Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  Fann, Imo and I started laughing and laughing. We laughed for so long that we actually had to stop and take a sip of water—­that type of laughing. Until we suddenly realized that Sher and Ah Huat were not laughing! Then all of a sudden, everything felt quite scary. Ah Huat was looking at Sher. We were staring at Sher. Sher was looking down at the chicken bones next to her orange plastic plate.

  “Well, it seems like a good deal—­those flats are quite nice,” she finally said. “OK.”

  Ah Huat was suddenly so happy he actually pumped his fist into the air as if he won some cock competition. He raised his beer glass to try and cheers with all of us but we were so stunned we didn’t move. Sher couldn’t even look at us.

  Imo was the first one to say something. “Sher, are you sure . . .”

  Sher just cut her off and said, “It’s a good time, Imo. OK?”

  “Sher,” I said, reaching over for her hand. I suddenly felt like throwing up.

  Sher grasped my hand in hers first though. “Jazzy,” she said, looking very seriously at me. “Please—­just don’t. Not now.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I tried to look at Sher one more time but this time she not only could not look up at me but she also actually turned her head and looked away.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I took fifty dollars out of my wallet and threw it on the table. “Come,” I said to Fann and Imo, “let’s go.”

  Thinking back to that day, I wish I had said something—­anything—­that could have made that cock marriage proposal disappear. Instead I’d gotten angry like a baby and stormed off. I should have reasoned with Sher, taken her out for drinks after. If I had, would we have lost her forever to a loser Singaporean who’s probably going to behave just like Kin Meng or Sam at those KTV clubs before too long?

  I mean—­forget Kin Meng and Sam. Even the Singaporean guys who don’t have the money—­or expense accounts—­for KTV lounges are also doing funny business outside of their marriages. A few years ago, the girls and I really liked Hard Rock Cafe—­we had just started hanging out with this group of English ruggers that we had met there, so we were feeling a little hopeful. One Saturday at Hard Rock when we girls had just climbed onto the dinner tables and were still sweating from swinging our long hair and going crazy to “Sweet Child of Mine,” some guy near our feet suddenly said, “Eh, Jazzy and Sher ah?” At first we didn’t recognize him. Some Singaporean guy at Hard Rock—­who cares? But then Sher said, “Eh, I think it’s Aileen’s husband.”

  My first thought was, “Cannot be.” Aileen just got married—­how come her husband is already going clubbing without her? But it confirm was him! Well, we liked Aileen, so we got down from the tabletops to say hello. Her husband bought us a pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea and we talk-­talked with him for a while, passing around the pitcher with two long straws so everyone could sip it. When the pitcher was empty, he bought another one. That was when I noticed he was suddenly standing right next to me, rubba-­ing more and more as each song came on. I asked, “Eh, what you think you doing?”

  “Aiyah, Jazzy, don’t be so serious lah. Let’s just get high and have a good time. Come, later I send you home.” Aileen’s husband kept rubba-­ing—­even using his left hand to hold on to the back of my neck so I felt like I was in one of those thick dog collars. At first I thought, OK, be nice lah, Jazzy. ­People just bought us all drinks—­better to just swallow it, smile and say nothing.

  But then I thought—­kani nah, Aileen is our friend!

  So I elbowed him and pushed him away. “You think we who? One of those China girls who can actually pretend they like sucking your small cock?”

  That was when he got angry. He just wiped his mouth and spat on the floor. “You all ah,” he said, pointing slowly at each one of us, “are nothing but a bunch of lousy sarong party girls. You think all these ang mohs will treat you any better than we will? Lan jiao, lah!” And then he walked away. I just couldn’t believe it—­even the not good-­looking, not rich Singaporean guys are like that. So you tell me—­what kind of hope do we girls have?

  My head felt like it was going to explode thinking about last night at the KTV lounge, about Sher, about Aileen. So after I knocked off from work, I took the MRT down to Orchard Road and walked over to Paragon. Walking along its gleaming corridors and peeking into its perfumed cocoons filled with handbags and shoes always made me feel better. Prada, Loewe—­even Coach. No matter what happened, these were the friends who could always instantly cheer me up.

  I know this kind of thinking is quite materialistic lah. (Although, at the same time I also think—­what the hell is wrong with that? Doesn’t PM Lee always say it’s good to have goals?) But since teenage times, I guess I’ve always been like this. And I guess walking these expensive corridors now always reminds me of the first guy who actually made me think that this was the life I could have someday.

  There is only one Singaporean guy I ever considered worth marrying. Maybe.

  This was a long time ago when I was still young. I knew about Gavin from the first week at JC—­we were both in the same year in the commerce faculty, so even though we weren’t in the same class I always saw him in econs and maths lectures. He was damn hard to get to know at first, because we were nowhere near being in the same circles. Even though he only managed to get into lousy Changi Junior College, his family was fucking rich. So each day, from the moment he parked his older brother’s BMW in the teachers’ car park to the time he left, he always had a big group following him around. Mostly guys, but since he was the richest guy in school, of course there were always a few girls—­all the pretty ones, even a few Eurasians. The fucker knew this, of course—­you could always see him walking around the school corridors with major attitude, like he’s George Clooney at that atas French film festival or some shit.

  So even though I thought he was cute—­tall tall skinny skinny one, with small backside and sweet cheeky smile, and his school uniform shirt collar was always turned up a bit, like Cantopop singers in those paparazzi shots of them on vacation and all—­I thought, this kind of guy, I confirm have no chance with him. If he has Eurasian girls wanting to date him, why on earth would he consider me? For me to dream about being his girlfriend—­waste time only lah. I might as well try to date George Clooney. Same same.

  But one day Gavin was late for econs lecture and I guess his gang forgot to save a seat for him—­and usually I sit with Sher, but that day she was sick so there was a big empty seat next to me. Ten minutes after Mrs. Ho started talking about diminishing returns or some shit I heard someone sneaking into Sher’s usual chair. When I looked to my left and saw it was Gavin, I was so shocked my mouth dropped open and I even stopped writing notes. Fucker saw that and just laughed quietly, shaking his head. Babi!

  I thought, OK lah, if he wants to be like that, guniang will be a bit stuck-­up with him. I just turned back to my notes and didn’t look at him again during the whole lecture. At the end, when he winked at me and just got up quickly to leave, I wasn’t surprised. Probably had some hot date at recess or something. Cheh!

  I saw him around school the next few days, of course—­fucker would wink at me here and there but never bothered to come over and say hello. But then a few days later, I happened to be leaving school late—­so late that the bus stop outside was empty. Gavin was sitting on the railing at the bus stop, just casually smoking, looking a bit action. Damn funny—­I whole life never see him at bus stop before. He had a BMW after all—­and even if he didn’t have his car that day, his mum could always send her driver to come and fetch him. What’s he doing at a bus stop? The mighty Gavin taking public transportation? As if!

  When I got to the bus stop though, Gavin threw his ciggie into the longkang and hopped off the railing.

  “Why are you so late?” he asked.

  I was so stunned I had to look around me for a moment to make sure he wasn’t actually talking to so
meone behind me.

  “Come,” he said. “I send you home.”

  I usually try to be a bit proud—­but then again, I also never say no to free car ride. (At that time, buses got no air-­con, you know—­if you have to take long bus trip in the middle of the afternoon . . . very hardship!) So I just nodded and follow him to his BMW.

  “You live near town, right?” he said after he started the engine—­this engine was damn power, man. It sounded like one of those Formula One cars! (Not that I’d actually ever been close enough to a sports car to hear something like this. But hello, even if Jazzy here is not rich, she has some imagination.)

  “Yah,” I said, suddenly wondering how he knew where I live. I had never even said “Hello” to him before—­how the hell did he know all these things?

  “OK, I bring you to King’s Hotel for lunch first,” he said. “The chicken rice there, quite good.”

  Go to a hotel to eat chicken rice? I whole life never hear something so stupid before. Chicken rice is hawker food, hello—­the hawker center across from my block alone has so many good kinds, and all just the two-­dollar three-­dollar type! If you are toot enough to go to a hotel for chicken rice, you must know you’re going to cough up at least ten dollars for a plate! And GST on top of that! But I assumed he was paying, so I just kept quiet. In fact, being quiet was not so hard at that point. Gavin’s air-­con was as power as his engine—­everything was so cold and shiok I was getting a bit sleepy. I actually wished he wasn’t there so I could just close my eyes and take a nap. But babi was not only sitting next to me—­he kept looking at me, like he wanted to see if I was OK or not. So I just looked out the window and counted the angsana trees flashing by.

  “I’m Gavin,” he said.

  “You think I don’t know, is it?”

  I heard him laugh, so I turned around to look at him.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said. I could see that he was still smiling. “Just wondering why you are being so attitude with me. It’s not like I did something to you before. Excuse me, uncle over here is even fetching you home and all.”

  OK lah. He had a point. I guess I was on edge because I wasn’t really sure what was going on. Is he treating me like a charity case? Or did he want to ask me for favor? (My god, if he wants to copy my econs homework, he’s even more stupid than I think.) This kind of situation—­rich handsome guy; poor not bad-­looking girl—­usually never ends well in those films in the cinema. Often the guy’s friends dare him to ask her out or something—­and in the end they always end up making fun of the girl and how poor she is. Jazzy may not have money lah, but she’s not a goondu!

  I didn’t know what to say so I just turned around and carried on looking out the window.

  Gavin had turned onto the ECP by then and revved up his engine so we went a bit faster. I wished he would slow down. I had only been on this part of the ECP a few times before because guniang usually only took buses at that time. (And buses never go on the ECP, which is why all the bus rides from Changi all take so long. Sometimes, it feels like we have to get through one thousand traffic lights and even more bus stops before I get home, man.) It had already rained that day so the sky was damn blue and I could see a few ­people walking near the beach, the rows of skinny, short holiday chalets, the tall palm trees all around, the seaside hawker center that I heard had very shiok satay. I bet every day when Gavin drives to school he never even looks out his window at all this. When the fucker wants to go to a beach I bet he just flies to Bali or some shit.

  “How you know I live in Tiong Bahru?” I asked.

  “I asked around,” he said. “And I’ve been noticing you. You’re quite popular, you know. There are a lot of guys in school who are just waiting for a chance to take you out.”

  Popular? Fucker must be pulling my leg. I know I’m a bit cute lah—­some more I make sure to keep my school uniform skirt damn short. Some girls in school—­even Eurasians!—­have even quietly taken me aside before to ask me to show them my technique for rolling up my skirt at the waistband so the skirt rides up but also flares out nicely in that way that suggests that maybe guys can see a bit of backside if they look hard enough but hello, of course we girls know better than to actually give the whole show away for free.

  No, usually when strange guys start talking to me, it’s usually because they want to get closer to Sher. Back then, I had better legs lah (hence the emphasis on skirt-­rolling) but Sher was already damn pretty. Even so, she wasn’t that busy on the dating scene because the truth is, she just couldn’t be bothered. Of all of us, she was the most focused on studies—­so when she was in school, she actually cared about going to classes type. (And when she was there, she actually listened.) I could always see guys—­really good-­looking ones, too—­trying to get close enough to her to say hello. But usually only the really nerdy smart ones were the only ones who succeeded because Sher was mostly interested in asking them about homework and other cock shit like that. I had heard that some guys in school had started calling her “Ice Princess” because she never talked to ­people she didn’t know. I guess they thought they could get to her through me because I was a bit more friendly. (Or desperate? Babi.)

  I wanted to say something to Gavin—­like “Don’t talk cock lah!”—­but decided to act cool. So I just nodded and kept looking out the window.

  “You know,” I said. “Usually when guys ask a girl out, they do it nicely, sometimes bringing flowers all. They don’t kidnap them at a bus stop and force them to go and eat chicken rice.”

  “Kidnap?” he said, laughing again, shaking his head. “You are really something, Jazeline.”

  After that, we were stuck together like superglue. We went to lectures together, studied together at McDonald’s after school, on weekends we’d go to shows at Lido, holding hands for the world to see that we were a ­couple. The one year we were together was quite fantasy lah. If it was Bollywood movie we confirm would be running around a tree.

  Even though I thought at first that Gavin was damn attitude, he actually turned out to be a very good boyfriend. Always pick me up in his BMW; always send me home. Some more each month on the fourteenth—­the anniversary of our first bus stop date—­he always gave me a present. Something branded some more—­not a flashy or expensive present, usually something small like a Gucci keychain or the cheapest Tiffany pen. But on my birthday he gave me a Louis Vuitton wallet—­the one with the logos all over so everyone could see it was LV!

  Things were going so well after a few months that I actually allowed myself to start imagining what it would be like to be Mrs. Gavin Lim. To live in big house, have two maids, maybe even a Malay driver. Win lottery! This kind of life, I confirm don’t mind. I wasn’t sure how rich Gavin was exactly—­and honestly, I didn’t really care. I got the sense that he was definitely rich enough for more than one maid. But I did hope that he could give me enough to buy a nice house for my mum and dad also, and make sure they also had a maid to take care of them. I know back then we were still pretty young but it was a little bit different than it is now. When you’re in school, some of the relationships you have, you’ll stick with them until early twenties and when it’s a decent enough age, you get married. Those kinds of school relationships were much simpler than now lah—­now, aiyoh, it’s all about hooking up and getting free drinks. Somewhere along the way between JC and real life, everything always changes when it comes to dating. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll snag that good guy before he sees the opportunities out there and any of that crap can change him.

  Then a few months before our A-­level preliminary exams, Gavin took me to dinner at Nadaman at the Shang. Nice Japanese dinner at Nadaman? Must be something important. Could it be? Just in case, I made sure my mascara was waterproof that night. So when I make those few tears of joy at least we can still take a nice photo afterward.

  The din
ner was damn shiok—­foie gras chawanmushi, super expensive sashimi and all—­but guniang here was not even halfway through eating when Gavin dropped his fucking bomb.

  “I think we should take a break,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand.

  I just laughed. Things were going so well—­why was he saying such cock words? “Crazy, ah?” I said, laughing even more.

  “Jazz, I’m serious,” he said. “The A-­levels are so important. My mum says I need to really focus. She wants me to come straight home after school every day and take extra tuition classes before the preliminary exams. I can’t afford to bollocks this up.”

  His mum! Of course she is behind this. I always try not to be rude to my elders but Auntie Lim is a fucking chee bye, man. From the first time I met her until now, she was always damn stuck-­up around me, always pulling a dark face if Gavin invites me to family parties. I know she thinks her precious son can do better.

  “Did your mum ask you to break up with me?” I asked.

  “Break up? No! This is not that, Jazz. She just thought maybe it’s good to take a break. Just at least until the A’s are over.”

  “Why do we need a break? We can see each other less often. Do you think I don’t know how important the A’s are? I also need to study! You’re not the only one who is trying to have a future, Gav!”

  “I know, I know. Jazz, please don’t be upset.”

  He was trying to bend across the table to kiss me now but I just leaned back and folded my arms.

  “Jazz,” he said, sighing. “You know I love you. My mother . . . you know what she’s like. I need to at least pass my A’s. The future chairman of Lim Yee Sheng Exports cannot retake his A’s! Do you know how embarrassing that would be? My parents won’t be able to show their faces at Chinese New Year!”

  I refused to say anything and just looked away. I was still waiting for him to tell me this is a joke. Or that he’s going to tell his mum to go fly a kite.