June 25, 1990

Mrs. Leoncio, my new adviser and English teacher, called me out to the center of the room.

She asked me to read a few paragraphs of “Little Women” in front of the class.

I was 12 years old. In the seventh grade. In my nth school. And just got back in the Philippines after two years in Goose Creek, South Carolina.

It was my first day in school. And man, was I nervous.

I started reading.
F@#$ if I remember what I was reading.

I was wearing a black shirt and jeans and my British Knights. Everyone else was wearing their school uniforms.

And everyone else was staring at me. At least it felt that way.

I kept reading, with my eyes glued to the borrowed book from my seatmate.

For some reason, they were laughing. Was it my accent? Was my fly open? Did I just fart while reading?

Mrs. Leoncio then tells me to pause whenever there was a “period” or a “comma” whenever I read aloud, and to not run through the sentences.

Clearly, I was not good in public speaking.

I tried to stay calm and looked around the room. I felt restless and embarrassed.
And then I saw her.

Her pretty face. Her lovely smile. Her beautiful skin. She was wearing a red headband.

And did I mention that pretty face?

With palms sweating I was asked to go back to my seat.

I asked my seatmate if I was really bad. He says yes, so I must have made an @$$ of myself. I probably sounded like Speedy Gonzales.

I then asked him the name of the girl with the red headband who is seated near the back.

He turned to look around.

He then told me her name.

Michelle.