I was hoping to post an entirely different entry before continuing with this story, but obviously, that didn’t happen. Trust that a whole lot of things happened during and in-between these times that I now write about, but I’ll leave that lot for some other time. So, without further ado…
The financial difficulty that my family went through was something us children never saw coming, of course. But it was something we felt. It was something we lived through because we didn’t have any other choice. What pained me that time was that I knew that my father did have a choice. He could’ve asked for aid from my lola or from some other relative, but didn’t. And even then, I knew that if he did, it was something that they wouldn’t have felt—considering how wealthy everyone else was. We hail from one of the most politically influential and relatively richer families of the last half century. What was a little cash to them?
But of course, I didn’t dare question his decisions. If anything, I supported them. Eventually, he did seek help, but not in the form that I hoped for him to. Quitting 4th grade, I, along with my sibling were to move back to Manila, and stay with my dad’s aunt. The same aunt who raised him as a child, since his own mother never really had time for him and his brother, being of the alta sociedad and all. Another school year was to go to waste, but I was okay with that.
A year later, everybody including myself, felt that I should be back in school. I took the placement test (PEPT) when I was thirteen and passed as a high school freshman. I, arrogant bastard that I was, of course felt that I was capable of even better. Letting my lola (dad’s aunt) know how I felt, I had her give “gifts” to the public school officials—who also conducted the PEPT in the area—and found out that the whole thing wasn’t entirely based on how high one scored on the test. It was also based on the examinee’s age.
The last test I took was before the system was computerized, so it was pretty easy for the officials to just pull out my name as if I never took the test the previous season, so I could re-take it. So I did. Only this time, it was the now-standard shading of the numbered choices—it was now computerized—and I put in a different birth year and of course, a different age. I put down that I was sixteen. A couple of months later, the results were out. I passed as a 4th year student.
I found this to be just awesome. I was studying as a freshman in a certain public school in Manila (which just happened to have my great grandfather as its benefactor since he donated the lot the school was built upon), all the while knowing that the following year, I wouldn’t be there. I’d be a senior somewhere else.
Just as everybody else says, there’s no life like high school life. And I had a blast during my first year. The previous year out of school, I’ve taken up smoking, drinking, and drugs—shabu, more specifically. Not because I was a rebel. But just because I wanted to. A broken family gave you lots of things, the same way it held from you some. One of those things that came with mine was freedom. And I claimed it like a rock star. I had all the vices going on, and even had my first tattoo (ugly little thing) when I was twelve years old. I was one of the most popular people in school. I spoke out when I wanted, said what I wanted, and did what I wanted. My girlfriend was a senior. I knew life wasn’t exactly made of rainbows, but again, it went good enough for me.
To be continued…
