Chapter 21

Beauty in All of My Haggardness

 

 

 

Day 1 of Commuting While Still Looking Gorgeous

The public transportation assistant, also known as the barker, yells out the locations and number of seats available to the passengers who are waiting. With Cleo and Anne next in line, the barker shouts, “Apat pa!”

In Cleo’s experience, barkers are always wrong, sometimes by a little, sometimes by a lot. Apat pa—four more—could mean one or two more. Or one. More often than not, barkers tell commuters that there are plenty of seats available when in truth, there’s only one or two left, just like now.

A twelve-seater jeepney painted in colorful artwork is waiting to fill up, but because it’s rush hour and the traffic jam envelopes the city, Cleo and Anne have no choice but to squeeze themselves inside. Since there’s only one seat available, Cleo gives it to Anne while she sits on the center floor. She feels lucky compared to the men who are at the jeepney’s bar at the rear, hanging onto the railings and blocking egress on and off.

“Sabit, boss,” one man says, paying his fare to the barker as he tightly grips the railing. It’s dangerous, but they’ll do anything to get to their jobs on time.

Cleo’s supposed to book a ride on the way to BGC, but it looks like all drivers are busy. She can’t get hold of one, so this is the next best option. Taking the jeepney means squeezing her butt inside and absorbing the sweat of the other commuters in their long sleeves and black pants. Sitting in the middle, she’s finding it hard to breathe, and even if she can get some air, the heat and odors will probably suffocate her She honestly doesn’t know if her makeup will survive the trip. She can feel a light layer of sweat forming. She decides to tie her hair in a bun.

Anne takes a notebook out of her bag, handing it over to Cleo as a fan substitute. Cleo waves the notebook at the side of her neck, hoping to get some air on her skin. She can’t stand the stench emanating from her t-shirt. It feels like she didn’t shower at all.

“Leo, are you okay?” Anne asks, almost falling from her seat with the way people are squeezing around them like canned sardines.

Cleo wants to laugh and cry. She doesn’t want to dwell on the pageantry or obsess about the pageant and her breakup with Owen. But she knows she needs to keep up with the other candidates. She’s already lost love; she can’t afford to lose her career, too.

“Sometimes, Anne, I just want to be a kindergarten teacher like you,” Cleo muses, gazing at the coloring books Anne has in her clear plastic envelope. “It must be nice to see all these little bits of happiness.”

A vendor sells bottled water at the roadside. Anne buys one and gives it to Cleo.

“One day at a time, Leo. But know I’ll always be here for you, okay? And happiness starts within you.”

Cleo drinks the water, not wanting to reveal more than she already has. It’s also kind of embarrassing to have an emotional breakdown moment with twelve people inside the jeepney. In a moment when some are busy on their phones and others are sleeping, Cleo tries to use the time to regroup and reach the beauty camp with a much more organized mind.

Unfortunately, Cleo gets to the beauty camp half an hour later than their call time. Deborah’s waiting for her in the living room, staring down at her and inspecting her face and body.

 

Cleo’s hair has gone astray, melting alongside all those other warm bodies has ruined her makeup. She’s not looking so great, but she tried her best. Deborah’s not impressed with how she presented herself, though. And she’s not in an understanding frame of mind.

“Sweat. Smeared makeup.” Deborah circles around Cleo. “Unkept hair. High heels covered with dirt and . . . is that bubblegum I, see?”

“I’m so sorry. Traffic is—”

“Wake up earlier. It’s not my fault we don’t have a good road mapping system.”

Cleo sighs. “Got it. It won’t happen again.”

 

Day 2 of Commuting While Still Looking Gorgeous

If there’s a day Cleo hates more than Monday, it’s Saturday. She only hates it at times like this. The Saturday morning traffic is hell. Coming from a subdivision in Quezon City going to the commercial hub in the high streets of Taguig, Cleo knows she’ll spend at least two hours in transit. If there’s anything she hates in this country aside from its handful of corrupt politicians is the infuriating traffic. Since it’s a Saturday and everyone wants to be out somewhere, the roads are filling up with six-wheeler trucks, twelve-to-thirteen-seater jeepneys, cars, motorcycle ride-sharing services, and the FX express van she’s currently on. Even more problematic are drivers who won’t follow the traffic lights, so they all somehow end up squeezed together in the middle, completely stationary.

Tap. Tap.

A woman in tattered clothes, carrying a sleeping baby in her arms, taps the driver’s window. As usual, the driver taps the window back as a sign of refusal. Along with the traffic are the beggars, street vendors, and street dwellers. Traffic for them is a blessing because it means they have a better chance of a handout or a sale.

Cleo sees the motorcycle taxis and almost wishes Owen were with her. If he were here, he could get her to the beauty camp in no time, but she has to do this on her own. Part of her problem before was that she used to rely on Owen to get her anywhere. She knows he’d never leave her alone without any help. This time, she needs to make her own way.

From jeepney to FX rides, Cleo’s sort of getting the hang of commuting from one side to another. If there’s no FX available, she takes the jeepney and vice versa. She’s living by a rule that the first public transportation she sees, she grabs. Even if it’s not a direct drop-off point, if she waits any longer than five minutes, she’ll be late. It’s already a blessing that she gets to be in the FX.

The most important part thing is for the jeepney or the FX to get her to the Triangle Mall so she can get to the train station on Quezon Avenue in time to catch her train. From there, it should be smooth sailing, but the lines for rail transportation take almost three hours or more on a bad day.

Thankfully, Cleo’s arrives only fifteen minutes after the set call time.

“It’s 9:15. Late. Again,” Guinevere chides Cleo, shaking her head in disapproval.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be here earlier.”

 

Day 6 of Oh, Wait, I Lost Count

Trying to get out of the train car, Cleo pushes her way out of the crowd, carrying her high heels in one hand, and just when she’s about to finally free herself from the pack of people shoving and pushing her to the other side, the train’s door closes.

Cleo silently mouths a curse word. She has no choice but to wait for the next station, which is Buendia. She holds onto the train’s safety handrails and hopes her high heels will still be in one piece by the time she gets out of there. Already, her head’s aching from spending so much time commuting.

As soon as Cleo hears the announcement that they’re approaching Buendia she gears up and readies herself. She stares hard at the door, lifting her precious high heels first and hoping that everyone knows better than to cross a woman who has her high heels in hand. The instant the doors open, she runs out of the train car like her life depends on it.

“Phew,” Cleo mutters under her breath, hands on her knees. She tries to catch her breath, and when she does, she taps her card on the station’s turnstile and dashes down the stairs. She books a car, hops on it and flops down on the seat. She re-applies her makeup and fixes her hair on the way to the destination, ensuring that not a single strand strays into her face. She smoothes out her white t-shirt and goes into beauty queen mode, stretching her smile.

Minutes later, Cleo reaches the beauty camp, wondering who’ll be meeting her this time to tell her she’s late. But day by day, her late time gets shorter, so she’s expecting that today will be better than the previous ones.

“Lady Quezon City!” Deborah exclaims, tilting her head to one side and checking Cleo from head to toe like always.

“How many minutes this time?” Cleo worriedly asks.

Deborah smiles. “On minute.”

“Really?” Excitement flashes through Cleo’s eyes, her face brightening up at the thought of being on time. “Oh, thank God!”

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Great. We’re going for a run in a forest park in Ermita, Manila. The van’s waiting.”

 

 

“Chezka, I just don’t understand why I was still asked to come to the camp when I can go directly here?”

Cleo and Chezka stand in running attire, doing warmup stretches. “I’m telling you, those two are crazy.”

“Listen up!” Guinevere calls the candidates’ attention. “Go for a relaxing run, and then we’ll spice things up later. I don’t want to see any of you here at the entrance on Debbie’s whistle. Got it?”

“Yes!” the candidates agree in unison.

As Deborah blows the whistle, the candidates sprint towards the trails, which are lush with greenery, and Cleo instantly feels the warm breeze. Distracted, she takes in the beauty of nature. This forest park of Ermita, Manila, is the only nature park in the city. It’s home to thousands of tree varieties, like the macopa, mango and santol. The thick bushes and fruit-bearing trees are a sight to behold. It’s paradise in the midst of chaos, and the tranquility it offers slowly seeps into Cleo and feels like a long-lost friend. Alongside the forest is a river where the sunlight casts its golden rays on the dark waters.

Cleo’s so enamored with the picturesque view she didn’t catch what Guinevere was saying. She slows down and accidentally collides with another candidate who’s opening the bottle cap of her energy drink.

“Oh, so sorry!” the candidate exclaims, worrying over Cleo’s stained sports bra.

“It’s okay.” Cleo smiles after finally getting a fresh breath of air. “Let’s just run.”

The candidate presses her hands to her flushed cheeks. “I can feel my cheeks getting red from the heat. Look, I want to make it up to you, so why don’t you sit over there, and I get you something?”

“No, it’s really okay, Lady . . .”

“Rizal. And please,” Lady Rizal insists. “I’ll get you a water. If I can’t help you with the stain, then the least I can do is get you a drink.”

Seeing as there’s no use arguing with her, a breathless Cleo sits on a bench. She smiles at Lady Rizal and tries to breathe her pounding heart back to its regular rhythm.

“Wait for me,” Lady Rizal says. The two moles on her right cheek stretch when she grins.

“Okay.”

And so Cleo waits, humming a lullaby to herself. The park has been closed down for their visit, so it’s nice to be alone for a while. Quiet. Still. She almost laughs at herself for remembering the word still. She’s far different from being still now.

As Cleo contemplates, she hears a shout from Deborah. “What are you doing? It’s a race, Cleo! Keep up!”

Deborah breezes past Cleo, who’s taken aback. It only just hit her that she’s the only one left lagging behind. No, she isn’t going to wait for the mineral water. And besides, it doesn’t look like Lady Rizal’s coming back. This entire situation yells sabotage. Great, just great. After finally getting to the camp on time, she ends up being tricked by a candidate.

This competition isn’t for good-natured safe-playing people. What looks like a simple race is a game of faces, tactics, and manipulation skills; in other words, the game of outwitting opponents. She’s being targeted, just as Chezka said.

Cleo darts ahead with all her strength, applying enough pressure to the heels of her feet to keep up. She’s panting and running out of breath, but she doesn’t care. She isn’t going to let Lady Rizal rattle her.

“Look here.”

Snap.

Of all the times Erik could choose Cleo’s photo, he just has to pick a time when she’s sweat-drenched to capture an epic failure of face. Just like the rest of them, he’s also in his running gear, and he looks good in it. As he runs with her, the other girls glance over their shoulders so they can ogle him.

“Looks like you got yourself some fans,” Cleo observes, slowing down to catch her breath.

“Why do you seem so surprised? Because you don’t have any?”

Cleo stops and leans her hands on her knees, trying to calm her rapid breathing. “Are you crazy? I’m maganda kaya, and I’m going to be the Lady Pearl of the Philippines.”

Erik snaps a photo of her again, laidback and unconcerned. “See? Confidence isn’t so hard, is it? And you are, Cleo.”

“I am what?”

“Maganda.” Erik winks, leaving her struggling on her own as he takes photos of the other girls.

Cleo believes that. She is beautiful. She feels beautiful. And no matter how much other candidates sabotage her, she’ll always be the beauty queen she is.

Cleo runs again and catches sight of the finish line. Since no one else is around, figures she’s winning. The thought gives her a rush that spikes her adrenaline, so she tears through the ground as she’s never done before. She stops distracting herself, focusing solely on the finish line.

When Cleo sees the old mailbox, the marker of their finish line, she dashes past it and broadly grins, happy that she got here first. Drained, she collapses on the ground, stretching her legs in between wheezes.

“Last place.”

Cleo looks up and finds Guinevere offering her bottled water—the cause of her delay. “What?”

“You’re the last one to finish,” Guinevere comments, disappointment on her face.

Cleo takes big gulps from the bottle and wipes her mouth with her hand. No matter how much she tries to downplay the sabotage that held her back, it’s just not working out. Oh, Lady Rizal has just declared war.