, what did your first boyfriend give you on your first date?' and 'How did he confess his love?' I just casually throw him a smile that I know he finds riling. Teasing him is my pastime. I love it.

He then pays the driver the fare, including ours. Mom and I thank him for that and then he heads to the nearby motor shop. The taxi goes on again and after a couple of minutes, we reach our destination. Upon entering the apartment, I tell Mom I'll be out for three hours for freelance work and she tells me to stay safe. I dress in a pullover, jogger, and sneakers — all black.

I text the lady from last night that I'm already available for employment. She sends me the address and as I hail another taxi, I prepare my mind for whatever is coming. Is the person I'm painting a wealthy person? They seem to be since the offer is huge. I have to work on this really well, or else they'll be disappointed. I need some cash for Mom's medicines, so I'll grab every opportunity that will come my way.

I finally reach the address. It's huge — a building of tens of stories. The guard rings a person and eventually lets me in. I smile at him and pass through the gigantic sliding doors. I enter the elevator and press the 'P' button the lady told me to head to.

As I get out of the elevator, Ancient Greek-themed doors approach me. I knock on it and wait for some time. The doors slide open, but I'm shocked when nobody is behind them. It must've been opened automatically. Technology tolerates either immediacy or laziness.

The story is wide and so luxurious. Silvery Greek-looking sculptures stand in the corner of the hexagonal room and there are trophies and certificates on a big glass shelf. 'P?' It stands for 'penthouse,' I guess. I walk to a small door with basil leaves engraved on it. I knock again until it opens. I step in over the threshold, leaving the door open so light can enter the dimly lit room.

"Close the door, please."

I heard a deep, somewhat-familiar voice. I just obey him, shutting the door tight. A silhouette walks towards me, and, O Heavens, I can't see his face. He reaches for a button beside me, and then the room lights up. Also, my heart pounds hard. It's him — the freak. I should've known it.