The days slipped by quietly, and soon enough, it was Friday. Our adviser gathered us for a class meeting to go over our upcoming schedule.
"Class," she began, her voice firm yet kind, "we are scheduled to have our Jesus Day Mass every Monday at 6:30 in the morning. Attendance is mandatory."
A collective groan hovered in the air, unspoken but shared in glances. Still, we nodded obediently.
"And," she continued, "you'll have your Acquaintance Program soon. You'll each introduce yourselves to the seniors, and in return, the seniors will prepare a performance to welcome you. Please write your introductions on a sheet of paper. I'll review them after class."
"Yes, ma'am!" we all chorused.
"In the afternoon," she added, "I'll borrow your last class period so we can practice the religious songs for the upcoming mass."
I quietly wrote my introduction. It came easily—I'd done this before, and words weren't difficult companions for me. I passed my paper forward, and after a quick review, the teacher gave a satisfied nod. No corrections needed.
Just as the others were finishing up, the teacher suddenly turned to me.
"Carmela, you know how to play the piano, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, a little surprised.
"Good. You'll be our accompanist for the mass songs. We'll begin practicing in class. Once we've mastered the vocals, we'll add your accompaniment."
"Okay, ma'am."
I wasn't sure how she knew—maybe someone from the church had mentioned it, or perhaps she'd seen me play during a Sunday mass. Either way, it didn't bother me. I was used to playing at church services, and I enjoyed the role. A few of my old classmates might remember seeing me at the piano, but whether others knew or not didn't really matter to me.
As the days passed, I began to warm up to some of my classmates—especially those from my hometown. We'd spoken before, so it felt natural. I couldn't avoid everyone forever. If I did, I'd risk being labeled a snob—or worse, excluded entirely. That would raise questions at home I wasn't eager to answer.
When our teacher wasn't around, we'd chat to pass the time. I couldn't bury my nose in a book all the time—it wasn't great for my eyes, and frankly, I'd been through that phase in a past life. The conversations were light, random, and often amusing.
One time, I got so caught up in a discussion that I didn't realize we had almost formed a circle. When I glanced around, I noticed the rest of the class was quiet. A few girls were glaring at me, clearly annoyed that I'd somehow ended up at the center of attention—especially from the boys. They didn't seem to notice that I was talking to girls too, just fewer of them. Still, this became our usual routine as we waited for the next class.
Soon, our singing practices began in earnest. Our adviser arrived with a projector and her laptop, casting lyrics onto the blackboard. We sang, repeated, polished—again and again—until our harmonies were smoother, and we could respond to the priest's lines without stumbling. When it was time to add accompaniment, I took my place at the piano, the familiarity of the keys grounding me. It was during these moments I found myself shining a little more than usual.
Then, Monday arrived—the day of our first Jesus Day Mass.
I woke up earlier than usual, excited and slightly nervous. I chose my outfit with care: a sleeveless plaid A-line dress layered over a white, long-sleeved pleated blouse. The early morning chill made the layers feel just right. I left my hair loose, placed a beret on top, and slipped on my favorite white shoes. I slung my bag over my shoulder and began the walk to school.
I arrived about ten minutes before the mass was set to begin. The church, vast and echoing, made my footsteps sound louder than usual. Heads turned as I entered, eyes following me as I walked toward the front. I greeted our adviser first before making my way to the piano. I sat down, gently pressed the keys, and began to play a few warm-up notes. The familiar feel of the keys beneath my fingers calmed my nerves.
A First-Year's Point of View
The air was thick with silence as we waited for the rest of the class to arrive. The church was eerily quiet, and with our adviser present, none of us dared to speak. Every word would echo—and none of us wanted to be the one to break the quiet.
Then, we heard footsteps.
Heads swiveled in unison. Was it a classmate? We all hoped it was Carmela. She was supposed to accompany us, and if it wasn't her—but instead the priest—someone would definitely be in trouble. Probably her.
I hated to admit it, but even though she always seemed to draw everyone's attention, I couldn't help being a little in awe of her.
She walked in, and just like that, the atmosphere shifted.
Even as a girl, I had to admit—her fashion sense was immaculate. That outfit, her poise, the way she carried herself—it was all so effortlessly elegant. She stood out from the rest of us, not just because she looked different, but because she moved with this quiet confidence that was magnetic. No wonder the boys were all smitten. Honestly? I kind of was too.
She greeted the teacher, then glided over to the piano like she belonged there. And as her fingers touched the keys, the church filled with music.
I didn't want to like her. But in that moment, even I had to admit—she was unforgettable.