Constancia had been telling herself, and everyone, that she would jump at the first chance to get out of Mamaluba. But now that the chance had come, she found herself getting cold feet.
She stared at the letter for what must be the twentieth time, a needless act really, for she could now recite it verbatim if someone asked her to.
I hereby detail Constancia Batonghinog, Principal 2, of Datu Mamaluba National High School to Bacali National High School. . . .
As soon as she affixed her signature, the order would take effect. The superintendent had given her barely two months to decide, and her time was running out.
She lit another cigarette and took long drags, thinking of what she would leave behind, until the beeping of the intercom interrupted her.
The tiny screen flashed a red 7, which meant there was trouble in second year section C.
“What a great way to start the week,” she muttered.
The intercom looked like nothing but a luxury item in DMNHS, where eleven students had to share a book. But considering the number of brawl that occurred in the campus per week, Constancia felt her buying of the device was justified. Besides, the P500 bill the dealer slipped into her hand was not easy to resist.
Constancia rose from her swivel chair and snuffed the cigarette on the ashtray, which she was hiding in a drawer.
She did not go to the classroom right away. She checked herself first in the mirror and reapplied her purple lipstick. The color did not go well with her dark skin, but the beauty she wanted to project was not that of a rose. She was a rat-eating pitcher plant.
She moved back a few steps to see herself better. Her image spilled from the mirror’s edges. She cursed her girth, and she stepped back a foot more.
As she came nearer room number 7, the noise got louder. Her blood pressure also rose higher.
Usman, the newly hired teacher, was waiting for her on the door. “Ma'am, ma'am,” he said, his hands flailing on his sides. “I don't know what to do.”
She ignored Usman and went straight into the classroom. The students were huddled near the blackboard, some shouting, “Stop! Stop!” while others cheering, “Aysgo! Aysgo!”
When the students noticed her charging like a mad carabao, the circle broke out. On the floor were four male students in a confusing heap of chokeholds.
“You pigs!” she shouted.
The fighting boys froze, and the classroom was filled with silence. She had uttered a Muslim taboo, and it's even more insulting if coming from a Christian, an Ilongga, like her.
She pointed at the troublemakers. “All of you! Go to my office right now,” she said.
The boys released one another and with bent heads filed their way out of the classroom, except for one, whom she recognized as Odin.
“Odin, are you deaf?” She was hysterical now. She had stolen the show. What the students would later remember was not how the boys slugged it out but how Ma'am Batonghinog exploded in fury.
The skinny boy did not flinch, but after a moment he followed the order, walking with a defiant look in her face.
Constancia's bulging eyes scanned the room. The students scampered back to their seats, pretending to read or write something. She walked out without a word. At the door, she told Usman, “Continue your lesson.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Usman answered.
“And stop crying, for god's sake.”
As soon as Constancia was a few meters away, the classroom was filled with noise again.
* * *
The students in other classrooms were peeking out the windows. Constancia stared at them and the heads promptly disappeared.
She met Amir on the way.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, I just got here,” he said. He was the president of the student council and the son of a high-ranking separatist rebel. He could break up a brawl in no time.
“It's all right, Amir,” said Constancia. “I'm sorting it out.”
“It's Odin again, isn't it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He's been in a lot of trouble lately. I don't know what's going on with him.”
Amir was quiet for a while. “Is there anything I can do, ma'am?” he asked, giving her the smile that made the teachers wish he was their son and made the girls dream he was their boyfriend.
“No, thank you,” said Constancia. “You may go back to your class. I'll just send for you if I need something,” she said.
“Yes, ma'am,” he said. But he did not turn to go. “Ma'am . . . there is something important I'd like to tell you.”
“What is it, Amir?”
“Would you be available after dismissal this afternoon? If you don't mind, I'd like to tell it to you in your office.”
“Of course, I don't mind. I'll wait for you.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” he said, smiling again.
She watched him walk back to his class, thinking that if her son did not die, he would have been Amir’s age now.
To be continued.
No comments:
Post a Comment