Ian wanted to “let bygones be bygones” and get better acquainted with what he called “our new cousin”. Allain was skeptical, but he didn’t object. Not much, anyway. I felt my head was beginning to overheat, whether from indignation or too much information, I didn’t know. Two tall glasses of teeth-chattering, ice-cold Coca-Cola couldn’t cool me down, so I went down again to see Myra for the second time that day. When I didn’t mention the name Flores even once, she relented and suggested we walk down to the barrio and watch the regular basketball game.

The moment we arrived, Buddy began showing off. At first I was flattered it was for my benefit. But he was so full of hot air I began thinking it would be a blessing if his team lost the game. They won, however, and Buddy insisted on treating Myra and me to Chippy and Coke, claiming we were the main force behind their victory. Myra was flattered. I was flattered, and that isn’t intended in a complimentary way.

It was all beginning to bore me, especially as I’d seen Bryan, Royce, Lee, Neil, and all my other barkadas practice that same sort of thing three years ago. Just the same, Myra was kinda shoving me at him like you’d think he was the only guy left in the whole world. I felt like telling her I wasn’t that desperate. Oh, I was desperate, all right. Desperate to get rid of him!

One thing snagged my attention, however. When Buddy put on his shirt – like Michael, he liked to play basketball without his shirt, although I didn’t think he looked better than Michael did without a shirt – I noticed something. It was a basketball jersey, the kind with a name and a number on the back. The name “Buddy” was slanted across the front; the number “16” and “Marquez, G.J.” above it was blazoned on the back. The name Marquez set flashbulbs popping in my mind. I asked, “Buddy, what’s your last name?”

He actually blushed and looked uncomfortable.

“Why ask? It’s my name, but I don’t even like it. I can’t stand it. Call me Buddy.”

“Oh, come on… at least, I won’t hear your full name and wonder who that was.”

“All right.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “But don’t ever use it. It’s Guiller. Guiller Marquez, Jr. You’d think that with a name like that Daddy would take pity on me and not give it to me. But I got it, so— I’m stuck with it.”

I would have given my full name – which I love – Adriel de la Vega de los Santos – and my hated nickname of Lovelove – to ask if he was related to Linda Marquez. Uncle Freddie’s Linda Marquez. But I remembered my morning’s experience and kept my mouth shut. No use risking another faux pas, even if Buddy wasn’t prone to funny spells like Mike’s mom.

“So,” Buddy said, scooting a few inches closer to me, “Myra tells me you’re going to MSU.”

I scooted a few inches away from him, mentally revising my earlier thoughts. Maybe nothing could shock him, after all – he was obviously well-cushioned, being too puffed up with himself. He scooted nearer to me again.

“Why?” he asked. “It’s obvious your family can easily send you to school in Manila if you want to.”