May-Lin simply smiled, and after browsing through some CDs they made their way to the toilet. This time, for the first time, it was May-Lin leading the way. That was how confident she was, she didn’t need any more tentative seduction scenes from Michelle. She was in control now. In the toilet, MayLin stalled for a while at the washbasins, and allowed Michelle to choose the cubicle. May-Lin laughed. It was as if she was choosing some five-star honeymoon suite. Michelle seemed to be more daring than ever, instead of their usual corner cubicle she chose the one nearest the door.
May-Lin then looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was in place, she smelt good, and her skin was tinged with a warm flush of anticipation that was rather attractive. There was something cute about her glasses, too. And then suddenly a flash came across her glasses and she thought, “Maybe I need concealer.”
Nevertheless, May-Lin walked towards the first cubicle. They had chosen a good time to be in the toilet; it was morning on a weekday and there were not many shoppers around. She opened the unlocked door and saw Michelle smiling. Michelle nodded to her, and she suddenly realised it wasn’t a sign that gave invitation, it just gave permission. And she would then walk into the cubicle, and drum through the motions, as if there were step-by-step instructions on the wall.
Smile. Bashfully, at first. Coyness was important; it stood in for reluctance when there was none.
Look at each other incredulously. They cannot believe this is happening. For May-Lin, that someone as pretty as Michelle would want to do something with her. For Michelle, that she had gotten this far and this low, to have joyless sex with a friend so stubborn about defending her plainness. Neither can believe that any of it is taking place, but it is; the clash of tongues, chests squeezed together, fingernail-welts, licks (how much do you mind the sour smell of my saliva?), nibbles, the countless invisible scars left behind by two people damaged by desire.
Finally, everything should be left behind as it was, untouched. They had just been visitors to each other’s bodies, passing through, traceless. Walked through each other like phantoms through walls.
May-Lin stepped up into the cubicle. When she looked down at the floor, she saw smears of wetness on it, the toilet paper holder with its cigarette-burn craters like a kind of firstaid kit from which one tore out flimsy useless bandages. Then May-Lin walked out without looking at the girl who had once inhabited her dreams. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was why this whole thing seemed so much like a dream, a meaningless mime full of sighs and weird shadows waltzing clumsily on cubicle walls.
“I’ll be waiting for you outside, Michelle. Once you’re finished look for me outside.” Then she walked over to the mirrors and took off her glasses. She washed her face and blinked in the mirror. She wanted her expression to ask “What am I doing?” but it looked back at her blankly.
Then May-Lin heard a flush. That was the first. And then May-Lin heard another. After the fourth furious roar from the cubicle, May-Lin decided to walk out of the toilet. As she looked behind her, she caught sight of the ‘Ladies’ sign, and the bald, stump-armed figure on it, with test-tube legs. She stared at it, the door swinging to a close, and concluded that the sharp triangle that jutted from the hips – like a rocket-fin pelvis – was supposed to represent a skirt.
UMBRELLATruth is, I’m not good at my studies. This year I’m doing my ‘O’ levels for the second time. Actually, half my class is doing their ‘O’ levels for the second time. So in a way, people can’t just place the blame on me. Sure I play soccer once in a while, and in class sometimes I draw on my textbooks, but I’m not lazy. I know how important my studies are. I know the whole story about getting a certificate and getting a job and moving out of the flat and buying jewellery for my mum, etc. But drawing on textbooks is something you do when your teacher is just not making any sense. After a while you look up and wonder what all the stuff on the blackboard means. What those underlines in coloured chalk are for, for goodness’ sake.
When I started out I drew in pencil, but after a while I went on to use my pen instead. I was thinking, “What the heck, who’s going to use my book anyway?” It was a Five Normal˚ book, and I know everyone in my family is hoping that my younger brother, who is doing his PSLE˚ this year, might be able to get into the Express stream. He wouldn’t need a textbook like mine. There are sketches everywhere. Some are of teachers’ faces, but with devil horns and stuck-out tongues. There are also sketches of coconut trees with sunsets behind them. If there’s one thing I’ve realised I’m an expert in, it’s drawing coconut trees. Sometimes if I felt like it, there’d be a hut beside the tree. Birds flying against a backdrop of a setting sun. Meanwhile, the inside covers of my book have messages like, “Are you going for the Sentosa concert?” and “Boy bands suck!”
Another problem was that we had a Maths teacher the year before who quit after just two months. He was a relief teacher. You could tell. He would walk into class and the first thing he would say was, “Class, we’re behind schedule.”
