Survivor: Castillejos Edition

Chapter 2

The Tantuco service van rolled into Castillejos like it was dropping off a balikbayan box, not an ex-heiress. 

Janica—now forced to go by Veronica Camaligan—stepped down in her faded Bench hoodie and black leggings na medyo napupunit na sa may singit. Her hair was tied in a limp ponytail, and she clutched a secondhand android phone like it was an insult.

Six months lang daw, she repeated in her head like a mantra. That was the condition set by Lolo Manuel. 

She had to finish her “humbling program” and serve six full months as a minimum-wage cashier without scandal, without attitude, and without sabotaging the system.

Any complaints, any drama? Every offense = dagdag na buwan.

One tantrum = one month extension. One missed shift = one month. 

Magdabog ako? Ayun, another month in sardine-scented hell.

According to her mother, Lolo already warned the entire Tantuco board: “Let her rot if she acts up. No early returns, no bailouts. Wala akong pakialam kahit tumira siya sa tabi ng LPG tank.”

Parang PBB with no camera crew, Janica thought bitterly. Except ako yung housemate, at yung prize? Dignity ko na lang sana please.

This isn’t exile. This is witchcraft. 

Who wears Bench unironically?! she screams internally.

This phone? It's giving... low battery trauma. Isa pang selfie lang, baka mag-lag siya for eternity. 

I miss my Apple-Samsung combo. Yung dual screen with built-in stylus and unlimited memory.

Now I’m stuck with a phone na parang may asthma every time mag-open ako ng gallery. 

“Is this a prank?” she muttered, blinking at the dorm-slash-grocery building. 

The sign flickered. 

A stray dog yawned beside the loading dock.

She sniffed the air. Amoy sardinas at stress.

Two sweaty porters carried her boxes while she attempted to walk without letting her heels touch actual dirt. “Kuya, careful ha. That one has silk. Hindi yan gawang Divi.”

The dorm entrance? 

A rusty gate hanging on its last hinge, like it was personally offended by her presence. 

The stairs? Made of trauma, concrete, and regret—every step echoing like a warning from the underworld.

Inside, the dorm was perched above the grocery like an afterthought. 

It smelled like a mix of vinegar, Lysol, and other people’s decisions.

The walls were a sad pastel green—chipping in corners—paired with industrial lighting that flickered like it had seen too much.

There were faded motivational posters taped crookedly on the hallway walls: “Pag may tiyaga, may nilaga” and “Smile ka naman, libre yan.” 

Janica wanted to sue whoever wrote them.

A half-broken electric fan stood guard in the common area beside a battered rice cooker that had clearly fought in at least two wars. 

The communal CR had a pail-and-dipper setup, and someone had the audacity to hang an air freshener that smelled like expired citrus despair. 

Malinis naman, to be fair—pero para kay Janica, this was squammy levels. Hindi ito banyo, ito ay betrayal.

She missed her real bathroom: a marble-tiled sanctuary with backlit mirrors, a rain shower with adjustable temperature jets, and a bathtub large enough to host a tea party. 

Her scented candles were customized—lavender-bergamot blend named "Chanel at Your Weakest."

The toilet? It wasn’t just a toilet. It was a smart, heated-seat Toto Neorest 750H with built-in bidet, night light, and a lid that lifted like it respected her authority.

Now she was squatting beside a green pail, praying her foot wouldn’t slip on the wet floor.

From spa to sawâ, she wept silently, holding her shampoo sachet like it was a severed limb.

And the welcome mat? It said “Wipe Your Feet,” but she wanted it changed to “I Deserve Better.”

Room 3-B. 

Shared space with three others. No aircon. No closet. No spa-like ambiance.

Just a bunk bed and the faint smell of noodles na never man lang nakapasok sa kanyang condo or bahay.

Only her kasambahay had those, hinahayaan niya na isama sa grocery list. Pero binilinan niyang huwag na huwag magluluto ng paketeng noodles sa loob ng mansion. Doon dapat sa dirty kitchen sa labas!

Janica stood frozen at the doorway like someone had just handed her a death sentence printed on recycled bond paper.

Her eyes scanned the room—one electric fan with a missing blade, mismatched bedsheets, and a small window that didn’t open all the way.

This isn’t a dorm. This is a social experiment gone wrong, she thought, clutching her pearls that weren’t even real this time.

Her chest tightened with disbelief. 

I had a walk-in closet with fingerprint access. My duvet was goose down. 

My bedside table had built-in wireless charging and a chilled drawer for eye masks. 

And now I’m expected to cohabitate with people who think wall hooks made of tinidor are quirky?!

She remembered how, at home, the air smelled like Jo Malone linen spray. Her days began with butler-prepared smoothies and ended with someone massaging her temples while she “reflected” beside a Himalayan salt lamp.

I mean, like hello? My faucet had three settings: hot, cold, and room-temp mineral spa. 

My robe was embroidered. Even my tsinelas were imported. 

My problems were things like ‘Oh no, my almond milk expired’—not 'Ay, may kaluskos sa kisame.' I used to judge hotels if their marble looked “too beige.” 

And now I’m here, surrounded by ‘aesthetic trauma’ and staring at a drawer labeled Gina’s Undies. 

This is beyond character development. This is reincarnation, and I clearly came back as the cautionary tale.

“Lord, take me instead,” she whispered dramatically under her breath. “Or at least take me somewhere with ventilation.”

Her suitcase barely fit under the bunk bed. There was a lone plastic drawer labeled “Gina’s Undies” and a wall hook made from an old fork. Janica instinctively pulled her scarf over her nose.

Wala na ba talagang iba? Wala bang deluxe version ng exile? At least may konting throw pillows? Even Alcatraz had better spatial planning.

“Hoy, bagong pasok!” called a girl in a neon duster, legs crossed on the top bunk like a queen on break. “Ako si Marisol. Head ng gossip department. Itong si Elsie—mahilig mag-TikTok, tapos si Gina, certified chismosa rin. Welcome, Ms. Camaligan.”

Janica blinked. “It’s Veronica.”

“Veronixx, ganon?” Marisol smirked. “Ang sosyal mo naman.”

"Nicki will do."

Gina blinked and tilted her head. “Grabe ‘to magsalita. Ang twang, ate! English with flavor. Saan ka nag-aral, sa Netflix?”

Elsie snorted. “Kinabog accent ko. May twang na, may eye mask pa.”

Gina grinned. “At aminin mo, Elsie—kinabog ka rin sa ganda. Girl, ang kinis. Parang nagpa-facial sa Japan.”

And she wasn’t wrong. Even in her downgraded hoodie and leggings, Janica was striking.

A Chinese mestiza with impossibly smooth porcelain skin, cheekbones that could slice through gossip, and almond eyes that always looked like she was judging you (because she probably was).

Her beauty had layers—thanks to genetics that mixed drama with diplomacy. 

Palibhasa bastard daw ng American GI ang Lola Carmen niya noong katatapos lang ng World War II, kaya kahit Chinese mestiza siya sa papel, may halo rin siyang Caucasian somewhere in the bloodline.

And her Lolo from mother side was so guwapo. Maputi din at matangkad si Lolo Ronnie, at  maraming nabudol na girls during his time. Maestisuhin na mukhang seminarista.

Sabi ng Mama niya, loveteam daw lagi sa Santa Cruzan ang Lolo at Lola niya. Sila daw ang Susan Roces at FPJ ng Probinsya ng Quezon.

Ginoogle pa niya. 

Ang resulta sa inapo? Parang baby doll na limited edition ang aura kahit kakagising lang.

Her lips had a natural pink hue—infuriatingly expensive-looking kahit walang lip balm.

In fairness, wala siyang retoke. Her beauty advisers used to say, "You don’t need it, Miss Janica. Your face is already Hollywood casting level."

She had curves in all the right places too—boobs and butt courtesy of the rare American genes running somewhere through Lola’s scandalous bloodline.

I'm genetically blessed and emotionally cursed, she thought. It’s giving heartbreak—but with collagen.

Oh my God, Janica thought, they’re admiring me. Like, sincerely admiring. This is... terrifying. I’m used to haters. I can handle fake love. But this? Compliments wrapped in sincerity? This is how cults start.

Despite the banter, the girls were surprisingly warm. Too warm. They offered her a spare hanger, a leftover sachet of conditioner, and even split their load time para makasingit siya sa saksakan. Marisol swept her bunk space like it was normal.

Janica forced a tight, non-committal smile. They’re… nice? Like... actual nice? Bakit parang mas nakaka-nerbiyos pa ’to kaysa sa silent treatment sa Rockwell brunches?

She resisted the urge to scream. I grew up with the high-end kind of plastic—the kind that came with press-on smiles and press releases. This? This is... human decency with pawis. Sincerity with amoy Lucky Me. Nakaka-rash.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Janica said, adjusting her pearl-studded eye mask, “but where’s the WiFi? And the diffuser? And... I requested a low-sodium diet.”

Elsie cackled. “Ate, wala ngang tissue sa CR, diet pa kamo.”

Gina handed her a pail. “Paigib ka muna. Mamaya pang 11 pm ang dating ng tubig. By the way, Heater’s broken. Good luck, Manila girl.”

In a moment of desperation, she marched out of the dorm barefoot in tsinelas and a silk scarf as a makeshift turban, holding her asthmatic android phone aloft like Simba sa Lion King, trying to catch one bar of signal. 

Sa gilid ng isang sako ng bigas at tabing poste, nakahanap din siya ng spot kung saan may dalawang guhit.

She immediately called her mom. Her face was a mix of sweat, rage, and faded BB cream. Signal was choppy but the second her mother answered, Janica’s voice went from controlled to borderline hysterical, para siyang sinaniban ng Kris Aquino meets Typhoon Signal No. 3.

“Ma, I’m in hell. Literal hell with floor tiles. Ang CR, may tabo. Wala man lang option A for ‘spray.’ The walls are peeling. The smell? Combination of expired calamansi and broken dreams. And don’t even get me started sa lighting—parang interrogation room from a crime docu!”

Her mom sighed on the other end, clearly exhausted. “Anak, tahan na. Ganyan talaga ang real world.”

“REAL WORLD?! I was raised in Rockwell! Not Romblon!”

She paced the narrow hallway after the call, android phone clutched to her chest like it betrayed her. How did it come to this? she thought, stepping over a stray slipper and kicking an empty mineral water bottle in protest.

I am Janica Tantuco. I used to have a shower playlist that synced with the mood lighting. 

My tub had a name. 

The champagne in my fridge had its own temperature zone. 

And now I’m on a top bunk that creaks when I breathe, surrounded by girls who think “essence” means the brand of lotion, not a spiritual aura.

She paused by the tiny shared mirror, looked at her reflection, and whimpered.

“I look like a bagoong mascot.”

Oh my God. This isn’t a dorm. This is Survivor: Palengke Edition.

By 8PM, she had already stepped on a dead ipis—naramdaman niya yung 'crrrkk' sa talampakan at muntik na siyang mapasigaw ng “I rebuke you!” like she was in an exorcism.

Pero hindi pa tapos ang trauma. Because just as she turned around to escape the crime scene, nakita niya yung kapatid ng ipis—buhay na buhay, mukhang may pakpak, at galing sa impyerno.

“OH MY GOD, HE WILL FLY ON ME!!!” she shrieked, arms flailing, towel flying off her head, running in circles sa hallway na parang sinaniban ng multo ni Marie Antoinette.

Her scream echoed through the compound. Marisol burst out of their room, tsinelas in hand, hair still wet from a tabo bath.

“Saan?!” tanong ni Marisol, kalmado pero handa. Nang makita ang ipis sa gilid ng pader, walang kaabog-abog na hinampas niya ng tsinelas—pak!—na parang sanay. Patay agad ang pesteng nilalang.

Janica, trembling, pressed both hands to her chest. “You’re a hero,” she whispered.

Marisol grinned. “Girl, hindi lang chismis ang kaya ko.”

Janica clutched her towel tighter, still trembling, but deep down she let herself breathe.

 Okay, maybe this place is the armpit of the universe... but at least may tagapagtanggol ako sa mga literal na halimaw.

Hindi pa rin ito spa, pero at least hindi ako mag-iisa kung may sumugod na langgam o flying insect of death.

She cried over the weak mobile signal, holding her phone to the ceiling like she was summoning divine intervention. 

Nang makabawi sa takot, si Marisol pa ang nag-abot ng sachet ng 3-in-1 coffee.

“Gusto mo, girl? Mainit pa ‘yan,” sabi nito, may pa-smile pa.

Janica blinked. 3-in-1? As in powdered? As in—tubig gripo, tapos stick coffee, tapos halo? She stared at it like it was a science experiment.

I used to drink hand-pressed Ethiopian beans harvested on a biodynamic farm and roasted by a man named Paolo sa Mayfair. 

Brewed in my rose gold Chemex, served in double-walled glass mugs from Sweden, with oat milk flown in from Australia. 

And now... Nescafé Original?! Is this how I die?!

But she took the cup with trembling hands.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Marisol winked, then exited casually. “CR ko naman. Nakatoka ako sa duty.”

Janica blinked. “Wait lang... may assigned cleaner kayo ng CR?”

“Syempre,” sagot ni Marisol. “May schedule kami dito. Rotation system. Bawat isa may day na siya ang bahala sa linis, tapos palitan ng towel sa pinto. Ganern.”

Janica blinked twice. “And if, like... hypothetically lang naman, what if hindi ako naglinis on my assigned day?”

Marisol turned around slowly, like a tita sa Sunday buffet about to deliver hard truths. “Ah, ganito lang ‘yan. Mawawalan ka ng morning slot sa shower. Kapag natapos na kaming lahat—Gina, Elsie, pati si Manang sa kabilang kwarto—saka ka lang makakaligo. Mga around... 11:30? Mainit na tubig? Forget it.”

Janica’s jaw dropped. “You mean to tell me... may shower schedule based on cleaning karma?!”

“Exactly,” Marisol grinned, waving her tsinelas. “Kaya good luck sa bagong buhay, Veronixx.”

Janica stared at the cup in silence, then whispered again to herself, “Veronica, this is your villain origin story.”

“Is this how it ends, Lord? Sa tabing electric fan na may sticker ng Hello Kitty at humihinga na parang asthmatic dragon?!”

She almost burned the entire dorm down trying to boil water with a rusting kettle that sparked like a dying Christmas light.

Nagpakulo lang siya para may panligo siya bago matulog—isang tabo ng “spa-like” mainit-init na tubig, her only luxury sa gitna ng kanyang third world awakening.

Habang hawak ang kettle, nagpe-pray siya na huwag sana siyang ma-electrocute dahil baka ma-feature pa siya sa news: “Disgraced Heiress Explodes Over Panligo.”

“Lord, bigyan mo po ako ng boiling water. Hindi po ako prepared mamatay nang mabaho.”

“Tanghaling tapat pa lang, pero pakiramdam ko naka-three episodes na ako ng MMK. At ako lahat ng bida.”

She dropped to the bed—flopped, really—arms spread like a martyr na naubusan ng reason. “I swear, Ma,” she muttered to no one, “if I survive this week, dapat automatic may award akong humility.”

That night, she sneaked out to the dorm’s so-called “garden” to call her mom again.

 Garden daw, pero mukha siyang herbal patch ng public school—may paso ng oregano, ilang haliging kahoy, at bench na mukhang ninakaw sa barangay hall. 

She sat with her towel turban and sando, holding her android above her head like a DIY antenna.

“Ma,” she whispered frantically the moment the call connected, “I’m calling from the jungle. May mga halaman, yes, but not the kind you put in an aesthetic vase. They’re actual plants. Medicinal. And there’s a lizard beside me. Live.”

Her voice cracked. “This is abuse. Emotional, environmental, aesthetic abuse. Do you know what the shower smells like? Character development. And I don’t want character development!”

Her mom sighed, almost amused. “Anak, be strong. This is for your growth.”

“Growth?! Hindi ako kangkong, Ma! Hindi ako herbal tea. I am NOT a plant-based learning curve!”

Later that night, she sat on her bunk bed wearing a sheet mask she salvaged from her “pre-deportation” bag.

This is fine, she lied to herself. I can survive this. I’m still a Tantuco. A Tantuco with bangs... and crown.

And somewhere outside, a karaoke machine screamed “Bohemian Rhapsody” in three tones too high, as Veronica Camaligan officially began her life in exile.

Janica sat cross-legged on the edge of her bunk bed, surrounded by the humid scent of pancit canton and disinfectant.

Her shoulders were hunched. Her eyebrows, arched in perpetual judgment. Her nose, slightly flaring. She had no WiFi, no facial steamer, and no sense of peace.

“I can’t even exfoliate properly in this humidity,” she muttered, fanning herself with a face mask wrapper.

Gina watched from the corner, chewing on a biscuit stick while ironing her blouse directly on top of a cardboard box. “In fairness, kahit pawis na pawis ka na, ang kinis mo pa rin, sis.”

“Maganda kasi,” Marisol added while folding laundry one-handed and back-and-forth pacing to hang uniforms on a makeshift sampayan made of curtain rod. “Kaya nakakalusot kahit ang arte-arte. Parang Miss Universe na nagtatago sa budget hostel.”

“Grabe kayo,” Janica snapped, placing her hands over her cheeks like she was shielding them from bad lighting. “I’m not being arte. I’m just… sensitive to ambiance.”

Elsie giggled as she continued brushing her teeth one-handed while doing basic squats in front of a cracked mirror. “Sensitive daw. Parang amoy bleach lang eh nagka-allergy na.”

Marisol, who was back-and-forth pacing while ironing on a cardboard box with one hand and hanging uniforms on a makeshift sampayan with the other, raised an eyebrow. “Uy, serious question lang, ha. Bakit ka ang fluent mag-English? Like, legit twang, girl. ‘Di ka ba lumaki dito?”

Gina, who had now placed her biscuit stick into an empty hair curler like it was a mic stand, chimed in while still patting down her blouse with the iron. “Half-Kano ka ba? Or Fil-Am tapos nawalan ng visa?”

“Or artista na nag-lie low? Parang nakita kita sa isang GMA show dati. Yung may kabayo?”

Janica blinked, momentarily disarmed. “Uh, no. Sa Benguet lang. Ingles kasi ‘yung gamit namin bahay at sa school. Private school po, pero ano lang, maliit lang na local—yung tipong may dalawang aircon lang sa buong campus. Malamig kasi doon, kaya siguro kinis ang skin ko. Sanay ako sa pine trees tsaka fog.”

But inside, her inner conyo voice was panicking.

OMG, I sound like a contestant sa ‘Pilipinas Got Pretensyon.’ 

Benguet? Really, Janica?

You’ve never even touched a pine cone unless it was decor sa Christmas centerpiece ng Shangri-La buffet.

And now you’re out here pretending you exfoliate with mountain air? Get it together, girl. Dignity is hanging by a thread—and it’s local cotton.

Gina’s jaw dropped. “Grabe, akala ko Fil-Am! Kasi parang imported yung accent at balat mo.”

Janica sighed, flopping back onto her bed with all the grace of a dying swan. “No WiFi. No diffuser. No oat milk. No almond milk. No any milk. Not even proper water pressure. Grabe, it takes me three full minutes just to rinse shampoo. This is not a dorm. This is a punishment.”

She followed the statement with a cute, defeated pout—chin tucked, lips protruding, eyes wide with faux sadness. 

The kind you’d see in a Korean drama where the leading lady gets dumped but still looks like a skincare ad.

Her dorm mates burst into laughter.

“Hay naku,” said Gina, still giggling, “kahit magmaldita ka pa, carry lang. Maganda ka eh.”

Janica blinked. Then internally smirked.

So this is what it’s like. In this world, you can get away with murder... if you have cheekbones and clear skin. Noted.

If I survive this, I’m writing a memoir. Title: “Mistress of Moisturizers: The Veronica Camaligan Survival Diaries.” Or maybe a vlog. First episode: “How to Exfoliate Using Rainwater and Regret.”

Chapter Two: “How to Cry Beautifully Without Ruining Your Last Sheet Mask.”

“Kaya mo ’yan,” Marisol muttered, tossing her a sampaguita-scented towel. “Sanayan lang ’yan. Isa pa, may lucky tabo kami sa CR. Ikaw ang susunod gumamit.”

Janica stared at the towel like it had betrayed her. But she took it anyway. “This is not happening,” she whispered.

She glanced at her phone and sighed. Still no signal inside, but maybe—just maybe—outside sa may bintana ng bodega might work.

So she tiptoed out, hugged the wall, and opened her messaging app.

She started typing to Camille, her ride-or-die tropa currently living her best life in Dubai, posting yacht selfies and brunch spreads with gold flakes.

Janica: Camille, my love, my soulmate, my sister in overpriced pain… I am currently in the trenches. Besh, utang muna. Like 300k. I know it’s not cute, but neither is dying of stress rash. Please. Like, NOW na.

She hesitated, then added:

Janica: Don't forget—ako nag-abono ng Birkin mo nung frozen lahat ng AMEX mo, and ako rin ang nagpabibo kay Ignacio sa gym para mapansin ka. That’s major girl math. Time to return the favor.

A few agonizing minutes later, her phone dinged.

Notification: ₱300,000 received.

Janica gasped. “Ay, she really sent it. Oh my gosh. I love rich friendships.”

With the ₱300K miracle sitting safely in her digital wallet, Janica started mentally plotting her comeback—well, soft comeback.

Okay... maybe I can get a mini microwave. 

Yung white. Neutral. Medyo sosyal tingnan. And a coffee maker. Hindi naman fancy, just something that doesn’t taste like regret. 

Maybe magpa-salon din ako. Spa. Humidity is attacking my roots. I look like an alpaca on a bad hair day.

Just as she was picturing a mani-pedi package with steam aromatherapy, her phone dinged again.

Mama: WE NEED TO TALK.

All caps. No emojis. Not even a “dear.”

Janica’s breath hitched. “This is not happening,” she croaked, clinging to her phone like it could absorb the emotional damage.

“This is totally happening,” Elsie grinned. “And guess what? Welcome to Castillejos, Nicki.”

Nicki thought, Kahit clueless si Elsie, parang siyang Gen Z fairy na highlighter ang laman ng utak. She’s like... rainbow vibes with no concept of taxes.