by Alice Pung
“You’re not fooling me, Angie. I know you’re smart.”
Frustrated silence. I waited. She gave up. “Next time, do better, Angie.”
Nodding, I rushed out of there, wanting to catch my friends before they left.
Books splayed across the floor, the sound of skidding paper and plastic complementing the girl on her knees, clutching for her vision.
I returned it to her.
“Angie!” She had an epiphany once she recognised me. “You’re just the person I need. The choir has lost their accompanist and my parents mentioned that your parents say you’re brilliant at piano.”
“Er, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m awful at music – never touched a piano in my life!”
“But there aren’t any other girls in the school named Angie … are there?”
“Look, obviously it’s some nerd – go look for your friends.” I pushed past her, making sure to shove her glasses off again so she wouldn’t follow me.
*
Five-thirty p.m. The school was finally empty, save for the sport teams training. I navigated quickly to the music rooms, safe in the knowledge that everyone else, including the brother I was waiting for, was on the other side of school.
I tried the windows until I found one that pushed aside easily, clambered through, and shut it behind me.
Lifting the lid of the piano, I sat down, folded the felt, and then began my finger mesh, my dumbwaiters, wrist exercises, and some quick Dohnányi drills. Then the real playing began.
I closed my eyes. I felt the keys, brought to mind the melody, and then stroked the notes. My fingers glided effortlessly, guided instinctively by the visceral memories built in hours upon hours, the need for conscious accuracy long gone. The immeasurable spaces between the notes I sensed were ragged at first, but soon I lost myself to the music: the gradations, the dynamics, the rise and the fall all coming together; the singing of the outer voices somehow held, floating and apart, above the flowing inner quavers, but all of it unified, harmonised, linked together by their shared distance. And all the time it was changing mellifluously, each moment linked in a stream, each giving the next its meaning, my fingers adapting to every slight difference, instinctively sounding the right distance; the perfect piano of thousands, the most profound mezzoforte of millions, impossible to achieve deliberately, instead created intrinsically. Each incremental change of weight and angle of the arm and finger was somehow a direct expression of my heart; the great construction of iron, wood, felt and string translated beyond words of the mind, the truth of the resonance within and without becoming the very definition of beauty. And then I felt the song drawing towards a close, echoes smaller, narrower, slower, softer, until at last it ended, an impossible whisper above silence. And I was left with a sense of something important fading fast, like a dream, and a deep yearning, somehow, for more.
Someone was clapping. “That was beautiful.”
I spun around. There was the girl from before, glasses in one hand, wiping away tears with the other. I stared, shocked, not registering what was happening.
She replaced her glasses, her eyes turning curious. “Why did you say you didn’t play?”
I stood up abruptly, making for the door. She stopped me. “And why do you always deliberately fail your tests?”
I looked at her, the familiar emptiness consuming me. She was just like me – the real me. Not the one with dyed-blonde hair. Not the one who hid her love for music and her love for the constructs of maths and the wonder of science, not the one who secretively read a lifetime’s worth of books and then pretended she knew nothing about them. No. Her thick glasses were identical to my own, before I wore contacts. Her parents were just as hard and strict. Her ambitions were identical too. We were indistinct from each other – fulfilling one stereotype. I knew deep down that we shared everything. And it made me worthless.
“Why do you have to be me? Why can’t I be something different? How can you stand people not even knowing your name, assuming you’re just one and the same, and being absolutely correct? I am worthless! You are worthless!”
She looked at me coldly. “You have questioned what, but not why. Your vision is as ignorant as those who confine you. Have you not ever thought that there is more to who you are? That what defines you is not what you are, not what people make of you, but the experiences that have shaped you?”
She turned away, disgusted. “But even then, if you base worth on definition, you have misunderstood.”
Her hollow footsteps faded.
And in the silence, I listened.
Perhaps it was time to wear glasses again, even if I couldn’t prevent others from removing them.
THE DANGERS OF OVERTHINKING
Arshya Kulkarni
Sweatpants on, hair in bun, Oreos in mouth – this is it, I think, as I sink deeper into the velvety comforts of the living room couch. This is the life! It’s four p.m. on a Monday afternoon and exams have just ended. On one hand, I feel like collapsing onto the floor, but on the other, I am as free as a wild water-hog to do whatever takes my fancy: free to nap ’til nine, free to binge on Criminal Minds episodes, free to read something other than Great Expectations. I sprawl out on the couch, close my eyes and am lulled to sleep by the familiar hum of the washing machine.
PAKAAAAW! PAKAAAAW! A ghastly noise violates my ears. Befuddled and startled, I wake to face the armies of Satan, only to find that the perpetrator is my phone. I make a mental note to myself to behead my best buddy for setting my text tone to the sound of a chicken in labour, and then read the message.
Yo Marsha – wassssup??? It’s yo homegurl Janine! I’m just doing the English assessment right now (kmn) and I was just wondering is the word limit 800 words including the title? Thnks dawg – see u @ skool!
Whoa – hold the phone! Why is Janine Jenson asking me about the assignment due at the end of the week, just after exams have ended? There’s no reason for her to do so – unless, of course, the assignment isn’t due at the end of the week. Sheer panic wraps its fingers around my heart. I leap off the couch and dive into my backpack. I find my diary and flip to today’s date. Sure enough, written under “Assessments” are the words “English movie review”, but scrawled under “Due date” is the letter T. My heart rate escalates to alarming levels. T means Tuesday and Tuesday is tomorrow, which means the assignment, which I haven’t even thought about, is due tomorrow.
I turn the TV on and a notification informs me that I cannot watch a movie unless I delete all scheduled recordings of Downton Abbey. I have reached a crossroads. On one hand, Downton Abbey is sacred to my mother, but on the other, this is a matter of my education. If I don’t hand in this review on time, I will fail English. What would I do then? No respectable university would accept me and I would probably end up working at McDonald’s until a male specimen made me his housewife. I shudder at the thought of it. Deciding my dignity is more important than my mother’s happiness, I delete the show and find a suitable movie to review.
With coffee, my loyal sidekick, I begin my review. My mouse has always been good to me – we’ve had some good times, written some great essays and Googled some gorgeous cakes together – but the one time I need it most is the one time it runs out. At this point, I start to hyperventilate but nonetheless, twenty-seven minutes and four 2A batteries later, all technological devices are running as smoothly as satin again. By two a.m., it’s finally done. But the battle is far from won.
My alarm decides to sleep in with me the next morning and I wake up an hour late. I only have fifteen minutes to get to school so I hurry to get ready, but in the rage of the rush my ankle twists. But this is no time to tiptoe through the tulips with teardrops sliding down my cheeks, so I soldier on to school.
I hobble along with my review in hand, and I know I won’t make it on time. Halfway there my next obstacle presents itself: Mrs Norfleet.
“Oh my! What happened here, dear?” she squeals.
“Nothing, M
rs N, I’m fine,” I say, desperately trying to escape interrogation.
“Pumpkin, you shouldn’t be walking on that.”
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Come over to my house and I’ll give you milk and cookies and bandage that up.”
“That sounds lovely, but I have to be at school soon, so I think I should just keep going.” Take a hint, lady!
“Do you need me to call someone? Should I drive you?”
I breathe deeply. There’s only one way out of this. Feigning a headache, I “accidentally” stumble onto Mrs Norfleet, knocking her glasses off her face.
“Mrs N, I am so sorry! Are you all right?” I ask.
“Oh I’m fine, dear,” she says into empty space, blinking furiously and fumbling around for her spectacles.
It seems my work here is done, I think, limping along towards school.
I get there seconds before the bell and hand in my review. Ms Andrade’s eyes sparkle and my chest swells with pride.
“You, young lady, are an absolute legend! Your organisation and incredible work ethic have set a benchmark for everyone!” she declares. Satisfied with myself, I smile proudly, basking in the glory of her praise. Ms Andrade turns to face the class. “I expect that when you all hand in your reviews on Thursday, they’ll be as good as Marsha’s!”
My heart stops. What did she just say? Thursday. The review is due on Thursday. The T in my diary meant Thursday. I deleted my mum’s Downton Abbey recordings, stayed up until two a.m., sprained my ankle and pushed over an old lady to submit that review today and it’s due on Thursday.
“I need to scream into a pillow,” I whisper to myself.
“What was that?” asks Ms Andrade.
“Oh, I said I love yellow,” I say, seeking to fake sanity.
Ms Andrade hesitates a little. “Okay, sweetie.”
I sigh, limp over to my desk and let my soul cry.
RED
Sara Clarke
Dear boy who decorated me with paint this morning, You successfully ruined my first chance at acceptance. The paint left a red smear on the top right pocket of my new, starchy white shirt. If it was not for the unexpected journey you took to introduce your face to the floor, your still-wet-with-paint sanitary pad would not have landed on my person. The cruel prank you had tried to execute on some poor unsuspecting victim was redirected onto yours truly. You stained my shirt and plastered a metaphorical target on my head for the remainder of the day in one foul swoop.
The ten seconds it took for the rest of the students in the vicinity to realise what had happened was all the time I required to see exactly who had done it. Your untucked shirt and haphazard red tie, coupled with your faded black pants and dishevelled hair, provided a stark contrast to my pressed pleated skirt and intricately braided hair. I was not rehearsed in the ways of high school nonchalance. As I looked around at the disgusted, surprised and sympathetic faces, I could not help but notice the stark contrast I posed. The other boys looked similar to you and the girls’ skirts went to mid-thigh, while mine sat at the conservative, albeit regulation, knee-length.
In my distracted state, you must have taken it upon yourself to start peeling the pad off my shirt. I understood what you were doing only after I’d squealed like a startled pig, causing the surrounding audience to laugh and jeer. By this point you wore a sheepish expression as you drew the catalyst of my misery away. My throat constricted at the situation I found myself in. Your molten-chocolate eyes swirled with sympathy, conveying an apology without having to open your mouth. I glanced at them briefly before redirecting my gaze to the people around the hall, peering at us from the corners of their eyes, chins slightly risen.
Ten minutes in this school and I was already the weird loser with period paint on her shirt. I have you to thank for that. I escaped your curious stare and plastered my new school diary, proudly displaying the school crest, to my chest and briskly walked away.
Before I could disappear into the sanctuary of the girls’ bathroom I caught the amused call of a fellow student. “Dude! That was hilarious! Did you see that chick’s face? Priceless.” That was all it took for the tears I had restrained to streak across my acne-spotted cheeks. I barely noticed the pink door slam behind me, or the uncomfortable-looking blonde dart around me after she’d hastily finished drying her hands. I was embarrassed and bitter. My parents had ruined the system that was working perfectly, only to cause the emotional degradation of their only child.
I emerged with the hesitance of a traumatised rabbit and headed to my first class. As I walked I noticed the hall only had a few students milling about. My puke-coloured eyes followed the patterns on the marble floors; regardless, I felt their judgemental glares. They bore into the side of my head, searching for any sign of weakness to exploit. The tearstains could not be seen between the miniature mountains decorating my face, and my puffy red eyes and running nose just added to the helpless-loser vibe I was emitting.
Hunching my back, I dragged my feet towards my first class. The red stain I’d tried to get out was more stubborn than my dog at bath time. It stained my pocket and branded me a freak, like my own personal scarlet letter. The walk was a short one but immediately I was confronted by the fact that I was late and would be required to stand before a daunting panel of students. With a slow, tentative twist I turned the door’s handle, hoping I would not draw the class’s attention and could slip in quietly. Following the theme of the day, luck was not on my side. The door was in view of every student in the class and upon entering I stole their attention. Twenty pairs of eyes zeroed in on me, causing me to squirm in discomfort and look away. The teacher – who was no doubt bursting with untapped wisdom, given the rapid balding he was experiencing – caught on moments later to the alien in the room.
His eyes narrowed in concentration as he looked at me through rounded glasses. Eventually, something clicked as he waved his thick arm in the air, exposing the dark patch of sweat coating the underarm of his dress shirt. “Ah yes, the new student, Tracy Landers. Correct?” he asked impatiently.
“Correct, Sir,” I replied softly, again avoiding all eye contact.
“Come in quickly and sit down next to Ray Bentley, over there.” His order was accompanied by a general wave of his hand in the direction of an annoyed-looking boy.
“But Sir! I don’t want to sit next to Loser Lander!” The boy looked at me in revulsion, cringing outwardly. There it was, an ugly name for an ugly face. I tried to hide my hurt as the teacher attempted to process Ray’s words.
“Stop being a dick, Ray!” The voice was unexpected, as was its owner. You sat there, casually leaning back into your chair. Your blank face morphed into a soft smile as you looked into my eyes for the second time that day.
“Don’t mind him, Red, he’s all bark and no bite.” With that, your attention switched back to the teacher. The rest of the class stared in wonder, like children in a zoo. I took a deep breath and sat in the seat next to Ray. He was deflated slightly and ignored me.
You called me Red. I liked it. A lot.
BLIND SPOT
Sarah Chahine
When Mum said this morning that I’d be helping her feed the homeless, I just laughed and said, “Sure, and Kanye West is gonna be elected president in 2020!”
But now here I am, serving coffee and tea in foam cups in a park on a cold Friday night. And not to just anyone. To crazy, gross homeless people who smell like a fusion of cigarettes, piss and sweat. On top of all this, I also have to serve from a fold-out table connected to a rusty white van.
I look around, never making eye contact, trying to avoid conversations with the homeless. But despite my desperate attempts, an old lady stares at me unwaveringly. Before she says anything, I quickly turn and pretend to look for something. Unfortunately, being the clumsy idiot I am, I trip. Everything turns blurry as I fall towards the van, and then I’m caught by someone. A very good-looking someone.
“Hi, I’m Daniel.” Smiling, he lets go
of me gently. Then he throws a rubbish bag into the van, before turning back around to face me. Now that I’m not falling all over him, I notice he looks around my age (sixteen).
Shaking off my embarrassment I reply, “Hey, I’m Clare.”
He stares at me, making me feel a little self-conscious, before asking, “Is this your first time?”
“Yeah. Mum kinda forced me. You?”
“I’m here every week,” he says, looking away.
“It’s a cold night, huh?”
A gruff voice replies, “What do you know about being cold?”
Speechless, I take in the thin-limbed man in front of me, with his crumb-filled beard, dirty green army jacket, faded blue jeans and a Coles bag that seems to be holding a blanket and other smaller stuff. I feel heat flood my face but, luckily, Daniel breaks the silence.
“Hey, Al. Usual black coffee with two sugars?”
Frowning, Al turns his lined face towards Daniel and responds with a low grunt. So Daniel mixes two sugars with a cup of coffee and hands it to Al, smiling. Al returns the smile, directs one last annoyed glance at me and walks away.
Once Al is gone, Daniel says, “Don’t mind Al. He’s probably had a rough day.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t mean he has to be an ass.”
We continue to make drinks, and although I’m still in shock from the abrupt confrontation, I start the conversation back up, pretending to care about Al, the hairy dickhead.
“Do you know how Al ended up homeless?” I ask, but I’m already imagining he’s a lazy dropout who doesn’t know what hard work feels like, and who spends all his money on cigarettes and alcohol. But I listen anyway.
Daniel explains that Al used to be an architect, but years ago he lost his wife in a car accident. Afterwards, Al “drowned his sorrows” in alcohol and was fired for turning up to work drunk. This led to him being evicted from his apartment for not paying rent. He’s been on the streets now for about six years. I don’t buy it, but Daniel seems to genuinely believe it. Al must have lied expertly to convince Daniel of his sob story. So I keep up the act.
