08 November 2007
Spiderwoman's no angel
Nah. It’s not the flying seductress superhero who exhales libido and sweats pheromones. It’s my high school MUSIC teacher—yeah, that hell forsaken industry holds much fury against me—who was always, always pregnant.
Her name was Cherubin. Stern but maternal. Bespectacled but cheery. In fact, way cheeper than what you’d expect from someone who was being knocked up by her husband every other week. Hence it was no surprise that almost everyone liked her. I think that led her to believe that she was special: She also had us trek to her “music room” every other day under the heat of mid-day because preggy women "aren't allowed to move" except, apparently in her case, to shack.
It happened on yet another sorry Thursday—is this because I was born at the second hour of Th? Anyway, she was giving us her version of what the school calls “long test.” By dictation. She LOVES using her mouth, that woman. Unfortunately I wasn’t in a good mood myself, let alone the fact that I had to sit and take an exam in that course-wannabe. For each question she asked, I prayed for time acceleration. The moment I woke up I knew something catastrophic was bound to happen that day. I didn’t know it was to be with Cherubin.
We were halfway done with her “exam.” I was sitting on the third row, fourth column, right chair. By question Number 29, I saw a pair of chubby feet heartbreakingly squeezed inside size 6-flip flops on the floor beside me. It was about a minute when the unusual-in-a-by-dictation-exam silence woke my left eye. Like those of an addict who just had five shorts, my eyes looked up at the obvious owner of the then-probably-suffocated-to-death toenails and saw her looking at my direction, grinning. “Now, what?” my conscience asked.
“Hindi mo tatakpan ang paper mo?” Then a grin, like she was talking to some imbecile in need of TLC. At first I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me—honest!—but after looking at her again a la Bob Marley United, I officially concluded she was talking to me.
Five seconds of dead air. What the hell is this Hump Queen talking about? Is she accusing ME of connivance with brain dead classmates? My heartbeat was ready to race. And yes—Spidey was accusing me of showing off my answer sheet to nearby classmates whose existence were temporarily hanged in my universe.
Ms Tarantula wasn’t flinching either. She was sure of my mini-show, that moron. But it was all too late for the both of us, as I wasn’t really into negotiating my mood on that moment either. I simply, bravely, defiantly stared at her like a convict that hasn’t eaten anything since the Old Testament. For about 10 seconds. Then I withdrew my scepter and went back to looking at Number 29… Grace The Wiz’s yellowish fangs flashing in my head a couple of times...
I thought, how dare she accuse me of cheap living! There’s a very good reason why you should never judge others even if they look like ex-convicts—especially if they’re in a bad mood. Cherubin was dealing with teenagers, for crying out loud; she should’ve known better than to challenge raging hormones. That’s how I discovered I can stand up to oppressors like spider humanoids and paranoid jeepney drivers who ask for your fare every three minutes.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I’m sure Cherubin saw what she needed to see in those 10 seconds.
Her name was Cherubin. Stern but maternal. Bespectacled but cheery. In fact, way cheeper than what you’d expect from someone who was being knocked up by her husband every other week. Hence it was no surprise that almost everyone liked her. I think that led her to believe that she was special: She also had us trek to her “music room” every other day under the heat of mid-day because preggy women "aren't allowed to move" except, apparently in her case, to shack.
It happened on yet another sorry Thursday—is this because I was born at the second hour of Th? Anyway, she was giving us her version of what the school calls “long test.” By dictation. She LOVES using her mouth, that woman. Unfortunately I wasn’t in a good mood myself, let alone the fact that I had to sit and take an exam in that course-wannabe. For each question she asked, I prayed for time acceleration. The moment I woke up I knew something catastrophic was bound to happen that day. I didn’t know it was to be with Cherubin.
We were halfway done with her “exam.” I was sitting on the third row, fourth column, right chair. By question Number 29, I saw a pair of chubby feet heartbreakingly squeezed inside size 6-flip flops on the floor beside me. It was about a minute when the unusual-in-a-by-dictation-exam silence woke my left eye. Like those of an addict who just had five shorts, my eyes looked up at the obvious owner of the then-probably-suffocated-to-death toenails and saw her looking at my direction, grinning. “Now, what?” my conscience asked.
“Hindi mo tatakpan ang paper mo?” Then a grin, like she was talking to some imbecile in need of TLC. At first I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me—honest!—but after looking at her again a la Bob Marley United, I officially concluded she was talking to me.
Five seconds of dead air. What the hell is this Hump Queen talking about? Is she accusing ME of connivance with brain dead classmates? My heartbeat was ready to race. And yes—Spidey was accusing me of showing off my answer sheet to nearby classmates whose existence were temporarily hanged in my universe.
Ms Tarantula wasn’t flinching either. She was sure of my mini-show, that moron. But it was all too late for the both of us, as I wasn’t really into negotiating my mood on that moment either. I simply, bravely, defiantly stared at her like a convict that hasn’t eaten anything since the Old Testament. For about 10 seconds. Then I withdrew my scepter and went back to looking at Number 29… Grace The Wiz’s yellowish fangs flashing in my head a couple of times...
I thought, how dare she accuse me of cheap living! There’s a very good reason why you should never judge others even if they look like ex-convicts—especially if they’re in a bad mood. Cherubin was dealing with teenagers, for crying out loud; she should’ve known better than to challenge raging hormones. That’s how I discovered I can stand up to oppressors like spider humanoids and paranoid jeepney drivers who ask for your fare every three minutes.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I’m sure Cherubin saw what she needed to see in those 10 seconds.
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