Single Yellow Female

CHAPTER I - Here Comes the Bride

“You really should be married by now.”

It didn’t take a genius to know who was hissing at me from across the cramp room. The smell of yards and yards of fabric wafted up my nostrils. I did my best not to gag. Instead I kept my eyes down, valiantly struggling to remove a non-existent stain from my immaculate white shirt. But of course those piercing dagger eyes were still on me, boring a hole through my icy, nonchalant façade. Unfortunately, the dagger eyes were winning.

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Really, it should be illegal to carry eyes like those without a license.

With short, gasping breaths, I willed myself never to look up, knowing full well the consequences of doing so. The heat of her stare was suffocating. It would be the beginning of another of her numerous monologues – all burning down to the exact same point. A one-sided “discussion” -– one I would never win. Ever. It would be best to avoid the unavoidable, even just for a few minutes. Maybe, if God really loves me, the floor would open up and swallow me now before the inevitable happened.

Apparently, God doesn’t.

The eyes must have gotten tired of staring. A flying pincushion hit me squarely on the head and fell on my lap -– taunting. The metal pins stuck out defiantly, burning brightly against the orange monstrosity that almost ruined my already messy hair. With morbid interest, I realized that some of the pins were sticking out the wrong way -– the dangerously wrong way. The thought that I could have died on the spot was pathetically enticing. Anyhow, it would have been a much kinder fate.

Are you trying to kill me? Mental telepathy never works. Reluctantly I raised my head and found myself staring into those eyes. I willed myself not to flinch from the waves of contempt and disappointment that radiated from her eyes. It would not be long now. I could almost hear her teeth, grinding in anticipation. She licked her lips and I braced myself for the oncoming blow. Yup, this is going to be one of those goddamn days.

“Come see Gigi’s wedding gown!”

The voice could have rung out from the deepest pit of hell and I wouldn’t have cared. Maybe God does love me after all. I smiled at the figure sitting across me, fighting hard to keep the smugness and relief out of my lopsided smile. I seemed almost … apologetic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she bared her fangs in a sneer, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Later” was written all over her face. Not that it mattered, though. I had successfully evaded another episode of catatonia. Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett often says. Not that my mother would know Scarlett anyway.

“Sinong Scarlett?” (”Who is Scarlett?”)

I stared at her in disbelief. Does she really have telepathic powers? Merciful God! Suddenly, death sincerely seemed like a very viable prospect. It was in this moment of sheer distress, panic and despair that I realized my mother had been saying something else –- something that had nothing to do with anyone named Scarlett. My mother, ladies and gentlemen -– armed with a withering stare and the power to drive me ballistic with one smirk. No wonder I’ve been diagnosed with paranoia.

Then a bundle of pure joy bounced up and into the room, taking up half of the cramp office’s remaining space. I soon recognized the bouncing bundle as my Auntie Hellen, mother of the blushing bride-to-be. She was flushed, barely able to speak after squeezing out of the cramp hell hole known otherwise as the fitting room. A grin broke her full moon face in half as she battled to regain her breath, vigorously fanning her sweaty mass of flesh with swollen hands. Would it send me straight to hell to wish that Auntie would choke on her own excitement and die?

She didn’t, though, and I could see Mother waiting patiently with a faux smile fixed painfully on her face. It felt like a hundred years before sweaty Aunt Hellen was able to speak. By then my eyes had retreated to the back of my head, enjoying a moment of joyous solitude. My hands – without thinking – had busied themselves picking out old scabs off the crusty couch. A build-up of faux leather crumbs gathered beside me, waving goodbye to the couch they had desperately clung to for much too long.

“It’s gorgeous!” Auntie finally managed to blurt out.

Almost on cue, Gigi stepped out of the fitting room, coyly showing off the gown and her robust figure. The modista was hot on her trail, admiring every single swish her handiwork made. Mother gave a small nod of approval, the same mirthless smile nailed to her porcelain face. Auntie was beyond herself with joy, clapping at every little sashay her darling daughter made around the cramp office. She was giddy -– like a schoolgirl on cough syrup. Gigi herself was red with pride, blushing fiercely like a marshmallow left out in the sun too long.

I have to admit, though, that Gigi did look beautiful in her wedding gown. The off-shoulder cut magnificently revealed her round shoulders and creamy complexion. The beads, though, were a little too much for my taste. Rows upon rows of beads were sewn into the bodice – creating a massive, indestructible, Mazinger Z armor. More of those beads spilled down the gown, creating a landslide of sorts. The gown was unbelievably long – as most wedding gowns are wont to be – with a detachable train lengthy enough to hang fifteen men all at the same time. Ruffa would have withered in shame.

“So what do you think?”

It took several agonizing seconds for me to realize I’d been asked THE question. I could have run. I could have smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, I didn’t. Gripped by an unseen force and a lethal desire to ruin everybody’s day, I opened my mouth and said,

“It looks okay, but the beads …”
“Swarovski crystals.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Swarovski. They’re not beads.”
“Oh.”

Apparently, it was the cue everyone was waiting for to start ignoring me. Auntie launched into a lively monologue on the fine virtues of expensive, expensive Swarovski crystals. Beads, she spat out in contempt. They’re not beads, she said, haranguing no one in particular. Mother seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings, opting to play “snake” on her cellphone instead. Gigi, of course, was still hamming it up for the full-length mirror, with the modista fussing over her every move. Five grown women and a wedding gown, trapped in a cramp hole-in-the-wall dress shop that no one’s ever heard of before.

It’s a goddamn circus, and the wedding hasn’t even started.

“Where’s the bridesmaid?”

The chirpy modista’s voice rang out, shattering my moment of self-induced comatose. In the flurry of activities, I had almost forgotten what I was actually there for. The thought sent shockwaves through my entire being. The modista beckoned me into the fitting room, smiling. I was frozen, unable to leave my seat. My mouth went dry, and all I could manage were pathetic choking sounds.

“Get up.”

One withering look from Mother, and I knew I had no choice. With leaden feet, I trudged into the hell hole, trying hard not to whimper along the way. What came next was a scene straight out of a horror movie. To say that the dress was a monstrosity would be a grievous understatement. In truth, it was a decent gown -– a perfectly normal “made for the bridesmaid” one. Except that in the rush of getting things done, no one had taken the time to tell me what color the wedding motif was.

It was yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow. A lemony, god-my-eyes-can’t-see yellow. Against my skin, the dress reflected a ghastly, emaciated glow that painted “SICK” all over my forehead. My cheekbones protruded in the most frightening way, exuding the image of a richly-dressed refugee. The sight on the mirror was unbearable.

“Married women can’t be bridesmaids right?” I asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing.”

Maybe I really should be married by now.

CHAPTER II – Gino

“Your mother’s right, you know.”

I looked up, suddenly uncertain of the fact that I have known the man across me for more than twenty years. He smiled back smugly, contented with the thought that he had successfully pushed a humongous panic button, enough to send me searching for the nearest exit.

“Not that I’m proposing, mind you.”
“I don’t expect you to, moron.”

The last word, I hissed beneath my breath, silently muttering a few more unprintables just for good measure.

“I heard you.”
“So you did.”

Nobody actually knows how a staring contest begins, and for us, it was no different. I found myself staring at the boyish face across the table, battling the urge to end the contest by breaking furniture over his head. My eyelids were slipping against my will, threatening to betray me. I hate losing. I kicked his leg and blinked. He yelped.

“Do you really have to get violent?!”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m still right, though, and you know that,” he insisted, vigorously rubbing his injured leg.

I sighed, defeated. The quaint little nameless coffee shop was bare, save for us and the dour waitress. Cracks ran amok on the brownish-gray walls –- a mural of neglect that seemed queerly artistic under the dingy glow of fluorescent light. Has it really been more than twenty years? On days like this, twenty years just seem too long. I stared quizzically at Gino, unsure of what had kept us together all these years.

“You can stop staring anytime now.”

I stared down at my hands, mindlessly grinding cheap pink tissue into the greenness of the table. I was never quite sure how it came to be, except that he had been kind enough to share his gum with me in the playground one kindergarten day. Unhygienic, yes, but to a five-year old, shared candy is a tried and tested formula for instantaneous friendship. The fact that we’ve withstood more than twenty years of each other defies logic. Which isn’t really so surprising, considering that nothing about Gino is logical. Nothing about the two of us ever is.

Over the years, Gino and I have played hokey-pokey with each others’ lives, drifting in and out for no good reason at all. After graduating from high school, meeting up with him had become a luxury I could barely afford –- not with endless projects and papers waiting to be completed. I had my friends and he had his. We gave no explanations, provided no excuses for not being physically there for each other. Somehow, though, it seemed as if we never truly left each other’s lives, unceremoniously picking up wherever we left off each time.

“Are you even listening to me?”

I looked at him blankly, not quite sure there was anything I could say to feign awareness. Gino sighed, obviously pissed that I hadn’t even heard a thing he said. Honestly, I wasn’t even aware that he had been speaking at all.

“You could repeat it, couldn’t you?” I half-begged in jest, batting my eyelashes in an attempt to humor him. Puppy eyes always do the trick.
“You’re nuts. I’m not saying it again.”

I pouted, sure that he hadn’t been actually saying anything meaningful anyway. If it had been important enough, Gino would have repeated it a dozen times. He could have been talking about his latest girlfriend for all I cared.

“I said people think we’re a couple.”

I looked up in surprise, unsure that I hadn’t been hearing things again. After all, schizophrenia is quite the family heirloom. The shock must have registered clearly on my face. Gino stared blankly at the wall, obviously waiting for me to speak up. Not that I haven’t heard it before. Ever since high school, people have been expecting us to somehow end up together, simply because we were always together. What shocked me was the fact that neither of us had ever brought it up before, simply because the idea of a romantic relationship between the two of us always had the ability to shut us both up effectively.

I racked my brains, unsure of what to say. Or what he wanted me to say.

“We aren’t,” I finally blurted out.
“Yes we are.”

Something in Gino’s tone told me the worst had passed. I looked up and saw the biggest mischievous smile on his face. He was grinning from ear to ear, and I knew that he had decided to let the topic go – again.

“You’re my Susie,” he needled.
“My name is not Susie. Why can’t you just call me Rain like everybody else?”
“Other people call you Rain. Your Gino calls you Susie.”
“My name is not Susie!” I insisted through gritted teeth. As a child, Gino found it amusing that his name was a mere letter away from that of a powdered milk mascot. The rest, as they say, is history.

“So what you’re trying to tell me, Susie, is that your cousin Gigi’s edged you out again.”
“Pretty much,” I said, grateful that he had changed the topic.
“We’re funny, aren’t we? Racing children towards their wedding day like there’s no tomorrow.”
“That’s Tsinoy for you.”
“Just glad I’m not a girl, then. Too bad for you, though,” he said in mock sympathy.

I sighed, knowing he was right again. One thing we had in common was our background – both of us coming from Chinese-Filipino families. We couldn’t have had it more differently, though, simply because I’m a girl and he’s a boy. His sympathy was one thing, but I was never really sure he understood.

“Your aunt must be jumping for joy.”
“She is. It’s more like bouncing, though.”
“I just don’t understand why getting married is such a big deal for Chinese girls. I mean, it’s not like staying single at twenty-eight is a cause for worry.”
“You don’t get it because you’re a guy! You’re not supposed to have a biological clock go haywire if you stay single beyond thirty.”
“You believe that crap?”
“Of course not. Besides, I really couldn’t care less. Getting hitched and having a bunch of kids isn’t really at the top of my list, you know.”
“How’s Gigi holding up?”
“She’s never been happier. I mean, seeing her face, you’d think she was born and raised just for this.”
“Aren’t you even the least bit jealous? Admit it. You’ve never even had a boyfriend.”
“I have you,” I teased. Gino snorted, running one hand through his hair in disbelief.
“You always say that. But you never follow through.”
“That’s because you prefer brown over yellow.”

It was a running joke we shared, though quite true, really. Gino’s had his fair share of women in college – to his parents’ chagrin. “Why can’t you find a decent Chinese girl to marry?” The question exasperated Gino no end. It was bad enough that they hated him for being so un-Chinese, they had to deal with his Pinay girlfriends, too.

“They set me up, you know that? They had me meet this girl in a restaurant. She had her parents there with her. Her parents were asking me about my future way before the main course arrived.”
“What did you say?” I asked out of curiosity.
“I told them I’d be a great house painter, after successfully earning my Painting degree from college.”
“And they walked out the door right after you said that.”
“Pretty much.”
“Your father must be so proud.”
“As proud as you mom is of you, I bet.”
“To us,” I proposed.
“And to them.”

We raised our coffee cups – a toast to childhood trauma and the destruction of our parents’ aspirations.