by Zen Cho
She had to write something. She put the pen to paper.
It was as if someone had stabbed her in the arm. Su Yin's left hand flew to her mouth, pressing down the shout. She pulled up her sleeve.
The scab on her right forearm was gone. The wound was open and bleeding, pus seeping from the edges. The skin around it was inflamed.
How had this happened? It had looked fine earlier. The scab had hardened overnight, was solid that morning.
Su Yin had faked a sneeze in the car going home from Puan Lai's the day before. Her mother had said accusingly, "Hah, sneezing already!" and insisted on her changing into something warm. This had given her the excuse to put on a long-sleeved T-shirt. Today she was wearing baju kurung, so the scab had escaped notice.
Nobody could miss it now. She looked around, but everyone's heads were bent over their desks. The teacher wasn't looking in her direction.
The blood was streaming down her arm. Would it drip on her hair if she raised her hand for attention? thought Su Yin wildly.
The blood dripping on her desk began to form into balls like spilt mercury. The red liquid balls rolled onto the test paper, where they grew spidery legs, transformed into letters, resolved into words, and arranged themselves in tidy sentences. When the blood sank into the paper it turned blue. The writing was Su Yin's own, the tails of the g's and y's flying off into space.
Su Yin's blood did the test for her. In a trance, she turned each page over as it filled up with words.
When the last drop of blood had jumped onto the page, the wound healed up again. It happened in a matter of seconds. The scab was dry by the time she passed up her paper.
The pain was a throbbing thing in her arm.
Puan Sharifah had an agonising habit of announcing test results in descending order, starting from the highest mark. You had to walk all the way up to the front of the classroom to take your paper from her.
The practice would have caused Su Yin hideous anguish in earlier days. The only thing worse than not coming first was knowing that she hadn't come first. Nowadays it didn't bother her. Her name came so late that most people had lost interest by then.
This time her name was fourteenth in the list. When Puan Sharifah handed her the paper, she said,
"Good. This is an improvement."
Puan Sharifah was sparing with her praise. Su Yin was so startled she didn't react, but when she was back at her seat she allowed herself the burst of pleasure. She had earned it.
Her mother was not so pleased.
"Seventy?" she said. "That's not 1A, right?"
"2A only," said Su Yin, knowing her mother knew this. "You need seventy-five for 1A."
Her mother pursed her lips.
"Girl, History is very important," she said. "After this, when you're doing STPM, you can drop the subject. But if the university sees you're not so good at History, they will think you're not so good at writing."
"Do you need Sejarah tuition?" said Su Yin's dad.
Nobody took tuition classes for History. The received wisdom was that you only had to memorise the textbooks to do well. Understanding was not required.
"Sejarah don't really have tuition one," Su Yin said. "Just have to study harder, I guess."
"Don't study hard. Study smart," said her dad. But the answer pleased him: she was showing the right spirit.
"You got any problem concentrating at school?" said her mother. "Is your teacher not so good? You know you can tell us if anything."
It was her chance. Su Yin almost told them.
The thought of the report card stopped her. She hadn't thrown it away because they might have seen it in the trash can. She couldn't put it in the underwear drawer, because her mom did her laundry and put her clothes away. She'd thought of hiding it under her mattress, but her mom might notice it when she was changing the bedclothes.
In the end Su Yin had stuck it between the pages of a Form 3 Geography reference book. She hadn't looked at it again.
If Su Yin told her parents, she would have to tell them about the report card. The lie would come out. They would cry.
"You didn't do well is one thing," they'd say. "Mummy and Daddy can help you if you have problem at school. But the fact you lie to us, Su Yin — that means we didn't bring you up properly."
She didn't say anything.
"If you need tuition, Mummy and Daddy will find for you," said her mother. "Never mind whether Sejarah tuition got or not. Teachers' salary is not very good also. Sure can find one who is willing to give tuition. Just need to pay only."
"Don't need," said Su Yin. "I can handle it."
After all, she wasn't on her own anymore.
Form 3 was the best year of Su Yin's life. People said Form 1 and Form 2 were the best years, because the workload was light and you didn't have to worry about exams. Form 3 meant the first big exams, PMR, and then it all went downhill from there.
But Su Yin had always enjoyed exams. She liked the run-up to them best: the last two weeks before the exams, when your vision narrowed and your world contracted to this one essential thing. You were let off doing chores; TV and Internet were banned; co-curricular activities came to a stop. You entered a monkish world, a sanctuary from ordinary life, where all that was required of you was that you study and make the grade.
And you did the exams and you passed and you felt a sense of accomplishment. Your parents were proud of you. This was your job. It was what you were there for.
She'd done very well in PMR, leaving aside the B in BM. She'd got an extra A for Chinese even though neither of her parents spoke Mandarin, and she hadn't had extra tuition. The tuition classes had only started in Form 4. Her parents had thought she could do with the help, since it was such a leap from Form 3 to Form 4.
What Su Yin remembered of Form 3 was a feeling of clarity. A sense of being capable of doing everything necessary.
It was funny. She could remember the fact of being happy. She knew intellectually that life had once been easy, that she had once known she could do things. But she no longer knew how that felt.
Now she lived on the edge of a volcano. Everything seemed fine above ground, but panic slumbered underneath. At any time things could go horribly wrong.
As they did when Miss Yong gave up on her.
Miss Yong did this without ceremony. She took the Grade 7 repertoire book off the stand and said,
"This is pointless."
Su Yin's chin and shoulder hurt from holding the violin in place. She lowered her bow, not sure if she was supposed to stop playing.
"If you're not taking this seriously, better don't waste both our time," said Miss Yong. "You're not practising. You think I cannot tell?"
Su Yin took her violin by the neck so she could roll her shoulders. She mustn't cry.
Miss Yong must have noticed her shock, because her face softened. She was a young woman with a temper and many an exasperating student had felt the sharp side of her tongue, but they had always got along before. She had taught Su Yin since Su Yin started playing at the age of ten.
"Look, don't take this personally," said Miss Yong. "But might be better if you find another teacher. Maybe I have taught you so long, you are too used to me already. You're getting complacent. It's not that you don't have talent. But you cannot pass Grade 7 without practising. How many times a week do you practise?"
Su Yin was silent. She rushed through her pieces every Saturday morning before she went to class.
It wasn't that she'd thought Miss Yong wouldn't notice. There was just so much going on. Violin hadn't been a priority.
"I thought so," said Miss Yong. "I'll talk to your mother. Don't look so upset. It's not the end of the world. If you start practising now and you're disciplined, you can definitely pass your exam. But do you want to perform at the concert or not?"
The charity concert was in a fortnight. Su Yin was going to play one of her exam pieces. Her grandparents would be in town that weekend, and they were coming along with her parents to see
her. They'd bought tickets weeks ago.
"Yes," said Su Yin. She heard her voice wobble.
"I'm not going to stop you," said Miss Yong. "But you're old enough to know whether you can do it or not. Do you think you're at a level where you can play for an audience? People are not going to be lenient, you know. I have a student, nine years old, this tall — " she sketched in the air a child the approximate size of a garden gnome — "and she's the same grade as you. She's been practising every day for the concert. This year she's performed in public twice already."
"I can do it," whispered Su Yin. She cleared her throat. "I'll do it."
Miss Yong nodded, her mouth grim.
"Let's finish early today," she said. "I don't think you'll get much out of the class if we go on also."
"I need another wish," said Su Yin to the still water.
The white koi blinked a sleepy eye at her.
"Still want more?" it said. "One not enough meh?"
"One more only," said Su Yin.
She was seeing the world through a film of water. For a moment she thought she was in the pool, looking up through the green light at a girl with a huge pale face and puffy eyes. Then she was back inside her body, kneeling by the pool and dripping tears into the water.
"I will pay," she said.
"I was joking only," said the white koi. "No matter how much wishes you want also, I can grant. As long as got payment. You want what?"
"Let me play well at the concert," said Su Yin. "Don't need until like Yo Yo Ma like that. Decent can already."
She had not even been decent for the past few weeks. It wouldn't make sense to be brilliant. She had to hide.
"This will be more expensive, know," said the koi. "First time got discount. This time price is higher."
"Can," said Su Yin. "Anything also can."
This time she dipped both her arms into the water, up to the elbow. Her fingers brushed a passing goldfish. It shot off into the depths, a shivering gold droplet of alarm.
This time she kept her eyes open. The white koi's gummy mouth looked soft. When the mouth touched her skin, it looked as if it was covering her with little sucking kisses.
It felt as though hooks had sunk into her arm. They punctured the tender flesh of the inside of her elbow and tore their way through her skin, down to the wrists.
Su Yin managed to take her arm out of the pool to steady herself against the ledge, though her vision was going funny. Blood stained the water.
The koi had to do her other arm. It had to be slow. That was part of the magic.
The slower it was, the better she'd be. The pain made her safe. It would make her good enough.
On stage, Su Yin had a moment of terror. She touched her bow to the strings and a screechy hiss came out.
Her mother had put make up on her and her face felt heavy, unfamiliar. She cast a pleading look in the direction of the piano, though she could hardly see Miss Yong for the glare of the lights.
Miss Yong had the decency not to grimace. She nodded at Su Yin, lifted her hands from the keyboard, and prepared to start over again.
Su Yin had to perform. But nothing hurt.
She took down her violin, pretending to flip through her score. As she lifted her right hand to turn the page, the sleeve of her blouse fell away. The welts stood out, red on her skin.
She knew how she would do it.
She pulled the sleeves up to her elbows and nodded at Miss Yong. Miss Yong started playing the intro again. Su Yin touched the bow to the skin of her left arm.
The texture of the horsehair was hideous, dragged across raw flesh. But it sounded beautiful. A rich round woody sound unfurled from her bow.
There was a reason the fish had torn four lines down the length of her arm. Her fingers stayed on the fingerboard, dancing from string to string, but the strings were silent. Her bow scraped across the wounds on her arm, and the violin sang.
What did the audience see? Surely not the blood, dripping on the stage. It saw an ordinary girl, playing a piece competently.
Wrapped in the fish's enchantment, Su Yin was safe from being seen. She felt she could do anything.
"That was very good," said Miss Yong after the performance. "Finally thought you'd practise, hah?"
Su Yin's playing had been OK only for a Grade 7 student, but she could tell Miss Yong wanted to be encouraging. She nodded.
"Are you all right, Su Yin?" said Miss Yong. "You're a bit pale."
"I've been working hard," said Su Yin, and smiled at her distantly, ecstatically.
Su Yin was drooping over the table at Puan Rosnah's house, waiting for class to start and sleep to take over, when Cheryl pulled out a chair next to her.
"Eh," said Cheryl. She hesitated. "I want to talk to you. Are you free later?"
Su Yin stared at Cheryl for a dazed moment before the words registered.
She'd stopped doing the dolls — she'd only liked them because they kept her mind quiet, and nowadays the old buzzing thoughts no longer troubled her. But she still wasn't getting much sleep. These days she lay awake at night for hours, perfectly content, watching the patterns of light shiver and uncoil on her ceiling like ripples in a pool.
"Hah?" she said.
She didn't know what to say. She was free later. She never had anything important to do. She wasn't free later. Her dad was coming to pick her up, and then there would be dinner and homework and the latest Canto serial, and then the light dancing on the ceiling.
Cheryl was smiling, trying to convince Su Yin it was nothing serious. The smile was a trap.
"We so long never talk," Cheryl said. "What say we go kopitiam, have some snack, chat a bit? My mom can give you a ride home afterwards."
"Is this for, like, a CF thing?" said Su Yin. Cheryl had been irritating in the past about inviting Su Yin to Christian Fellowship meetings.
Cheryl looked relieved.
"Yah! Want or not? Promise I won't talk about it too long," she said. "Come lah."
"But my dad — "
Cheryl shoved her handphone into Su Yin's hand.
"Quickly call him before class starts," she said. "We'll walk over to the kopitiam after class. I told my mom to pick me up from there."
At the coffeehouse Cheryl bought some kuih and a Horlicks ais. Su Yin wasn't hungry, but she ordered bubur cha cha to be sociable. When it came she dipped her spoon in the thick soup and lifted it out again, watching the yam and sweet potato bob to the surface on the waves she created. Any moment now the axe was going to drop.
"Are you doing OK ah?" said Cheryl.
Su Yin tried to look surprised.
"Yah," she said. "Why?"
"Is everything OK at home?" said Cheryl. "With your parents all that."
"Everything's fine," said Su Yin.
"I know maybe, recently," said Cheryl. She was stirring her glass of Horlicks extra fast. "Like, maybe your studies have been a bit ... how to say, you know, like, maybe they're not going so smoothly. But you know, it's no big deal, right? It's nothing so important. At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter. Right?"
"Is that right?" said Su Yin. Her plan had been to stay quiet, but some evil genius moved her to say:
"What matters, then?"
"Oh, you know," said Cheryl.
Say God, thought Su Yin. I dare you to say God.
"Being happy," said new Cheryl. "Family."
Something in Su Yin's chest came unstuck.
"What if they contradict?" she said. She regretted it the moment she said it.
"Su Yin, you are not doing OK," said Cheryl.
It was too late to deny it. Stupid, stupid to have said that —
"It's OK. I'm handling it," said Su Yin. "Like you said, doing badly in studies is not the end of the world."
"I didn't mean that," said Cheryl. She reached out too quickly for Su Yin to stop her, and flicked up her sleeve.
The red lines on her arm flared out before her sleeve slipped down again.
"You are no
t doing well," said Cheryl. "This is not right."
Su Yin said, "It helps."
She didn't know how to explain about the fish and the magic. About how giving something small and unimportant like pain meant you got back big things.
It looks worse than it is, she wanted to say. It's worth it.
"I don't know how to handle this kind of thing," said Cheryl. She sounded scared. "Su Yin, you need better help than this. Have you told your parents?"
Su Yin didn't need to answer that. She stared at her bubur cha cha. It would be cold if she ate it now.
"They should know," said Cheryl.
"You can't tell them!" said Su Yin.
"I have to tell somebody," said Cheryl. "You cannot go on like this. You think other people haven't noticed? I'm talking to you now because another guy in our tuition told me a few weeks ago you came in with a huge scar on your hand. You know when people start to gossip, this kind of story can spread very fast. Everyone at school knows why you don't wear short sleeve anymore. It's either your parents find out from me now, or a teacher tells them later."
Su Yin swallowed her heart back down her throat.
"The teachers know?" she said.
"It's only a matter of time," said Cheryl. "Everybody knows already."
That night Su Yin did not sleep.
When she saw her face in the pond again, it startled her. She had used to dislike her round face. She wasn't chubby, but she had a flat, broad peasant's face, full-cheeked.
Now her face had fined down. The cheeks were hollow. Her cheekbones stood out. Above them her narrow eyes were ringed with dark circles, panda-like.
She hadn't noticed how she'd changed. Even her parents, usually so attentive, had missed it. When you saw someone every day, you did not see them change, little by little.
Small things, given time, become mountains. Fish bones lodge in the throat and choke you.
She said to her reflection in the water:
"I need help."