Another Word for Happy

By Agay Llanera

What does it take to come out of the closet?
Since he was thirteen, Caleb has always known he’s gay. Now a college freshman, he falls in love for the first time. If it’s true that love conquers all, then will Caleb finally find the courage to reveal his secret?
In this tale about family, friendship and self-discovery, find out how Caleb discovers the path to the freedom he’s always longed for. Here’s a hint: it involves doing things outside his comfort zone, such as joining a spoken word group!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Agay Llanera
• Release date: Oct 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370612468

Agay Llanera

Agay Llanera is a freelance writer for television and video based in Manila, and a published writer of children’s books.Her children’s book Sol is available online, and can also be read at http://www.canvas.ph/about_Sol.htm.Email her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Another Word for Happy

Agay Llanera

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Agay Llanera, 2016

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book, and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design for this edition by Caryn Paredes-Santillan

Edited by Chris Mariano

Chapter 1: Keynote

Caleb was wearing his sky-blue bowtie with the tiny dots. His outfit was an ode to calmness, from the bowtie to the turquoise shirt to the indigo jeans. The colors of the sea and sky in the early morning, a harmony of graduated shades of blue.

It made him wish he were on the beach this stuffy Friday night. Instead, he was leaning on a lamppost outside a convenience store, suffocating under the blanket of heavy air. He dipped a forefinger between his buttoned-down collar and neck, and felt his flesh damp with perspiration.

To top it off, Ginny was late. Caleb should have lingered in the shower. Eaten a sandwich before leaving. Or continued obsessing about his practical exam that afternoon when his mind temporarily went blank while playing a Mozart piece.

But as usual, Caleb had arrived at the appointed time, a slave to a built-in metronome that measured out the durations of his tasks, even if he was deliberately taking it slow.

Despite the humidity, he anticipated his reward. Tonight, the notes and scales that had haunted him for weeks would fade into a few hours of air conditioning and the sleek Hollywood frenzy of superheroes fighting villains. Finally, he was going to watch the blockbuster movie everyone else had seen.

Cale!

His chin snapped up, eyes locating Ginny’s beaming face. It was framed by the backseat window of a taxi crawling into a stop in front of him.

Get inside, she called out. Change of plans.

You’re late. Caleb’s voice sounded bored. But already, he could feel his inner metronome ticking, asserting its rhythm over Ginny’s unwelcome surprise. We’re still watching the movie, right?

This is better. Ginny nodded, the dyes of purple, blue and pink glinting on her chin-length hair like metallic confetti. "Infinitely better."

For a few seconds, Caleb considered blowing her off and watching the movie by himself. But the skies decided for him. Without warning, a sheet of rain unfurled, assaulting him with liquid bullets. Caleb yelped and yanked on the door handle. He scrambled into the backseat, bumping hips with Ginny.

He made sure he was scowling when he said, This better be awesome, Gins.

* * *

It was infinitely worse.

His collar had clung to his damp neck like onionskin. The pineapple shake he’d ordered was more slush than fruit. And he wanted to watch an action movie, not Ginny making awkward moves on Noel, their gangly blockmate who played flute.

Like most indie cafes, this one scrimped on light bulbs, air conditioning, and space. He and Ginny had been lucky to grab an empty table—even if one of its legs wobbled each time Caleb set down his glass. Patrons who arrived late filled the gaps between the tables, pretending that spending the night on their feet was no problem at all.

Each time the door swung open, Caleb held his breath as the cigarette smoke outside streamed into the café. He wanted to leave now and save himself the agony of watching Ginny chat Noel up, who looked so nervous that all someone had to do was kick him behind the knees and everyone would be yelling Timberrr!

Caleb?

He flinched and looked up at a girl who had stopped by his table.

Your name’s Caleb, right? She smiled, dimples dotting both cheeks. The pianist from MusicFest?

Even in the dimness, Caleb could see that she was pretty. Gorgeous, even. Bright eyes fringed with thick lashes. Full lips. A rise of slender shoulders revealed in a ruffled white dress. Long wavy hair she now combed back with her fingers, leaving the top puffed like the crest of a wave.

With the confident way she carried herself, Caleb guessed that she was either a junior or a senior. And with the way people kept sneaking glances at her, Caleb had a sinking feeling everyone knew her. Everyone except him. He stood up, towering over her.

Hi, how’s it going?

Her eyes glinted as she held out a hand. Tara. I hosted Musicfest last month. She laughed, a sound that reminded Caleb of the warble of harp strings. "I don’t like Taylor Swift, but when you played her song at the festival? God, I was an instant convert."

Caleb stared at her, still not remembering her from the annual fundraising event of their school’s music department. He was probably too busy being nervous about his performance to notice the host.

She turned to her companion. Drew, you were there, right? I’m sure you remember Caleb’s performance.

The guy named Drew didn’t acknowledge her question. Caleb watched the well-groomed mestizo smooth down his creaseless polo shirt as his chinito eyes flitted across the room. They landed on the small stage in front, where a pair of squat speakers flanked a microphone stand.

Rolling her eyes, Tara turned to Caleb. Are you here to share your poetry, too? We get a lot of first timers on open-mic night.

Horrified, Caleb shook his head before gesturing to Ginny and Noel. I’m here because of them.

Cool, she enthused, following his line of sight. I don’t recognize the girl with the cool hair, but I do know Noel. He’s one of our new members.

Uh, you guys want to sit down? He mentally clapped his hand over his mouth. Ginny would kill him if he gave up her seat. Why did he suck in small talk?

To his relief, Tara waved his offer away. We need to prep a few things before the program. She nudged her friend’s elbow. Let’s go?

Caleb was still reeling from the strange encounter when, minutes later, Ginny plopped down beside him.

Noel’s fourth to perform. She snatched his pineapple shake and slurped it down.

You mean I have to endure four of these…what? Poetry readings? I can’t believe I’m sweating like a pig here instead of watching Ironman being ironic.

"It’s called spoken word, FYI. She dabbed a paper napkin on her forehead before smoothing down her hair. And did my eyes deceive me or were those Tara Locsin and Drew Trinidad you were talking to?"

He felt his jaw unhinge. How can you possibly know their full names? When Ginny shot him an impatient look, Caleb continued grudgingly. "The girl was the only one talking, FYI. The guy was a total snob. Tara recognized me from Musicfest."

Ginny squawked into his ear. Really? They’re like, the most important people here. Tara and Drew are the founders of Wordplay!

Caleb didn’t care if they were the founders of the universe. But he held his tongue and drained what was left of his drink. His stomach rumbled.

There’s another co-founder, Franco De Leon? Awesome performer. The best according to Noel. She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Actually, Franco and Drew used to be a couple. A very recent break up."

In front, the microphone screeched out feedback that had Caleb wincing and covering his ears.

Hi, everyone!

Tara was on stage, clear-voiced and confident, with the stance of a person comfortable with being the center of attention. As she talked about the school organization named Wordplay, and how it began a year ago as a poetry outlet among friends, Caleb hailed a server. By the time Tara was done talking, a plate of steaming rice and chicken teriyaki had been plunked down in front of him.

I know you’ve been waiting for the performances so I’m going to shut up now. She gave the crowd a dazzling smile. But tonight, we’re changing things up and opening with a bang. She paused. Guys, give it up for Franco De Leon!

The thunderous applause came out of nowhere, causing Caleb to choke on his chicken. How it was possible for people his age to get this excited over self-penned, awkward poetry was beyond him. Against his better judgment, his eyes drifted to the stage.

Everyone was going wild for that someone up there, who had just acknowledged the crowd’s enthusiastic welcome with a smile. If Caleb’s outfit exuded serenity, this guy’s look was an ode to mystery. Cropped hair, a smoky gray shirt that glided over his torso, dark jeans slung low on hips, and skin that was the warm kind of brown. Golden, like something freshly baked.

But it was the soft gleam in his dark eyes before he spoke that had Caleb reaching for his glass. Slurping on the dregs of his pineapple shake, not caring that it tasted like metal because he desperately needed something to quench the fire that had jumped up his throat.

Chapter 2: Strike a Chord

On an early Saturday morning, Caleb didn’t care if his neighbors were still asleep. The more important fact was that he couldn’t sleep—which was why he was playing the piano with gusto at this time of day. At least it kept him from continuing to stalk Franco De Leon on Youtube.

When Caleb got home a few hours ago, he had immediately clicked on clip after clip of Franco’s performances, absorbing every tiny detail. Franco was a master of vocal gymnastics, his voice tumbling, quivering, soaring and swooping as he spoke poetry. He ran his fingers through his hair a year ago when it was longish, and against his scalp now that his hair was shorn. His face spilled a spectrum of feelings, his eyes appealing to an unseen someone standing right in front him.

By the time Caleb had combed through a year’s worth of performances, it was exactly 3 AM, the witching hour. He was bewitched, Caleb thought, as he forced himself to shut down the computer before diving into the sheets.

Three hours later, he was awake. After a quick shower, he’d gone downstairs to eat before settling in front of the piano. Their living room was so small that the instrument ate up most of the space.

He started playing, filling their tiny home with music. He needed to be sane again after watching Franco. Playing pulled him back to reality.

The smooth surface of the keyboard felt solid against his fingertips as they coaxed out the melodies. He played the songs one after the other—classical, pop, a church song, even that piece he’d played for his