7 Chapter 7: Youth Gazette

Chapter 7: Youth Gazette

“I still have to audition for cheerleading,” Elaine announced on our way to our clubs.

It is Friday. Clubs are scheduled on Fridays.

“Well, good luck for that,” we both chorused. Christine had to go, so we waved our goodbye to her while I found my room.

“I might give you a warning, in case if you haven’t known. Dana signed up for your club too,” I revealed before I went inside my room. I notice that a few members already inside.

“She’s there, alright. I expected it but she wouldn’t notice me, right?” She asked, but I could hear a lump forming at her throat. “She barely talks to me at all.”

“I guess she wouldn’t care anyways as long as we keep our distance from her. But remember that you are under the protection of the Madrigal brothers no matter what happens,” I reassured her as she gives a nervous chuckle, but I could see that she lightened up before heading away.

I picked a desk near to a girl with curly red locks.

“Are you a freshman too?” I was surprised that she started talking to me. Bold and straight. I mean, I thought she’s snobbish or something.

“Yeah––

I was cut off when our club moderator came in and greeted everyone. He wears glasses that highlighted his plump cheeks, has three distinguishable moles at his right cheeks, and carries the air of an intellectual whom you would shy away if you tell him that the monster’s name is Frankenstein in the acclaimed science fiction novel, Frankenstein. It gets on my nerves a lot of times too.

As an avid reader of books and passion for the written word, I couldn’t just tolerate uniformed people that Victor Frankenstein created the monster and the monster is not named after him. I feel the same way when people could not pronounce Les Miserables, a novel by Victor Hugo, the right way.

“Hello! To my familiar friends here, I’m glad to see you back, and to the new ones–the freshman and transferees–I’m welcoming you to the family of writers and photographers. I’m Mr. Reynold Riconalla. Call me Mr. Riconalla. Joining here constitutes developing the most indispensable weapon any person could have: that is the pen. Many are invited, but a few will stay until the end. The only thing that matters to me is your hand for a good story and your eyes for a good photograph. I do not care how good you think you are. Prove it to me first!”

He cleared his throat. “Let me introduce you to Kevin Francisco, our two-year Editor-in-Chief. Since he was a freshman, he has already written articles for Wrenchplains High School in consistent excellence. A few writers could do it–combining talent and discipline!”

The girl with the curly red hair drops her notebook, but I was the only one who notice it. I joined in giving an applause to Kevin, a tall tanned-skinned guy with gelled hair who is sitting in front. He stands up with beaming pride but clothed in admirable humility by his quirky smile and peculiar hand gestures when he was introduced.

I heard girls chatting about him behind me, and I wondered if they just signed up because of him. He stands in front, clears his throat, and gives a little overview of the club for about five minutes when he is suddenly interrupted by a late comer.

And not only just some late comer.

“Mr. Cutler, I didn’t know you signed up to be a––” Mr. Riconalla searched his name on the list, “a photographer. Good.”

My heart skipped for a second when I looked at him. It’s him, the British dude.

I closed my eyes while I was praying––thanking God he’s in my club. A divine providence in the middle of the day made me believe that God actually loves me.

Mr. Cutler is wearing a white shirt and old faded blue jeans with rubber shoes. The same look during the first time we kind of met, except that he isn’t wearing that leather jacket that would put any girl on her knees. He looks so good that my knees suddenly weakened. At least I know his family name now, thanks to Mr. Riconalla.

Mr. Cutler. Oh, Mr. Cutler, where have you been all my life?

“I apologize, Mr. Riconalla… for being late,” he apologized while still standing by the doorway.

“It’s okay because we just started, anyways. Please continue the requirements, Kevin. I am sorry for the interruption.” Mr. Riconalla motioned him to come in while Kevin is throwing dagger looks at my British dude.

Kevin continued his introductory piece, thanking everyone who elected him as Editor-in-Chief. He also reviewed the club’s policies and annual writing workshops. I noticed a single desk beside me. I am saying the word “please” all over and over again under my breath.

I avoided his gaze the whole time, but I am still wishing that he would sit next to me. Yet, he just passes me by and sits behind the empty seat I didn’t know that existed. At least, he’s still near.

I can smell him. He smells of mint mixed with fresh ocean breeze. I suddenly get worried if my hair looked messy, I might have been slouching, or anything.

I am about to take a seemingly innocent but risky glance behind me when Mr. Riconalla announces, “Please sign the attendance sheet and pass.”

He allows Kevin to sign first then Kevin hands it to the person sitting behind him.

Before the sheet gets passed to me, I wondered if Mr. Culter still remembered the epic fail on how we sort of met, but I guess it was just a passive event that he had already forgotten. The whole club meeting was all about our moderator talking about the greatest journalism and literary pieces he read, the contests that we’ll be joining, and how to write effectively, but I was all ears from the conversation behind me.

I heard one guy asking Mr. Cutler: “Hey, why did you move here from England?”

He answers, “Dad was offered work here.”

Another guy asks: “First time in the Philippines?”

He answers again: “Yeah, just a couple of weeks since I’ve been here.”

I could have listened more but the bell rang, and everyone started standing up to head out. Mr. Riconalla uttered his last remarks on how he was really glad to see new faces and loyal ones, and he announced that our official positions in the club based on our sign-up form will still be posted at the bulletin.

“Uh, Ms. Madrigal? Where’s the attendance?” Mr. Riconalla asked among the sea of faces. I didn’t know that he knew my last name. I conclude that it’s probably because of my brothers again, I guess.

“I wasn’t the one––

“Um, it’s here, Ms.”

I could barely turn around, but I had to. I faced Mr. Cutler and received the sheet while avoiding any eye contact. I think I blushed when our hands brush each other’s.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” I told him without looking up. I peek at the paper first before handing it to Mr. Riconalla. I read that his name is Stephen Cutler. It is the name after mine, and he is sitting behind me.

Stephen Cutler.

“You must be Trevor’s sister?” Mr. Riconalla adjusted his lenses like what Ms. Adele did a few days ago. And again, I’m anticipating a litany of Trevor’s achievements again.

“Yes, I am.” I answered and then as expected, Mr. Riconalla says, “He used to write for the paper when he was freshman. He was a column writer.” I didn’t know that Trevor was a writer, such a revelation. To my relief, Mr. Riconalla just nodded and ignored his own sentence.

I am aware that Stephen Cutler is still standing behind me because I could still smell him, and I don’t want him to listen to Trevor’s achievements that always put me in an awkward state.

I was heading out fast after I handed the attendance sheet to Mr. Riconalla. I knew both Mr. Riconalla and Stephen Cutler are wondering why I was hurrying to get out.

“Hey—

I paused and looked back. Stephen Cutler called me.

We are almost alone in the hallways because we took too long to get out from Mr. Riconalla’s room. I noticed Stephen is carrying a pen that looked familiar.

“I think you dropped this.” He casually informs me as he hands it to me. I snatch it slowly.

“Great to see you again. I guess we’ll be working together this year. I hope your head doesn’t hurt anymore?” He asked. I just nodded, bewildered. I bit my lip. “My head?”

He chuckles gently and then reminds me, “Remember, you’re the one who bumped into me at the canteen a few days ago, right? You might have forgotten it already.”

How could I forget that? Since that comical incident, you were always in my mind. You might be the home my heart belongs to as a weary traveler.

I blush and say, “Of course not. My head, well, my head is okay. I’m sorry about it.”

His eyebrows knits. “Maybe it was me who wasn’t looking ahead.”

“Yeah, maybe it goes the same way with me,” I said while nodding. My knees went limp as I stare into his dry lips and his eyes as green as the virgin forest.

“Guess I’ll always be seeing you around a lot,” he said while chuckling. I hate to see him walk away again, so I started walking away first.

“Yeah, I guess. Well, see you, Stephen.” I utter those words and hates myself that I was really stupid to say too less. I feel like a five-year-old kid, being unsure on what to say to a stranger.

“See ya, Hailey.”

I smiled when he mentioned my name. I don’t know how he knew my name. I looked back, but he started walking away already.

I look at my ballpen and notice that I wrote my name in a small sticker I stick to almost all of my things: “This belongs to Hailey.”