Page 40 of On the Beat

I try to think of something happier. The memory of the impromptu performance still rings through my mind, with endless reverberations like the ripples of a pebble dropped into a pond. I thought I might be able to sleep or at the least wind down a few hours later, but I find myself sitting on a beach chair, staring out at the ocean with a glass of water in my hand.

Waves lap at the shore. The usually limpid blue water, so shockingly teal that it looks like something out of a retouched travel magazine cover, is now a deep navy under the moonlight. Usually, I’d be scared of the ocean–of any large bodies of water, after seeing what happened to my brother. Tonight, after singing a duet in front of thousands, I think I feel a little braver. A light breeze stirs my hair, lifting it off my shoulders, but I don’t bother to cover myself, the humidity still oppressive enough that I break into a faint sweat despite my t-shirt and shorts.

Gloria and Atarah told me that sometimes they’d get massages on the beach in Cebu, lying in their cabana, at any time of day. I could use one right now. I roll my shoulders, the tension not quite released from my body. I’m not sure it’ll ever fully leave me, not while I’m here.

Not while Ryder Black is still here.

What is it about his presence that aggravates me like this? When I refused to perform the duet with him, I did my best to put up my walls, and he bulldozed through them. No matter how I tried to say no, he convinced me otherwise.

It must be because I’m here with an agenda, an agenda calledgetting as close to Ryder Black as possible so that I can write a story about him. I have to say yes. I’ve given myself no other choice.

“You’ve really screwed up this time, Isla Romero,” I say to myself, digging my toes into the sand. It’s still warm, faintly damp, and as I gaze into the horizon, I let myself remember tonight.

After all, that night was most likely the only night I’ll ever get to spend onstage with a world-famous pop star, performing a duet with him. And I even breathed the same air—stood on the same stage—as one of my and Analyn’s favourite boy bands, SB19. I thought I was too old for boy bands when they first debuted, but she loved them so much that she convinced me to listen to their music, commandeering the car stereo. Soon enough, I fell for them, too.

I haven’t sung in—no, that’s not quite right. Everyone has to sing, or learn how to sing, or do some kind of singing when you grow up Pinoy, whether it’s church choir or karaoke or anything else. There is no choice but to. It’s essentially a national pastime. Still, I was glad my voice didn’t fail me and come out horrendously screechy at a charity concert that was being live-streamed around the world.

Thank God for small mercies.

As I gaze out on the shore, a small glimmer of movement catches my eye. At first, I think it’s just an abandoned beach towel or an umbrella rustling in the wind. But upon closer inspection, as I get up from my chair, I spy… a person.

Not just anybody. A child. A little boy. He’s running at full speed toward the water, even though the waves crashing on the shore now have to be about twice his size. The sight is not particularly reassuring. What do I do? With my feet planted in the sand, I remain paralyzed for a moment, before I find the presence of mind and reason to shout, “Stop! What are you doing?”

The boy doesn’t hear me, or else he doesn’t understand English, so I switch to Tagalog. When he still doesn’t respond, I see no choice but to run out after him.

The sand gives away under my feet, making it difficult to pick up my pace, but I still manage to break into an all-out sprint, reaching the edge of the water with an abrupt halt. I stop so suddenly that it might as well be punctuated by a record scratch. Now that I stand on the edge of the water, on the edge of all my fears…

But I spot that dark head bobbing up and down in the water, and a wrenching tug causes my stomach to lurch, at the thought that this little boy might drown there. The thought that I might see him floating face down on the water causes me to go further.

I take one step. Then another. Then, with the ocean splashing against my knees, then my thighs, then my belly button, I finally reach him.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask the kid. “It’s dangerous to be out here all alone, in the dark.”

It has to be nearly 2 AM. Where are his parents? Is this child trying to… To drown himself?

The little boy treads water and doesn’t respond. I’ll try another tactic.

“Don’t you have anyone to watch over you? Someone who would be worried if you didn’t come back?”

In the moonlight, his face is pale and earnest, his dark eyes huge. He shakes his head. I recognize him: Paulo’s cousin. The one who lost his mom. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore.”

“Not even a friend? No one who would miss you if you didn’t come back?”

Finally, he speaks out loud, his voice surprisingly mature, given the situation and his age. He can’t be a day over ten. ”I don’t care! I just want my mom back!”

My heart twists itself into a pretzel, and I wade further into the water, the warm waves lapping against my navel. “Where is your mom?”

“She’s gone. She… She went out into the water, and she didn’t come back, and all I want is to see her again.”

Despite his emotional words, he is dry-eyed. At least, until a wave slaps him in the face, plastering his hair to his forehead.

I would laugh, if I wasn’t so worried for his life. “Going out here isn’t going to bring your mom back.”

“Then what will?” He looks up at me with such sorrow, such heavy grief, that I have no idea how to answer him. The innocence of childhood is stripped away, replaced only by desperation, naivety, and pain.

“Isla!”

I turn around, wrapping my arms around myself as a chilly wind makes goosebumps rise on my skin. My clothes are soaked, cleaving to me. It’s Ryder, dashing towards us. He wears shorts and only shorts; and wades into the ocean like he’s Poseidon or something, about to blast this section of the beach with a trident.

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