PALMA'S POV
7:00 AM —
Somewhere between caffeine withdrawal and world domination
Suspension Day 5.
Honestly? I am thriving.
My body launches off the bed like a possessed jack-in-the-box. Blanket flies. Pillow slams against the wall. My soul briefly detaches and says, "Girl, chill," but I ignore it.
I stomp into Bea's room like she pays rent here. She doesn't. It's my house though.
The door? Nonexistent to me. Boundaries? Also nonexistent.
She's half-awake, brushing her hair with the grace of a paralyzed llama, eyes unfocused, mouth open, like she's buffering.
I clap —
no,
smack the back of her head with my palm.
"You've got ten minutes, Mendoza. And yes, I'm counting in dog years."
She makes a sound like a dying blender. "You're evil."
"ANO BA?!"
"And if you're not dressed by then, I will carry you into school bridal-style and sing 'Twinkle Twinkle' like it's a war anthem. Try me."
That lights a fire under her. Her eyes widen like she just saw the ghost of GPA Past.
I exit like a queen, arms raised, imaginary crowd cheering, and flop onto our unnecessarily massive couch (custom-made, gold-threaded, possibly cursed, definitely expensive).
I sprawl dramatically like I'm the final girl in a horror film. One leg on the backrest. One arm dangling. Ponytail? Lazy. Mascara from three days ago that Bea forcefully made me wear? Still holding on. I pull on a hoodie that was lying on the couch. And wait for Bea.
I don't do effort. I am the aesthetic.
A crash. A loud bang. A scream that sounds like it came from hell's voicemail inbox.
"BEA, ARE YOU FIGHTING YOUR CLOSET AGAIN?"
"I SWEAR THIS SKIRT IS POSSESSED."
Valid. Her closet is an interdimensional monster. I tried entering once and nearly lost a shoe and my will to live.
She storms out like a rejected telenovela villain. Hair uneven. Tie strangling her neck. Socks mismatched. Lip gloss on her forehead.
"LET'S GO, KI!"
Yeah. She calls me Ki. Short for KILIG (a Filipino word for butterflies-in-your-stomach feelings). Because apparently, I make people feel stuff.
She's not wrong.
I toss her the keys like a cool anime protagonist. She ducks. Lets them fly past her head.
Deliberate.
"I'm driving."
"You scare me behind the wheel."
"I scare you in general."
Fair.
She hops in shotgun. I grab a banana on the way out, throw it across the kitchen, and somehow it lands perfectly back in the fruit bowl. Skills.
We get in the car. The one that looks like we either belong to the mafia or a K-pop agency.
Or we're late for my TITA'S (aunt's) birthday party.
---
BEA'S POV
7:18 AM —
Chaos is my morning skincare
I did not survive thirteen years of academic oppression to be threatened with lullabies before coffee. But here I am.
Palma's driving like she has eight unpaid parking tickets and zero remorse.
I stare out the window dramatically. "If I die, delete my search history."
"Already done. Also cleared your drafts. They were cringe."
"YOU READ MY POETRY?"
"It rhymed 'heart' with 'start' and mentioned rain five times."
"I was going through something."
"You were going through Wattpad in 2015."
She's insufferable. I love her.
The windows are down. Wind slaps us in the face like we owe it money. She's blasting some unholy remix of romantic J-pop and 90s punk rock, screaming lyrics out of tune.
She sings like she's auditioning for a banshee choir.
I join in because I'm no better.
Halfway through the drive, she swerves to avoid a squirrel (or maybe a leaf) and I nearly die.
"YOU CANNOT KEEP DOING THAT."
"Respect the squirrel."
"It was a shadow."
"Shadows have feelings."
I scream into the wind.
She slurps on a smoothie she made from expired mangoes, one Red Bull, and chaos. I don't even ask. I just pray.
We pass by a group of students walking.
Palma honks like she's a wedding car.
"GOOD MORNING, PEASANTS!"
One flips us off. She blows a kiss.
"ICONIC," I mutter.
She winks. "We live to irritate."
"It's genetic," she once told me. "My LOLO (grandfather) started it."
---
We pull into the school parking lot like the climax of a heist movie. Tires screech. Dust flies. A bird takes off in terror.
I adjust my tie. "We made it."
She grins like a wolf who just tasted drama. "Barely."
"Try not to miss me too much."
I roll my eyes. "I'll cry into my cafeteria mystery meat."
The car's still moving forward.
Her phone buzzes.
She freezes.
"...Oh. Hell no."
She slams the brakes.
Throws the car into reverse.
And mutters,
"We forgot something. Something important."
"BAKIT?!" (Why?!) I scream internally. Please tell me it's not our A.P. project.