CHAPTER 3

Saturday classes are something that Catherine had been dreading. She’d very much rather work on her own and spend the entire day in the library for the Related Literature part of her thesis, or patching up news articles of missing children—something she had been doing for so long, and ate up her summers for the past nine years—in order to see if there are similarities between the missing kids and Felipe’s. She made it a point to finish all her works in order to play detectives always. She refused to let this case rest.

     It doesn’t matter whether Felipe’s dead or alive at this point—though she prays to God that he is well—all she needs is his presence. Her beating heart resented to stop aching for ten years now until Felipe’s found, and she fears the most that her soul might stay bothered for the rest of her life.

     She could do all of those—hunting for related literature for her thesis and stitching up evidences for plausible suspects—but that day, she had no choice but to sit through boring lectures and listen to her professor’s life story. A usual routine done every Saturday. She just wishes the day would be over soon as her professor began with the words “this happened to me one time” while discussing a part of a story. She always manages to relate every literature to her life, but her students are beyond disinterested. She doesn’t seem to care. In her defense, it’s her way of making her pupils understand the story a little more.

     There’s too much stories, and less lessons to comprehend, Catherine had thought, and how she wished that she’ll be able to walk out the door, ending her session of the class, and work on whatever it was that she’s been dying to work on without being deemed as rude by her professor. But there was just no way.

     Catherine might look unfazed as the class went on, but her head had been throbbing for nearly four hours out of impatience, begging the heavens for something to happen that could potentially cut the lecture short. But nothing happened. There were scribbles at the chalkboard that she almost couldn’t comprehend anymore, she found it so hard to follow through especially when the professor seemed to only be discussing with herself due to lack of interaction between her and the students. The entire class found her boring and link it to her teaching approach being terrifying. Terror, as they called it. The poor professor was one of the teachers the students had nicknames for, and talk about her behind her back relentlessly.

     But the only pleasing sound to hear coming from the professor was “...and that concludes the end of the class. Thank you all for listening.” And Catherine swore she had heard her classmates sighing in relief. She turned around and saw some of the girls in the class stretching and yawning, some placing the strap of their purses on their shoulders and heading out with an obviously fake “thank you, professor!” before walking out the door.

     Catherine grabbed the strap of her bag, gave the professor a coy smile and following all the girls out. There were chatters coming from the girls about the lesson, and how everything was so boring, and how the professor had talked about her personal life once again. This is a part of Catherine’s Saturday routine as well as the other girls. It’s almost as if Catherine had their outside-the-classroom dialogues memorized already.

     “Ugh, did you learn something? I don’t,” said one girl.

     “I only learned about her fucking life. How unnecessary, right?” replies her friend.

     Catherine shook her head again, stopping herself from eavesdropping, and taking a different route on the way to the library. She passed by the same dance hall again, and a familiar music met her ears. And for the first time that day, she felt relieved.

     Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker was playing, and Catherine was taken aback the time she danced in front of thousands of crowds to that music. She recalled the applause, the praises, the people asking if they could take a picture with her, and aspiring ballerinas asking for advice on how to achieve such a stunning performance. She was also reminded of her costume: a night blue dress that reaches until above her knees and shoes with the similar color to match. She refused to wear the typical tutu that night, and thought that the silk dress was something that fitted the mood. Fortunately, the stylist followed through, and was thankful when everyone adored her outfit even though she wasn’t in the typical ballerina costume.

     She found herself on her tiptoes, spinning along to the music. When she realized what she was doing, she stopped herself and heaved a sigh, once again, taking a peek of the people inside the dance hall out of curiosity.

     And to her surprise, it was the same ballerina that captivated her heart days ago, and she continued to do so as Catherine watched her graceful movements, some hasty, some slow, and it made her want to barge in the room and dance along with her, even teach her the choreography that she learned many, many years ago because she thought that this ballerina would be so good at dancing it that way.

     Upon realization, Catherine stopped looking through the window and pressed her back against the wall. “Oh god,” she sighed.

     Catherine has got a crush.

     As she breathed heavily, the ringing of her cellphone took her by surprise. She jumped at the ring tone before reaching for her phone on her pocket and answering the call.

     “Yes mom?”