Footsteps to Liberation

280 steps. It takes about 280 steps to get from Room 221, the room I share with three other students, to the entrance of my dormitory building. I’m sure about this number because I have a pedometer on my phone.

I know the path like the back of my hand, walking along it for two months carrying my backpack and water jug—past the manager’s office, into the lobby, through the cafeteria and the never-ending hallway, up two flights of stairs, two right turns, and then straight to my bed. Walking is the fastest way to get to class, especially when you wake up late and don’t have the luxury of time to ride the Ikot Jeep; in UP, 280 steps is nothing.

Right now, however, as I sit on my bed with my phone on my ear, those 280 steps feel like a 5K walkathon. “So are you coming?” Chloe, my best friend in college, asks. I gulp, then glance at the time on the upper corner of my phone screen. It’s 10 – the dorm curfew.

“How are we getting there?” I ask skeptically. She answers in one breath, even the questions I have yet to ask.

“Jake’s got a car. We might go to Antipolo or wherever’s open. You can sleep over at my condo. Gio’s with us, too.”

Something in my chest stirs as I hear the name of the boy I have a crush on. I stand from my bed and empty out the contents of my backpack on top of it, feeling a sudden thrill run down my bones. Briefly, I’m reminded of all those coming-of-age movies I would watch in naive wonderment.

“C’mon, we’re already near Univ Ave. Are you coming or not?” she urges, and I think it through. How do I get past the lady guard? I’ve never gone out past curfew. I sleep at 11:30 on the dot. Mom will find out. Gio’s coming. It’s now or never.

“I’m going,” I answer before I can take it back.

I made up a story. We’ll fake an urgent family emergency, and she’ll pretend to be my relative picking me up. It’s a simple plan, which means it’s easy to stick to, but there are about a million ways it could go wrong. At least I could bank on the fact that I was in the lady guard’s good graces. “What if she asks why we have different surnames?” I mention, and Chloe says we’ll be cousins.

“But if you were my sister, wouldn’t she ask less questions?” I point out, and she agrees. We run through the plan once as I change out of my sleeping clothes, and twice as I stuff my backpack. She hangs up. I tell my roommate who’ was engrossed in a movie on her laptop some vague excuse and walk out of the door, facing a pitch-black sky. One step.

My dormitory always reminded me of a fortress, not just because of the architectural design (the guard and manager’s office are stationed at the entrance, and our rooms face inwards towards an open, rectangular garden, making surveillance easy) but because of the rules. There were many, and they went by different names. Violations, protocols, permits – you name it. We had hallway monitors, forms for everything, shifts on cleaning bathrooms, and schedules when to eat. I appreciated the sense of order, and the stringency seemed a reasonable price to pay for safety, especially as an all-female dormitory. I had nothing to complain about (except perhaps the serving size of the meals) for the past year and a half of my stay.

Today is different. Today I scorn the security. Today it is a prison, and I’m a prisoner attempting to break out. 1, 2, 3, 4 – I count my steps to distract myself from my hammering chest. 280 steps means four minutes of stomaching the idea of deceiving a security guard, of reconsidering my life choices.

47 steps. My belly churns. I reach the first floor landing and trudge down the long hallway, crossing paths with the cats littered about. I think about myself as a teenager, about how I stick my head in fiction novels detailing this exact moment, about how I spent 18 years living vicariously through someone else’s experiences.

I lose count of my steps around the 200 mark. A tabby cat lying on a bench greets me at the end of the hallway. I think about the fortress rules, about the permit I should have filled up a day ago. Then I think about Gio and how our conversations make my heart flutter. The lobby, which served a dual purpose as a study area, held a couple of dormers strewn about on tables and cubicles, the sound of clacking keyboards and scraping chairs filling the air.

My eyes gravitate towards the desk where the lady guard was seated. 250, 260 – closer, closer. Placing my backpack on one of the chairs, I waste some time standing in the middle of the lobby rehearsing my script to perfection before I force my feet to walk towards her station. 280 steps. She notices me. Our eyes meet. My mouth goes dry. I wear a solemn face as I tell her the fabricated story I made. Family emergency. Sister. Pick me up.

There’s a pause. Her gaze pierces through me, and I feel like fainting. Knots tangle in my stomach as I endure the agonizing seconds. I brace myself for a fight, a call to my parents, a stern reprimanding of the rules. I do not brace myself for a nod, and an, “Okay, when are they coming?” The question throws me off-guard, the hundred rebuttals at my arsenal laid to waste. The stars seem to favor me as I tell her they’re already near. Then I slump down on the couch in a state of disbelief. That’s it? I think incredulously and bite my lip to stifle my grin. I didn’t even crack a sweat. Chloe’s text comes in not too long after. I spot the familiar green SUV by the driveway, and make out her familiar figure walking towards the entrance.

“Sorry for the late hour, Ma’am. I’m here to pick her up,” Chloe says by the door, feigning an urgent tone. “There’s an emergency with the family and I need my cousin to come with us.” My heart drops to my stomach as I realize what she just said. I anticipate the lady guard’s eyebrow raising before she does it.

“I thought she was your sister.”

I tense up. My eyes meet with Chloe’s, reading the dread within them. My words stumble over each other as I explain the slip-up, and Chloe quickly piles on. The air turns cold and my fight-or-flight response kicks in as I force myself to stay in character. The lady guard is now unsmiling, unimpressed as she eyes us both, and for a split-second I picture how my parents would react to getting a call about a non-existent family emergency. Would they lie for me? I wondered, like I didn’t already know the answer.

I’m dead, I think, just as the lady guard turns and says, “I’ll need you to fill out a form.” My knees weaken. It takes every inch of my willpower to conceal my relief. The rest of our conversation becomes a haze of curfew reminders and a string of apologies, and all throughout I just pray my parents are fast asleep in case the guard decides to give them a call.

I walk past the double doors with half a mind to not go sprinting and yelling like I just won gold at the Olympics. The last step to freedom. The chilly October air greets me. Chloe murmurs profanities at me as we approach our getaway car, but nothing can wipe the wide grin off my face.

Later that night, I would hold Gio’s hand on the ride home. His hand felt warm against mine. We would buy a rainbow-colored cocktail, and I would puke it out in a plastic bag because my friend was a terrible driver even when sober. I would change Chloe’s caller ID name on my phone to, “Cousin,” and we would laugh about it like an old memory.

In a week I would proceed to flunk an exam, and in a few months, I would pass up on spontaneous plans and opt for a deception-free evening in my dorm’s study area. But that’s for the future me to look back on. Because at that moment, as I got in my classmate’s car and we drove away like shadows in the night, the world was my oyster and I was its master. I made 280 steps.