Love & Other Firsts

By Tilay Angbetic

It’s summer 1975 and the Philippines is in the grip of martial law. Yet fourteen-year-old Ligaya has a more gripping concern: to persuade her snip-happy mother to lift her longstanding ban on long hair. Ligaya succeeds and enters her sophomore year with a new look and a new outlook. She sets out to become class president, top student, and a girl that for once, a boy would look at twice.

As she steers through the ups and downs of her family’s fortunes, the twists and turns of her first romance, and the loop-the-loops of her principal’s brain, Ligaya learns that it will take more than her smarts and occasional dumb luck to prevail.

LOVE & OTHER FIRSTS is a delightful and deeply affecting novel suffused with equal parts humor and pathos. It follows the year-long journey of firsts in the life of an idealistic young girl, set against the lush backdrop of the Philippines with its embrace of American pop culture, Roman Catholicism, Spanish customs, and Chinese cuisine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tilay Angbetic
• Release date: Jun 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466036673

Tilay Angbetic

TILAY ANGBETIC was born and raised in Cebu, where she received her B.A. in Mass Communication from the University of the Philippines. After her year-long world tour with “Up With People,” Tilay moved to New York City, where she studied the craft of writing. She now lives in San Diego, pursuing her passions for writing, travel, photography, and food.

Book preview

Love & Other Firsts

Tilay Angbetic

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Tilay Angbetic

All rights reserved.

Although certain locations and public events portrayed in this novel are factual, all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For my beloved dad, Captain Timoteo Miranda Angbetic, who filled our home library with fascinating books that nurtured my imagination from age three.

I miss you so much.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK:

You, the reader, for letting Ligaya into your world.

My freshman high school English teacher, Delia Tampos Combista, who saw merit in my writing.

Darleen Lev, my Gotham Writers’ Workshop professor, for convincing me that Ligaya’s story was worth telling.

The members of the New York Writers’ Circle and Gotham Writers’ Workshop, who offered their honest criticism.

Acclaimed authors Lesléa Newman, Annie Nocenti, and Barbara Lazear Ascher, for their suggestions for improving the first chapter of this novel.

The all-knowing Cheryl Hayden, my first draft’s beta reader.

Cheryl Klein, for her indispensable Plot Checklist and informative Brooklyn Arden blog.

The Authoress and her followers, who critiqued my work in the Secret Agent Contest.

Verla Kay and the Blueboarders, for all their inspiration.

The literary agents who took the time to offer valuable feedback, especially Katie Grimm, Chelsea Gilmore, Kate Epstein, and Steven Chudney.

My editors, Marcia Trahan and Stacy Whitman, who helped shape this novel into the best it could be.

The Cebuano Studies Center, the New York Public Library, and the San Diego Public Library, for all the research material they provided me for use in this novel.

Marlinda Ditchie Angbetic Tan, the literary trailblazer in my family, for her example and inspiration.

My dear cousin, Alma N. Gogo, and friends, Arlene Horfilla Ros, Felicitas Bondad Maxwell, Dustee Hullinger, Joy Estuart Walsh, and Billy Karp, for their constant encouragement and enthusiasm.

My eight siblings, for a childhood filled with laughter.

My beloved mom, Carmen Gogo Angbetic, for her pride and faith in me.

AND ABOVE ALL, I WOULD LIKE TO THANK:

Dave Frieder, my soulmate, cheerleader, and chief critic throughout this entire creative endeavor, for the opportunity he offered me to leave my day job so that I could focus on my writing; for the countless gifts he gave me—writing retreats, workshops, books, magazine subscriptions, and homemade gourmet meals—to support me along the way; for reading, editing, and proofreading this novel through all its numerous revisions; and for all the computer hours he spent preparing it for publication. Without his unwavering love, faith, patience, and support, this novel would not be in your hands. My gratitude and love for him are boundless.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: So Long, Short Hair!

Chapter 2: Trip and Strip

Chapter 3: First Wish

Chapter 4: The Discipline Committee

Chapter 5: Double Whammy

Chapter 6: Sugar & Spice

Chapter 7: A Night of Firsts

Chapter 8: A Lady at Last!

Chapter 9: The Filched Dress

Chapter 10: Waiting for 8:30 PM

Chapter 11: Faking It

Chapter 12: A Nose is a Nose is a Nose

Chapter 13: First Date

Chapter 14: All’s Forgiven

Chapter 15: Dare, I Daresay

Chapter 16: Seeking Help

Chapter 17: Almost

Chapter 18: The Recumbent Refrigerator

Chapter 19: French Lesson

Chapter 20: No Rs to Roll

Chapter 21: On Death and Being Dead Tired

Chapter 22: Bad News Comes in Threes

Chapter 23: Do You Really Want to Know?

Chapter 24: Knocking on Wood

Chapter 25: Four Months of Christmas

Chapter 26: The Sleepover

Chapter 27: Pine Forest Hideaway

Chapter 28: Grounded

Chapter 29: Blindsided

Chapter 30: Next!

Chapter 1

So Long, Short Hair!

MOM WAS AS PASSIONATE about the upkeep of her daughters’ hair as she was about her backyard; whenever she ran out of weeds to whack, out came the shears. She would cut our hair pixie-style like Twiggy’s. Never mind that it was 1975, and Twiggy had gone the way of the psychedelic ’60s. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle like Susan Dey’s in The Partridge Family, was now the popular look in the Philippines.

You better sit still if you don’t want the tips of your ears clipped off, Mom warned. She had just finished trimming my bangs and was about to continue with the rest of my hair, which by now had sneaked down two inches below my ears.

Mom, please don’t cut any more, I pleaded. My older sisters and all my friends have long hair. I’m the only one who still gets mistaken for a boy. How can I attract a boy when I look like one? I wanted to add.

We were out on the terrace, where I wriggled on a bar stool with a towel draped across my shoulders. From our usual spot facing the backyard, I could see the fruit and flowering trees surrounding the freshly-whacked lawn. The coconut trees taunted me with their long, swaying fronds. As if in unity, the maya sparrows chirped, Clip! Clip! Clip! while they flitted about the fragrant champaca flowers.

Mom wielded her shears just above my ear. The longer the hair, the happier the lice. It was her standard explanation. As a child, I imagined happy lice playing hide-and-seek in the vast playground of every little girl’s long hair.

But Mom, I haven’t had a lousy louse in my hair since I was seven. I threw out my usual futile response, hoping for a different result this time.

She stepped back, studying my hair and face. How old are you now? Twelve?

No, fourteen! Don’t you remember that we just celebrated my birthday two weeks ago on April Fool’s Day?

"Susmaryosep! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I can’t keep up with all seven of you."

Mom folded her arms across her chest, clicking the shears in her right hand. I held my breath. Seconds later, she put the shears back in their caddy.

You’re old enough to take care of your hair now. You can let it grow as long as you like.

Really? I was stunned. Just like that? You mean I don’t have to threaten to run away from home?

She unclasped the towel draped across my shoulders and shook it out.

Wow! I jumped off the bar stool and hugged her. Thank you, Mom. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

As my hair grew, so did my possibilities. I would no longer be mistaken for a boy. I wouldn’t have to play any more male roles during our school plays at Colegio de la Medalla Milagrosa, an all-girl Catholic school in Cebu City. I could be gorgeous like one of the hair models in Clairol’s Long & Silky ads, and maybe the boys at St. Paul’s would at last notice me, Ligaya Valencia Laksamana.

Of course, that was a big maybe. I still had to do something about my nose. Smiling made me very self-conscious; my nose always outsmiled my lips. I’d already tried using a clothespin, but it only left me with indentations on my still-sprawling nose. The flat terrain of my chest was another matter. I’d already tried doing the bust-boosting exercise in Judy Blume’s Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. Three months of exercising while chanting, I must—I must—I must increase my bust, yielded the same dismal landscape.

Before the summer ended, I had figured out a way for my nose to stop claiming more territory than it deserved. After spending hours and hours in front of my dresser mirror, contorting my face and trying on various smiles, I decided that wearing the Mona Lisa smile would do the trick. Besides, the boys would think I knew more than I let on.

To compensate for their own flat chests when they were my age, my older sisters Nang Dali and Nang Wana had padded their bras with baby cologne-scented handkerchiefs. (As a sign of respect for older sisters, it was the custom to say Nang before their names.) I never thought I’d ever consider going the same route, but I was desperate. I even convinced myself that round kitchen sponges would do a better job. So one Saturday afternoon, I grabbed two brand new pink sponges from the kitchen. On my way up to my bedroom, I heard Mom holler my name. It was her usual I-need-help-in-the-backyard call.

Oh, no. Not right now, please. I dashed to my bedroom, slipped off my duster—a sleeveless house dress with Love printed all over it in plump, pillow-like lettering—hooked on my training bra, and stuffed it with the kitchen sponges. I squeezed the cups of my bra; they felt soft and voluptuous. Pulling my shoulders back, I smiled my new Mona Lisa smile.

Ha! That should do it, I said to my dresser mirror. Nang Biyay, top these!

Nang Biyay was my older sister who didn’t need to pad her bra. She was proud of her B-cup. When we were kids, she had been the gourd in a family of string beans, but as fate would have it, all the fat converged into her breasts when she turned eleven.

To see if my stuffed bra would look natural with a close-fitting shirt, I strode to my closet and cringed when I caught sight of my third-hand school uniforms. I’d almost forgotten about the starched, pleated skirts—their monochromatic hues of sky blue displaying the succession of previous hems—and the white, long-sleeved blousons that were almost see-through with wear. Ugh. I can’t bear to wear these rags for another school year. I would have to convince Mom to ask Tita Charing to sew me a brand new uniform.

Despite her title, Tita Charing was not our aunt. She was our nanny, cook, and seamstress. We called her Tita as a sign of respect, since she had served our family from the time our parents were newlyweds.

With money tight, and four of my six siblings also returning to school in June, asking for a new uniform was like wishing for a white Christmas. To make matters worse, I was far from being Tita Charing’s favorite charge. From the moment I discovered the word why, she had decided that my curiosity would drive her to drink and drive, despite the fact she was a teetotaler and terrified of driving.

I didn’t think I was being selfish about hoping for a new uniform. I only needed one. I’d wear it every day and hand wash it with a bar of Perla detergent every other night. The cool air would dry it overnight on the clothesline.

In my closet, I spotted my black leather monk-strap school shoes. They had a year’s worth of creases and scuffs on them. I slipped on a pair of socks and tried them on. Tight. Just as I feared. But they will have to do for a while. New leather shoes were out of the budget. Besides, my toes were already bent out of shape since the third grade, when I refused to stop wearing my favorite pair of Mary Janes when I outgrew them. Wearing tight shoes couldn’t do further damage to my tamarind toes, as my oldest sister Nang Dali called them.

I took off my socks and shoes, slipped on a fitted T-shirt, and walked over to the mirror to check my profile. I sucked in my stomach and admired the smooth curve of my padded chest.

As if on cue, Nang Dali burst into my bedroom.

"Hoy, what do you think you’re doing, Miss Nose That Grew A Face?" Nang Dali yelled. She took perverse pleasure in making fun of my nose, sometimes referring to it as a smashed-up Volkswagen Beetle. Her nose was sculpted to perfection, just like Mom’s.

Mom’s been hollering for hours, Nang Dali went on. "She wants you in the backyard, ahora mismo."

I was just getting ready to go downstairs. I crossed my arms over my chest and walked back to my closet to look for a pair of shorts.

It’s about time, Nang Dali said. Your mirror’s starting to crack.

I could hear Nang Dali snicker as she slammed the door behind her. Nang Dali was a twenty-one-year-old bully, masquerading as an MA student in Guidance. Relatives and family friends who made it their duty to rank my sisters and me according to beauty often judged Nang Dali as the prettiest of the Laksamana sisters.

I was scrunched in the middle of seven siblings. We were all girls except for the youngest, Bayani. My parents kept on trying for a boy until Bayani, which means hero, finally arrived.

My name, Ligaya, means bliss—something I had yet to experience. My sisters were named Dalisay for purity, Liwanag for brilliance, Biyaya for grace, Luwalhati for splendor, and Marilag for beauty.

Since everyone and everything in the Philippines had a nickname, Mom supplied us with our own. She relished doing the roll call of our nicknames before each meal. It sounded like Santa calling his fleet of reindeer: Now, Dali! Now, Wana! Now, Biyay and Gai! On, Luwang! On, Ilag and Bai!

Before any of the children were born, Dad, Diosdado Laksamana, was a shipmaster for one of Neptune Lines’ passenger and cargo vessels. In 1971, he was named Shipmaster of the Year and received an award for heroism from President Marcos. Dad had led the rescue of 1,500 passengers from a burning ship sailing from Manila to Cebu. Unfortunately, the award meant little when the company ran aground the following year. Unable to find another high-paying shipmaster position, Dad was forced to accept the post of superintendent at the Cebu Nautical School, with a substantial cut in his salary.

Mom, Aurora Laksamana, was a medical student before World War II leveled everything her family owned and cut short her ambition to become a surgeon. Instead, she entered nursing school and became a head nurse at Queen City of the South Hospital.

Ligaya, I need you out here right now, Mom hollered from the backyard.

In a second, Mom, I yelled back.

We lived in a small community named Villa Serenidad. Our two-story adobe brick house with red tile roof was built when I was four—at a time when Dad and Mom could afford to dream big. There were six bedrooms, four bathrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a dining room, a living room, a library, maid’s quarters, a laundry room, and a terrace.

The front of the house had a reflecting pond, which teemed with goldfish and black molly until it was drained when the tadpoles and mosquito larvae outnumbered the fish. A jungle of fruit and flowering trees, all planted by Mom to surround the huge backyard, included guava, coconut, jackfruit, star apple, plumeria, and champaca.

Mom was wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand when I arrived at the backyard. Out in the sun every weekend doing yard work, she was the deep caramel color of the flesh of a chico fruit. Unlike other milk-complexioned women who hid under umbrellas, Mom was not afraid of the sun.

What took you so long? she demanded.

Sorry, Mom. I was stuck in the bathroom.

Except for Nang Dali, who had to work on her thesis, and Nang Wana, who was doing her small business internship in Bohol, the rest of my siblings were already busy mowing the lawn, trimming the hedges, watering the plants with ditch water, and picking guavas from the trees. Dad was in the library, cataloguing his books. He didn’t share Mom’s passion for yard work. Neither did my siblings and I, but we had no choice in the matter. Even when my parents had more money and could afford a gardener, a driver, and five maids, Mom didn’t spare any of her children from yard work or housecleaning. We took to calling her Mother of Perpetual Chores. Her oft-repeated motto was, You rest, you rot.

"Okay, go get the silhig tukog and dispose of the dog poop." Mom used her pursed lips to point to a broom made from stiff midribs of coconut leaves, which was leaning against the work shed.

My siblings exploded into giggles. There was nothing my siblings and I despised more than having to dispose of dog poop. As the only chore left, it always ended up assigned to the last one to make it to the backyard.

The two guard dogs were leashed to their doghouses during the day, but had free rein to reign over the backyard at night. Dad named them Spartacus and El Cid because of his fascination with Hollywood’s epic movies. A mixture of Alsatian police dog and some unknown domestic breed of monster, they were ferocious dogs with discerning taste; they preferred to gnaw on the children’s ankles than on their pig knuckles.

Jeez. Can’t the maids take care of that, Mom? I protested.

They’re busy hacking coconuts off the trees. Would you rather take their place? Mom asked.

The maids were about thirty feet above me, each hugging a coconut tree and brandishing a bolo. We were down to two live-in maids, Nelia and Digna. Even during austere times, it was not uncommon for middle-class families like mine to employ household help. Nelia and Digna, both sixteen-year-old high school dropouts, had left their homes in the province to escape poverty and earn money to send to their families. They were grateful for even the meager salary that came with free room and board.

Nelia flung a coconut to the ground. The coconut cracked upon impact. My stomach lurched. I imagined myself falling from that height—my chest impaled on the bolo for good measure. Oh, no. I’m not about to kill myself before ever having tasted my first kiss!

No way, I huffed, and left to fetch the silhig tukog and dustpan.

Although it was the last week in May and summer break was coming to an end, it couldn’t end fast enough for me. I was eager to go back to school and show off my shoulder-length hair. After a relentless campaign that included giving Mom an hour-long massage, I succeeded in convincing her to ask Tita Charing to sew me, not one, but two new uniforms. To my surprise, Mom even threw in a new pair of black leather monk-strap boy’s shoes. There was a big buy one, take one sale at Everet Shoe Store. Mom, always on the look out for bargains, bought new shoes for all the children. Considering the amount of money she spent to prepare us for school, she must have saved for more than a rainy day, perhaps even a typhoon.

My siblings and I received our yearly supply of notebooks and ruled pads of paper courtesy of a neighbor who was a bigwig at Menzi Paper Company. Instead of the usual plain manila paper, I covered my notebooks with collages of photos torn from my best friend’s old issues of Tiger Beat. That summer, I clipped photos of heartthrobs like Robby Benson and Jan-Michael Vincent. I had come a long way from my grade-school passion for collecting estampitas of saints.

The Sunday evening before the first day of school, I opened my closet one more time to run my fingers over my two new uniforms and breathe in the scent of my new leather shoes. I gazed at Robby, Jan-Michael, and the other heartthrobs smiling at me from my new notebooks scattered on my desk. I posed in front of my dresser mirror, stroking my shoulder-length hair and smiling my best Mona Lisa smile. Pleased with my transformation, I was ready to take on my sophomore year. Maybe I could be elected class president. Maybe I could make first honor. And maybe, for once, I could make a boy look at me twice.

Chapter 2

Trip And Strip

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL began like most of the school days that would follow. It was a stifling June morning and since we owned only one car, we all had to wait for Dad, our driver. Dad was such a fastidious dresser; it took him forever to choose what to wear and to polish his shoes in the morning. He was also such a slow driver that when he stopped to offer our neighbor a ride one day, she waved him off, saying that she was in a hurry. After what seemed like an endless wait, we all piled into our clunker of a Chevy Bel Air station wagon and endured the twenty-mile-per-hour journey to school. The Chevy was yolk-yellow with a white top, which made me think of eggs cooked over easy. But there was nothing easy about that station wagon. It broke down most of the time, and we had to push it to get it started again.

As soon as we arrived at school, I sprinted along the corridors like the Six Million Dollar Man to try to make it to homeroom on time. I knew that I had already missed Flag Ceremony. I climbed the stairs in twos until I reached the second floor.

Where is Section Blue? I looked left and right.

The sophomore class was divided into three sections: Blue, White, and Red. Blue for the superior to very superior students, White for the average to above average, and Red for the slow learners. I took a deep breath before knocking on the door marked 201-Blue.

Come in, Section Blue’s homeroom teacher, responded.

All eyes pointed at me when I opened the door. With sagging shoulders and a hangdog face, I tiptoed in.

The teacher looked up from her bifocals. You’re late, Ligaya, and also you’re in the wrong classroom. Go next door.

Sorry, Ma’am, but isn’t this Section Blue? I asked, nonplussed.

Correct, but you’re not in this class, she said, sounding miffed.

This can’t be happening. Me? Section White? There’s got to be a mistake! I had made third honor in my freshman year. I knew I belonged in Section Blue. My eyes started to water. I bit my lower lip.

I stormed out into the corridor and through the door marked 202-White. I walked straight to Miss Kaarte, Section White’s homeroom teacher, and demanded an explanation.

Oh, please, Miss Kaarte emoted, blinking in syncopated rhythm. She wore false eyelashes and four different pearlescent eye shadows.

Don’t take it to heart, my dear. You were assigned to Section White so you could inspire your classmates to do better in their schoolwork.

Yeah, right.

Who assigned me, Miss? My eyes blinked as fast as a police car light. I’m not going to cry.

Well, Sor Filomena, of course, she said, referring to our tyrannical principal, a nun named Sor Filomena de los Ojos. The students called her Sor Feelers because of her obsession to sniff out misconduct, real or imagined. That she resembled an insect with bug eyes, spidery frame, and chirring voice made her nickname all the more fitting.

I found Sor Feelers’s so-called faith in my ability to inspire my classmates dubious at best. Not being among her rich pet students, I was surprised I