Chapter 3 from Blind, Deaf

We've heard from the young Amelia Abas in Chapter 1, and the grownup Amelia in Chapter 2.  Now's the time for Fatso's point of view.

Menu for ice cream potong - named so because each ice cream is cut (potong in Bahasa) from a big slab

Chapter 3

Lucky Boy

‘Woi!’ my happy voice called out to the proud girl.

Head turned sideways, she glared at me as she mechanically paid the ice cream man.   

Jubilant she reacted with my first call, I grinned ear to ear.  But, woi!  That look she shot me, it nearly made me tremble, and left my knees knocking each other.  Her stare gave the impression she had the power to make me melt.  Who did she think she was?  Wonder Woman?  When the ice cream purveyor handed her the usual purchase, she took it from him, didn’t even look where the treat was.  Impressed, I cried ‘Woi!’  There was no relent in her stare.  She was one fierce creature, aaa.

I beckoned her with both hands to my spot.   ‘Woi, come here!  Where I am!  You’re not blind, light?’  My slave driver, who was standing behind me shook my left shoulder.  I turned to him and we carried a brief animated discussion.  Seconds later, I reverted my attention to the schoolgirl. I was a lucky boy!   Woi!  She was still interested in me. I wasn’t bluffing one – she glowered at me while she licked her ice cream!  Maybe she was persistently jealous of my smooth, flawless, beautiful face.  I grinned widely and as swiftly as the grin materialized, I wiped it off. It was never too good to let a girl know how you feel about her.  I pushed my sliding eyeglasses up the bridge of my nose.

‘Aaa, excuse me, miss!  This guy next to me wishes to talk with you!’ I declared as I made hand signs, for the benefit of the tall dude beside me.  ‘Could you be kind aaa?  Come nearer to us so that we all could have a civil conversation?  No need to shout one!’  While no more than five feet away from her, I yelled at her.  You see, that was a precaution, just in case she was deaf.  All the passers-by regarded me like I was deranged.  I didn’t care as I really enjoyed the limelight.  As soon as I stopped my signing, I muttered, ‘Aiya, this is hard.  Now cannot talk like pasar one.  Haiya!’   

From her facial expression, I noted she was awed I complained I could no longer talk the pasar – street – way without moving my mouth much.  She caught my buddy studying her, or more specifically her lips.  He, on catching she likewise, was surveying him, simpered.  I’d never seen him lose his cool.  He was never shy around girls – big, tall, fat, short, sweet, beautiful, ugly.  But this girl was not wall eyed, wart nosed, humpbacked, doughy or bow legged; she was different.  One look at her, and another look at Ruo Li, and I knew the stupid fool was headed for trouble! – Ruo Li aaa, don’t play with fire!  I warned him.  He couldn’t and didn’t listen to me. Poor boy was deaf.  And stubbornly stupid to a factor of gazillion.

She languidly inched her way toward us while masticating her ice cream.  Once close enough, she briefly surveyed us and rest her attention on me. See!  She was interested in me.  ‘Mister,’ she began, ‘if you keep up your good manners, maybe…I’ll talk with him.’  She motioned to my slave driver with a nod in his direction.

I wryly crinkled my mouth at her for calling me mister when I was still at a tender, young age.  I was a kid one!  Was she blind?  Despite her derision, I proceeded to relay her message to Ruo Li.  He simply patted my shoulder a few times before I completely relayed her words to signify he understood everything.  Ruo Li’s attention was fastened on the girl’s lips the way my eyes clung on a heaping box of piping hot Kentucky Fried Chicken.  He had a sort of confidence about him.  If her cognitive ability was optimized, she should know he could read her lips.  Ruo Li shouldn’t be treated as a helpless kid aaa.

I tugged his sleeve shortly for attention and commenced to sign to him.  – What you want me to say to her, don’t waste my time OK, this one the fierce kind, makes me feel old quickly, haiya! Called me mister yesterday and mister too today.  My hair becoming white aaa?

As soon as Ruo Li completed his gestures, I turned to the girl.  ‘He says…Hello, my name is Wong Ruo Li.  Solly, I am deaf.  But I’d leally, leally wish to be your fliend.  May I know your name?’  I uttered, word by word, unemotional, like a robot.

I could see she comprehended my weakness in certain pronunciations.  She studied me in amusement and glanced at Ruo Li.  See!  She only glanced at him one! 

Ruo Li shook my shoulder a couple of times.  I threw him a hasty, disgruntled glance.  He grabbed my shoulders and positioned me so that I was standing in profile opposite the girl.  Next, Ruo Li began signing and I was reduced to be his slave.  ‘He says, may I know your name, please?’  A grumble under my breath followed but it was loud enough for the girl to detect it.  Leveraging on my ventriloquist talent, I railed I was doing a thankless job much like a dumb secretary, except that I wasn’t wearing a skirt.  I felt used one!

The girl nonetheless refrained from showing any emotion.  She continued eating her ice cream in silence.  Ruo Li, uncharacteristically impatient, shook my shoulder again and nodded toward her.

‘Aiya, this guy wants to know your name, miss!  Pity me aaa, I cannot do this tlanslate thing too long,’ I carped.

She bit more of her ice cream and took her own sweet time chewing it.  I hoped she wasn’t like those cows which regurgitated their food.  Ruo Li and I could be standing there until midnight before she started talking again.  Haiya!  Thankfully, she said, ‘How come?’

‘No can do pasar talk.  No fun.   My brain becomes like lobot only.’  I switched to my robot-mode speech and softly, rapidly uttered a few sentences through gritted teeth. ‘Hello!  My name is Wong Ruo Li. I have a secletaly.  I-like-to-make-him-look-dumb-one.’

She giggled on my last statement.  Ruo Li seemed confused.  I spotted pity in her glance at him.  Chewing a mouthful of ice cream, she told me, ‘Tell him, I’m pleased to meet him.’  I knew she was confident the tall guy couldn’t read her lips, with all her manducation.  While she wasn’t hideous or uncomely like the Ugly Duckling, her unmannered behavior – speaking with a mouthful of food – didn’t scare me.  However, I was beginning to feel a modicum of apprehension.  Her lack of decorum indeed didn’t have any negative effect whatsoever on Ruo Li.  Contrary to my expectation, a stupid smile was plastered on his physiognomy.  Haiya!  Ruo Li’s state of mind was therefore more insane than I had initially thought.  Frowning in concern, I conveyed her response to Ruo Li.

The slave driver moved his hands and I in turn, dutifully relayed the messages to her. ‘I’m vely pleased to meet you, too.  If you’d be so kind, may I know your name?’ I turned to her and complained through gritted teeth, ‘Aiya!  So folmal. So Blitish Council.’  And I waited and waited.  Ruo Li patiently studied her for an answer but she remained quiet with her countenance portraying amusement.  I shifted my weight by hopping slightly feet to feet in the same spot, followed by crossing and uncrossing my legs.  Finally, I moved my body to confront her squarely.  I dramatically sighed. Without any hand signs, I ribbed her in her mother tongue that not having a name meant she was mute.  Therefore she was disabled too, similar to my companion.

Seconds after those statements, Ruo Li shoved my thick left shoulder.  Due to my height(not much), portliness(too much) and therefore low center of gravity, I hardly budged from the thrust.   He made a few frantic signs.  – Dumbass, what did you mention to her this time?  How come she suddenly stops smiling?  You mess up, and I’ll report to Ma you wet your bed again last night.  Believe me, I will, and I’m tired of helping you drag your stinking mattress with your pee map of the world outside our room to be aired!  Now, apologize for what you said and ask her nicely for her name.  Nicely, OK?

As Ruo Li’s messages formed, I grunted ‘aiya!’ a few times.  The schoolgirl, I believed, surmised she had put me on a spot.  I shot her an apologetic glance.  Ruo Li focused his stare on my lips this time.  Keeping up with his signs, I relayed to the girl, ‘He says…Solly, this fat boy beside me is a dog, eh, dock, eh, dork, you idiot!  Solly in advance if he says stupid things.  I told you my name.  What’s yours, please?’  I breathed out noisily.  The whole translating effort was a real burden to me.  Haiya!  I needed to tinkle!!!  After seconds ticked, I crossed and uncrossed my legs again, confronted her and concluded she was a crazy girl for torturing me.  Ruo Li had finally showed interest in a girl for the first time in his life.  But, haiya!  Why did he have to choose trouble?  Irritated, I remarked to her, ‘Eh, can hurly up or not?  I have to go pee aaa.  Cannot hold too long all leady.’

She studied her remaining ice cream.  A flicker of inspiration stretched on her visage. She regarded us and much as I had suspected, she had a cuckoo brain one.  Why?  She said, ‘My name is Princess Sweet Corn.’  Cuckoo!

As I wove signs for Ruo Li, I hurled a very cynical glare, complete with a frown, to the girl.  ‘What kind of a cockamamie name is that? Are you out of this world?  ET?’

The girl huffed at me.   ‘I happen to love fairy tales.  You have a problem with that mister?’

I grinned, and nearly informed her I had a very big problem with her moniker when Ruo Li shoved and reintimidated me he’d disclose to Ma last night’s pee incidence if I didn’t behave.  I, alarmed, quickly displayed my remorse to the girl and apologized.   I politely begged for her name and she noticed my trembling legs.  She seemed amused one.  ‘OK, all right.  My name is –’

An irritating blast of horn suddenly interrupted our conversation and she hurled her attention to its source.  There was an orange school van across the street.  Some wild kids, her friends I supposed, were poking their heads out of the windows and waving animatedly at her.  A girl with a bob, wild look, crazy gestures, indicated her schoolbag was safely in the vehicle.  The pony-tailed prefect faced us again with an amused expression.  She popped the last of her ice cream into her mouth and to my horror, commenced to walk away from us.

‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!  We’re not done yet!  You haven’t told us your name aaa!’  I complained. 

She hastily spun around and shrugged briefly to signify there wasn’t much she could do.  ‘Next time!’ she dished out to conclude our tête-à-tête that afternoon.  The girl darted off to the other side to catch her ride home.  I ran after her as fast as my legs could allow, and that wasn’t speedy enough because they were chunky.  I was the lumbering hippopotamus, she the elegantly lightning-fast gazelle; she was too swift for me.  A tad later, I was bent over, panting like an asthmatic kid and dripping buckets of sweat.  The only consolation I received was in her wake, I serendipitously caught the sweet but not cloying scent  of vanilla and orange blossoms. 

I stood up.  ‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!’ I cried out after her. ‘Don’t tell me your name is Next Time!’  She was unfortunately too far away from me.  ‘Haiya!’ I lamented, ‘How am I leally going to explain it to Wong Ruo Li?’

*

Do Stories Have Taste?

To me, they do.  I don't mean the usual perception whether a story is good or bad.  It goes beyond that.  What I believe in is a story has its unique identity like the underlying notes a perfume gives off, or the flavors left on my taste buds as I'm relishing a scrumptious cannoli.   Stories, as the saying goes, are food for thought.

My favorite stories are ones which leave some wonderful aftertastes long after I've put down the books they came from.  My preferred ones are those evoking certain tastes the first time I read them, and different ones on my next visit.  Take To Kill A Mockingbird as an example.  This is my all time favorite!  I read the book as a teenager and I can still remember it made me feel like I'd eaten cotton candy.  Therefore I associated sweet and sugary to the story.  Years later, I picked up the book again.  Lo and behold, it was not sweet and sugary anymore to my taste buds!  I felt the briny and sour punch of a pickle, the sweetness and a slight bitter edge of caramel.  The book, without doubt, is magical to me.

I too have pondered on the aftertaste of the books I've devoured of late.  Lucia, Lucia by Adriana Trigiani makes me recall an Italian pear tart from an ancient recipe.  It's sweet without being cloying, and its barely there saltiness makes me feel nostalgic.  Train to Trieste by Domnica Radulescu is like truffle to me.  It's earthy, velvety to my palate and homey, and I knew from the first few pages of the book, it's a rare gem - hard to find, just like a truffle!

I did the same taste test on my books too.  My first novel, Rice, Fish, Squid and Lamb, was written to address my hurt locker.  Naturally, the main sense I get as I reread the book is its bitterness.  The second most dominant taste is saltiness which I always associate with nostalgia.  Thankfully, bursts of sweetness intersperse these two main flavors.

My second book, Blind, Deaf, which I plan for publication this year, came about because of guilt.  What does the story taste like?  To me, it's mainly sweet and salty.  But then, tastes are relative.  Read excerpts from my book (I'll be updating this site with the first few chapters from Blind, Deaf in the next few weeks!), and tell me what you think!

Chapter 2 from Blind, Deaf

The first chapter tells the story from a perspective of a girl not quite twelve.  What happens to her years later?  Read on!

Chapter 2

Thirty Something

I gaze at the two pots of fiery-red poinsettia for the umpteenth time.  Clad in an orange turtle neck, carmine peacoat, black pencil skirt whose hem stops right above my bare knees, and stylish, deep lavender leather boots – a nightmare getup by some fashionistas’ standards –  the thirty something me still can’t decide.  C’mon, hurry up, I berate myself, this is not even an executive decision!  I don’t celebrate Christmas.  Yet I want to make sure it’ll be perfect as a gift.  It’s for Olivia, who picked up my outfit earlier and who won’t take no for an answer.  Thoroughly headstrong, she won’t settle for anything pale, or uninspiring.  I smile to myself.  I believe Olivia would more than like the plant in the terracotta pot.  I’m certain she’ll love it.

‘Amelia?’

I stop concentrating on the Christmassy plants.  From the opposite side of the table thronged with pots after pots of festive poinsettias, a tall, Asian man somberly looks at me.  I reckon he’s probably not much older than I am.  Definitely thirty something, I guess.  He studies me while I maintain an impassive watch on him.  Suddenly he seems to be recognizing something; a smile surprisingly and lazily breaks on his lips.

‘Amelia, right?  You’re Amelia?’ 

I note his voice is very soothing, one I’d love to hear over the phone.  My instinct tells me he’s persistent underneath his suave exterior.  There’s something regarding him which strikes me as familiar.  Yet I can’t put a finger to it. I certainly can’t forget a face I’ve seen, even from many years ago.   It’s a capability I’ve honed on the job and one I always rely on.  This stranger however is a challenge.  I deliberate fast and hard.  Despite the effort, I’m still stumped seconds later.  His identity eludes me and I’m dead certain I have no recollection of ever meeting him.   And how in the world does he know my name?  Unsure on how to react, I maintain my placid stare at him. 

To my wonderment, he commences to make hand signs and simultaneously mouth the message – You’re Amelia, right?  I’m very sure you are.  Don’t frown or you’ll look like –  

I only read his signs.  Somehow, I inexplicably grow irritated before his last silent message is fully formed.  His persistence triggers a memory some nine years ago when I responded to an attractive stranger who asked me out of the blue whether I was Amelia.  The stranger, similar to the Asian guy, was persistent.  The stranger, who eventually became my friend, went out with me for a number of years.  We were young, we were carefree, we had a good time.  I was unluckily the party who got hurt in the end.  They say there’s this thing called time which heals.  Yet, on remembering the pain, fresh despite the years, I resolve not to repeat a past mistake and end up with a heartache.  Before the guy completes his latest sentence, I brusquely state, ‘I’m not deaf, mister.’

He halts midway through his unspoken words.  He lets his hands drop to his sides.  He remains unaffected by my stare, cold and aloof now, and it peeves me.  His smile intact, he exclaims in a very relieved fashion, ‘You are Amelia!’

I throw him a hostile glare.  ‘What makes you very sure, mister?’

‘You’re definitely Amelia. No one but Amelia talks to me like so.’

‘Hey mister,’ I say as I quickly grab the pot of poinsettia closest to me and hurry toward the cashier.   Not looking at him, I remark matter-of-factly, ‘Read my lips. You got the wrong person.’

‘I can’t see your lips!’  he complains.  ‘I’m not blind, you know!  But you are Amelia!  I’m definitely certain.’  He keeps close to my heels.  A hint of satisfaction and confidence in his voice makes me bitter.

‘I’m not Amelia,’ I deny again.  I hasten my steps.  The cashier is now within sight.  Yet I begin to worry; Chad, the shop owner, is nowhere to be seen.  Isn’t he supposed to man the cashier now, especially this pest of a guy with a mouth running loose, trying to convince me I am Amelia, isn’t bucking down one bit?  The stranger’s way too near me.  The trespassing of my space makes my heart beat faster.  For all I know, the Asian guy, who’s not bad looking after all, might be a stalker.  A cute stalker!  Hmm, that’s worth a nice cup of coffee and idle chat with Diana at work tomorrow!

He meanwhile keeps on telling me he has found me.  Finally, unable to suppress my mounting annoyance, I abruptly spin around and almost bump into the lean guy.  Caught off guard by my sudden move, he flinches back a step.  To my dismay, he does it suavely.

Exasperated, I cry, ‘Hey mister!  For the umpteenth time, I’m not Amelia.  Don’t you ever give up, mister?’

‘Never!  Not in your wildest dreams and wackiest fairy tales, Amelia Abas!’

His latest opinion silences me for moments.  I spot a twinkle in his eyes, a muttering of ‘Bull’s-eye!’   They incense me.  Keeping cool, I grapple for some just ripostes.  Yet before I get to say anything, a perky, familiar voice calls out from behind me. ‘Hi Amelia!’  I try to remain stoic.  One bad move, and my pretense will all be in jeopardy.  I’m fully aware if I swing around now, I’ll find, much to my dismay, beefy Chad.  I hear the clop-clop-clop of the black, ex-marine’s boots heading toward me. I jog my mind for a swift way out.

Unfortunately, Chad’s strides are long and fast.  He’s by my side within seconds.  ‘Ya’ve settled for that, huh?’ Chad points to the pot I’m carrying. ‘That’s a nice pick!  I told ya could find a good one on them table there, Amelia!’ 

I pretend not to hear Chad.  He’s as good as invisible to me.  Briskly leaving the Asian guy and Chad behind, I survey around the store to catch anything which can be a diversion.  Chad fortunately wends his way to a nearby group of women.  I’m slightly relieved to recognize a few faces among them.  They’re the hard core begonia lovers who’ll keep Chad occupied on providing plant care tips.  I promptly pray there’s another Amelia among the women.  Not much later, to my dismay I hear Chad repeatedly calling me.  Damn!  I internally scream.  I’m getting a bit panicky because I still can’t shake the bean pole off by wandering aimlessly from aisle to aisle as fast as I can.  He follows me, telling me how confident he is of my identity.  He claims I look the same as before except for my height and my hair, now shoulder length.  He excitedly states it used to be long, all the way to the middle of my back.  I hear him mentioning my lustrous tresses reminded him of Rapunzel’s hair.  He adds my hair is black, like Snow White’s, not Rapunzel’s blond.  I grimace and ponder what kind of a regressive schmuck I’m dealing with now. He should get a kick for such a remark.

‘Hey, what’s up, Amelia?’ Chad queries me as he nears me seconds later.  He gets into my direct line of vision.  I can’t escape him this time and I start to really sweat it.  ‘Amelia,’ Chad frowns at me, ‘you seem to be slightly deaf today.  I was calling out your name a few times just now, and I swear you didn’t seem to be hearing me.’

‘Damn!’ I mutter under her breath.

‘I’m right!  I’m right!  You are Amelia!’ the young man chants from behind me, ‘and you cussed!’

Chad leans sideways.  Much to my surprise, he widely grins to the stranger.  ‘I told ya could find her by the poinsettias!’  Chad remarks to the bean pole and gives the tall guy a happy wink.

*

An entirely different story than Rice, Fish, Squid and Lamb

Blind, Deaf is my second manuscript.  This love story centers on a fairy tale, which is made for three teenagers, but meant for two persons...

Chapter 1

A Pretty Girl

Once upon a time, a girl, not quite twelve, wandered to foreign land.  She was in a school prefect uniform – crisp, white, short sleeved blouse, a red tie, dark blue skirt, white socks and white canvas shoes.  Bread crumbs to guide her back to where she came from weren’t necessary.  After all, her place, an all-girls’ school, was merely across the street. 

That girl happened to be me.

‘Woi!’

I ignored the call.  Yet I spied its source, standing diagonally no more than eight feet from me.  A bespectacled, fat Chinese schoolboy dressed in a uniform a size too small, that was who he was.  Probably a good three inches shorter than me, he, almost neckless, reminded me of Humpty Dumpty. 

Seconds later, he cupped his hands around his mouth.  ‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!  Here!   Look here aaa!’

I pretended to ignore him while I paid the vendor for my favorite ice cream potong: a thick slice of delicious sweet corn ice cream wedged between two crispy, thin wafers.  As soon as the spindly ice cream man handed me my purchase, I held it by the wafers and began licking the edges.  The rotund butterball waved his hands toward me similar to one transmitting semaphores.  By habit, I’d head straight back to my school after buying my treat.  That late afternoon, I changed my mind.  I was charmed by the boy’s antics.  Something else too about him piqued my interest.  Yes, the roundness of his belly.  It reminded me of the pudgy dwarfs in Snow White. 

But whose belly should it be, I pondered, Grumpy’s, Sneezy’s or Happy’s?

I was standing near the entrance to the all-boys’ school, where the ice cream man had made himself a permanent fixture.  I decided two minutes there would be luxurious enough.  Then, I’d scram.  As a cover, I pretended to examine with interest the multicolored representations of flavors on the vendor’s ice box.  From the corners of my eyes, I observed the hyper boy.  Fatso persisted in getting my attention with yells and movements. A little later, he gave up trying to communicate in English, the common language trendy teenagers in Malaysia, a multi racial country, would normally converse in.  He moved on to Mandarin.  I believed he assumed I was Chinese; he called me Amoi – Chinese girl – and spouted Mandarin words at me.  Without doubt, he was seeking my attention for there was no other girl that side of the street.  I couldn’t blame his innocent assumption.  After all, I looked Chinese.  With my fair skin, I could easily pass for one despite my Malay last name: Abas.  In a while, the repeated shouts from the boy started to tick me off.  For all I knew, he might be ridiculing me at best, cursing me at worst.  I tried to remain uninterested, ignoring him like he was absolutely not worth a dime and my time.   I was about to return to the other side when he blundered; he switched to Bahasa, Malaysia’s national language, my mother tongue.  As far as I could remember, the first word he uttered made me feel like punching him.

‘Buta?’

My mouth hung loose as anger swelled within me.  How dare the halfwit ridiculed me as buta – blind!  I instantly thought the boy probably had failed the national language too many times at school.  His report card must have permanent red scores for Bahasa. 

‘Uh-huh.  Buta!’

His confirmed view I was blind incensed me and brought out my ugly side.  My ice cream held in front of my flat, pre pubescent chest, I sternly marched straight toward him.  Not expecting such retaliation, he stumbled backwards, chanting ‘Gostan!’ – Go astern! –  repeatedly.  His arms waved agitatedly in front of him as if to ward me off.  He simultaneously glanced over his shoulder.  His cries grew louder.  I wasn’t certain whether they were meant for me or signifying his distress.  Nonetheless, I didn’t relent in my approach until he couldn’t move anymore; he was fully pressed against another boy who stood behind him.  The fellow schoolboy – tall, thin, hapless and handsome – couldn’t budge any further as he was totally pinned against the red brick wall bordering the school ground.  At a standstill, I was mere inches away from fatso.  His arms were flailing by his sides like a lardy bird trying to fly, but too heavy to do so.  He reminded me of an overstuffed butterball turkey.

‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!’ he cried out, panic written all over his face.

Lashing out in Bahasa, I scolded him for calling me blind instead of deaf.  I rubbed it in by insulting he was probably unschooled for not comprehending the meaning of blind and deaf.

Unruffled by my cutting remarks, he gave me his frank opinions in the same language.  ‘I go to school, I can not go to school.  Can’t you see I’m wearing a school uniform?’  He animatedly pointed his fingers at different angles to his outfit. ‘Little kid, you blind?’

His latest statement made me blow my top.  First, he had the nerve addressing me as little kid!  I suspected our age difference wouldn’t be too far.  Second, his repeat accusation of a disability I didn’t possess further stewed me.  What a gall he had! I fumingly shouted back at him, literally telling him his face was beautiful.  I used a Bahasa idiom which figuratively meant he had the gall to call me blind.  My sarcasm didn’t stop there; I threatened to smack him so that he’d be sorry for his remarks.

Unfortunately, sorry was the last state he’d ever be.  Baring his teeth in a huge grin, he eagerly admitted his face was beautiful.  Of course it was, he told me, because he didn’t have any Jelawat!  I thought hard and assumed he had trouble pronouncing the r in jerawat – pimple.  Such conclusion made sense instead of Jelawat, a type of local fish. He expressed he was sympathetic I was jealous of his beauty.  Of course, he explained as his eyes darted on my flat chest, that it was all due to my teenage hormones beginning to work overtime.  Pity, he said.  Noticing my confusion, the turkey explained my face was shiny, a sure sign my oil glands were overburdened.  Soon, I’d have pimples and I’d look ugly.  Shortly, I’d hit puberty.  My pimples would happily erupt like Krakataus, and I’d turn hideous.  Today, he reminded me, was just the beginning of such a painful journey into ugliness.  As I scowled at him, he paused to scratch his head.  He asked me if I was Malay and not Chinese. 

I rolled my eyes and offered my acerbic opinion, in Bahasa still.  My sentence, if translated literally, meant he was as deaf as a rhinoceros. Simply from the way I talked, anyone with half a brain could pick up I wasn’t Chinese.  My diction and pronunciation were unmistakably that of a Malay, a native Bahasa speaker.  Moreover, like any typical Malay teenager that time, I used Bahasa idioms for sarcasm when making a point.  I had figuratively insulted the portly boy he was dreadfully deaf, for he didn’t register I wasn’t Chinese simply from the way I spoke and the words I used.

Fatso’s reaction surprised me; he hopped a bit like a spastic child.  Unable to control his excitement, he exclaimed my face looked Chinese.  Given his reaction to my comment, I accepted he actually had some intelligence.  What I meant by some was anywhere say between a quarter and half a brain.  His IQ would probably hover no higher than upper fifties.  I squinted at him as I internally debated the actual amount of his gray matter.  On catching my grave expression, he tried to support his claim in broken Bahasa: ‘Skin much white, like hit by Kolox!’ 

I wondered whether he was complimenting or disparaging me with his latest statement.  ‘Kolox?  What’s Kolox?’

With his motor mouth, he excitedly explained, ‘Yes, that Kolox, you don’t understand?  Little kid, you where from?  Outer space?  You ET?  That Kolox much famous, for washing use aaa!’

I suddenly understood what Kolox stood for. Fatso had mispronounced Clorox as Kolox.  Thus his earlier statement meant my skin was fair, it looked as if it were bleached by Clorox.  Yet, I considered it a waste of time to argue on the point of bleached skin with the tactless dimwit.  He, I felt, could’ve been more courteous by describing my skin was as white as snow, as mentioned in one of my favorite fairy tales.

‘Yes, that’s right, mister,’ I shot back in English.  ‘I look Chinese and my skin is fair.  You have a problem with those points, mister?’ 

‘Haiya!’  The boy’s voice was fat with wonderment.  His gaze widened, too.  ‘Can speak English!  Why didn’t you tell me so minutes ago?’  To express annoyance, he had his arms akimbo.  ‘Eh, wasted my time only! Called you out many times, first in English, second in Mandarin, third in Bahasa.  Then, also got called a pekak by you.’ He obviously was irritated being tagged a pekak – deaf. ‘Woi! I’m not old, don’t mister mister me, OK!’ he complained, wagging a chubby finger at me. 

I held down a rising laughter.  A drop of fast melting ice cream on my fingers distracted me.  I gracefully stepped back a good distance from the twosome.  I concentrated on my treat, catching sides requiring the next lick.  Secretly, I kept watch on both schoolboys.  The duo by then had moved further out for more space.  Fatso spread his arms wide to his sides, twisted his torso to the left, right and left again as if making himself limber in a Physical Education class.  The tall boy folded his arms, and slowly shook his head as he observed the stuffed butterball.

Fatso stared at me.  His lips slowly puckered in distaste of something I didn’t know.  His whole reaction made me imagine a pimple had suddenly appeared on my face.  Not only that, the protrusion was slowly mutating into a mini Krakatau. 

‘What?’ I crossly blurted to the fat boy after growing uneasy by his unblinking watch. 

Startled by my outburst, he cried ‘Aiya!  Solly aaa, pleetty girl!’   

Solly, I assumed, was sorry, an apology to me.  I figured he meant to say pretty girl.  I guessed I was supposed to feel flattered.  However the tone in his voice and his earlier teases made me think he was joking.  I wouldn’t be surprised he was practicing saying words with r, which seemed to be a challenge to him.  Fatso called time out with the local lingo ‘choup’ and his hands making the T sign.  He turned around to the boy behind him.  To my surprise, both began to feverishly converse in sign language.  As I quietly slipped away from the duo, I caught the stumpy boy’s mouth moving in tandem with his hand moves.  In contrast, the tall boy only worked his hands.  I understood he had lost a great deal more than I’d initially suspected.

I had caught sight of the lanky, handsome boy many times before.  After school was over, come rain, come shine, an ice cream potong would be my indulgence.  Every instance I ventured across the street, he was there, watching me.  I considered the tall, fair-skinned boy, a school prefect by his red tie, similar to mine, and a ‘Prefect’ tag pinned to it, was among some of the good looking boys I’d ever encountered.  Except for his atypical large eyes, he appeared Chinese to me.  His eyes made me wonder from which side of his family he inherited them.  That evening, the further I was from the two boys, the more I thought of him.  I couldn’t help feeling sorry by my discovery.   His good looks were marred by his disabilities – being deaf and mute.  My imagination began to run wild.  Perhaps similar to the tale of Briar Rose, his parents forgot to invite the thirteenth Chinese fairy godmother for his one month celebration.  Did the boy therefore have to pay for the lapse with his loss of senses?

Many times before, I caught him spying on me even before I crossed the street.  When I neared the ice cream man and his vehicle, the boy would stare at me.  While I bought my favorite treat, he continued admiring me from afar. 

A proud girl on the outside, a shy person inside, I never returned his gaze. 

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