The Corner (4 page)

What? I wasn’t doing that! What
made her thought so?

As the dumbfounded me glared at
her, I began to hear scratching sounds … from inside my ears. Those
gritty noises resembled those produced by someone clawing
desperately at the rough walls. The creaking of the wood lurked in
the background. They were scraping against my eardrums, seeking to
pierce through the thin membranes and drill into my brain.

“Are you listening to me?”
interrogated the nurse.

I made a small nod while
gnashing my teeth, trying to maintain my cool amid the disturbing,
torturing effects of the sounds.

“Are you from class 1/8?”

Did she think that only students
from the last classes would skip the lessons? How could she assume
that?

The anger was boiling inside me,
yet I couldn’t find the willpower to rebut her.

When looking out of the window,
hoping that the greenery outside could calm me down, I saw a hand
reaching for the window sill from below. Tar-black smoke swirled
around that hand, corroding the window frame it had touched.

That was the third floor. How
was it possible?

Another hand appeared and
stretched towards June’s face. I pressed my lips tightly together
to prevent myself from screaming … would have shrieked like mad if
I was the target instead. I wanted to know more about that girl,
but it didn’t imply that I wished to come face to face with
her.

The noises, the accusations and
the ghostly sightings, they gnawed on my nerves. I couldn’t take it
anymore.

I stood up. My brain was in
shambles as I stared blankly out of the window for a second before
running out of the nurse’s room. Whatever June was saying didn’t
reach my ears. I charged down the corridors to get back to my
classroom, never stopping once to take a break.

After what I had done, there was
no way for me to ever step into the nurse’s room; even in the case
where I was dying. The school probably wouldn’t care if one of
their average students was gone. I would count myself lucky if June
didn’t report me to the principal for unacceptable behaviour
towards school personnel.

Panting from the strenuous jog,
I barged into the classroom during the middle of the History
lesson. By that time, the sounds in my ears were gone.

Strangely, the ghost was
standing at the adjacent corner away from the door, beside the
teacher’s table. Still looking at the corner and facing away from
everyone else.

Her new location was brighter
than the previous one, shattering my theory that she could only
stay in dark places. However, a gloom blanketed over the corner she
was standing at. The air molecules around there seemed to be
wiggling in protest and agitation.

Why the change of position? Did
she crave to be noticed by me?

Everyone was shocked by my
sudden intrusion. All stared at me.

Mr. Schmidt broke the
uncomfortable silence, “I heard you weren’t feeling well. Glad to
see that you’re still eager to attend my lesson. Go on.” He stuck
out his chin towards that empty seat of mine.

“Thanks,” I mumbled with a
sheepish, reluctant smile on my face before scurrying to my
place.

While I was grateful to the
teacher for not questioning my strange behaviour, I still found his
lesson boring. Not to mention that the corner girl standing near
him was distracting.

It was unnerving to have her
hovering behind me, but it didn’t get better when she was within my
sights throughout the lessons. Then again, it beat facing those
judgemental people.

Halfway through the ordeal, I
rubbed my eyes in tiredness. When I looked up again, that girl was
gone.

The next moment, something warm
rested squarely on the back of my neck. It felt like a hand. I
began to tremble due to the chill emanating from the core of my
body.

Then I remembered those
words.

“
The greater the fear, the
weaker you’re against them.”

I tried to steady my breathing
and focus solely on mentally repeating the words, “Get off me. Get
off me. Right now!”

It appeared
that the chanting worked since the hand slid off my neck. However,
the presence was still there, observing my every movement and
waiting for me.

Huddling in
a corner of the top deck of the bus, I gazed out of the window to
admire the city bathed in the light from the street lamps and the
rising sun that couldn’t be seen in the sky yet. I disliked the
scorching hot sun, but I was scared of being trapped in the eerie
darkness of the night. So my favourite times of the day were dawn
and dusk. I came to appreciate them more because they occurred at
the timing when I was on the bus, with no need for interaction.

I was in a better mood those few
days because there was no sighting of the standing girl right after
I had said that chanting. In fact, my mind was preoccupied with the
upcoming gymnastics session. The anxiety was getting stronger since
I had just a little more than thirty hours to go, before disgracing
myself in front of the gymnasts. I hoped that I could get through
it with no mishap.

It was strange that the bus
hadn’t moved off even though the “Door Closing” notice had flashed
on the LED screen attached to the ceiling of the bus. Amid the
roaring of the engine, I heard the passengers climbing the
staircase to get to the upper deck.

Among them was that boy, the one
from St. Andrew Institution. The one who always carried a guitar
case. The one whom I had been looking forward to see on the morning
bus.

I couldn’t say that I had fallen
for him, but seeing him brightened up my day a bit. Furthermore, it
took away part of the apprehension of going to school.

However, one look was enough. I
dared not stole a second glance at him. He could brand me as a
stalker or creepy admirer if I was caught red-handed.

After a while, the engine of the
bus finally started running again. Throughout the trip, there were
instances where the bus had difficulties moving off. I was
beginning to panic over the possibility of being late for
school.

Please … reach my stop before
breaking down for good.

Alternating my gaze between my
watch and the window, I was getting impatient. I observed the
reactions of the passengers through the reflections on the closed
window beside the seat in front of me. Many of them were fidgeting
in their seats. Some were throwing glances at their watches or
handphones.

That St. Andrew boy, who was
sitting in one of the seats on the opposite side, seemed unfazed by
the situation. Three rows ahead of him, there was a girl in the
same uniform as me. She was looking out of the window. I couldn’t
catch a glimpse of her face due to the angle, but I felt relieved
knowing that there was another fellow schoolmate in the same boat
as me.

When the bus was one stop away
from my destination, I got up and made my way to the staircase. It
was safer to get prepared for the alighting from the bus so that I
wouldn’t trip and fall in a last-minute attempt to rush to the
exit. Embarrassment was the one thing I absolutely dreaded.

A sudden brake wrenched my hand
from the railing and sent me lunging forward to crash into front
windscreen.

All had happened too fast for me
to register what was going on until I plied myself away from the
cracked laminated safety glass. My head hurt. I tried to snap out
of the partial daze I was in. Through the front windscreen, I saw a
young woman trying to steady herself on the bicycle,
right in
front
of the bus.

She displayed a vulgar hand
gesture at the direction where the bus driver was seated. Then she
rode away by cutting across the path of the bus to get to the other
side of the road. A car managed to swerve away in time to avoid
smacking into her.

How was it possible to do all
the wrong things, without guilt or even shame?

There were people around me
asking if I was alright. They were reminding me of the insane
amount of embarrassment resulted from making a fool out of myself
in the full view of the public.

They must be secretly laughing
at my clumsiness. I wanted to be out of there!

“I’m fine,” I insisted while
pushing my way through to the staircase, avoiding eye contact with
anyone.

“You’re bleeding.”

Who said that?

I touched the right side of my
forehead where it hurt the most with an itch lingering around it.
My fingers came into contact with something wet, warm and
viscous.

I knew what it was.

Seemed like the gash was a small
one since I didn’t feel any blood tickling down my face. Luckily,
with exception of a bloody smudge on the windscreen, no blood was
spilled on the interior of the bus. I had no time to clean up my
mess.

After plucking off my hairclip
to let down my long fringe to cover my face, especially that wound,
I charged down the staircase. I didn’t forget to wipe my
blood-stained hand clean with a tissue pulled out from my skirt
pocket.

“The engine is dead,” announced
the frustrated bus driver just as I reached the lower deck.

Why was I so unlucky?

The passengers erupted into
commotion. Complaints and grumblings filled the air. With only ten
minutes left before school started, I couldn’t afford to wait for
the second bus. The penalty for tardiness was harsh—a warning
letter, and once the student had gotten three of them, she would be
expelled from school.

Without a second to lose, I
dashed out of the opened doors and ran towards the next bus stop,
which was about fifty metres away from my school. I hoped that my
running would cut short the timing required to get to my
destination. No matter how much I had tried, I was still slow.
Could I make it on time? The world around me was spinning. The air
was sucked out of my lungs. At the same time, I could almost taste
the bile rising up to the back of my mouth.

When I did make it, I was
greeted by the sight of the school councillor standing at the
school gates. The vice-principal was there too. Despite his stern
looks, with a moustache to accentuate those, he was quite a
friendly person. The real bad news was that Mrs. Olsen was with
him.

The foreboding feeling deadened
any physical discomfort I was experiencing.

The school councillor informed
with a straight face, “You’re late for school. I need your name and
class.”

Shaking my head, I squeezed out
the words, “It’s not on purpose …” I tried to catch my breath.
“It’s the bus.”

“Enough with your excuses!”
barked the principal. Her loose jowls were trembling, most probably
from anger.

I lowered my head and explained
in a choked voice, “No. It really broke down. Another girl was
with—”

“Where is she?” the unconvinced
woman asked and folded her arms.

That girl was nowhere to be
seen. My only alibi was not around. A small matter, such as bus
breakdown, wouldn’t be reported on the newspapers. Then I thought
of calling the bus company to confirm that the incident did
happened.

“Can check … with the bus
company?” I suggested while looking at my feet. My breathing was
erratic and shaky.

The old lady made a loud sigh.
“First, you tried to divert the topic with a lame story about a
girl taking the same bus as you. When very few students here live
in the same district as you. District 16, right?”

Her assumption was dead wrong. I
felt crushed—she didn’t believe me based on my background. I knew
that my belongings made it obvious that I didn’t live in District 9
or 10. Maybe my demeanour also cemented that image. But how could
she presume that I lived in the rural zone?

That awful feeling was made
worse by the fact that the last few girls leaving the open-air car
park—used as morning assembly grounds—were looking at me.

Mrs. Olsen continued her
assault, “Now you’ve the cheek to tell us to take the trouble and
call the bus company to verify your words. Girls like you are so
terrible. You should just admit your wrongdoings instead of
shrinking from them! How did someone of your calibre and upbringing
get into my school?”

“
How did your daughter get
into the top class? She falls asleep during classes and never does
her homework. She can’t even answer a simple Maths
question!”

The memory of my elementary
school teacher’s complaint to my mother … it had never left my
mind. He never bothered to ask for the reasons to my actions. I
didn’t do those on purpose, yet only my parents knew. They did
stand by me through those awful times.

However, I found it increasingly
hard to confide in them. I had grown up already—I couldn’t be
clinging onto them like a kid. I just had to bite the bullet.

“I’m sorry,” those were the only
words I could utter in spite of being maligned. I tried to keep my
mind blank so that no thought could trigger the tears to flow
out.

The fierce principal pointed at
my hair. “And what’s this? You know that long fringe is not
allowed.”

“I’m sorry …” I didn’t know what
else to say.

“Cut it or clip it up.”

“I’ll borrow a clip.” I didn’t
want anyone to see the wound. The last place I wanted to go to was
the nurse’s room. That June would assume I had intentionally hurt
myself.

The vice-principal, who had been
silent the whole time, intervened, “She’s going to miss her
classes.”

Mrs. Olsen glared at me and
said, “Give me your name and class. Then get going!”

I turned to the school
councillor. “Natalie Blythe. Class 1/5.”

The girl jotted down the details
and then sent me off after an approving nod from the principal.

I felt relief when released from
the interrogations. Though with that relief came the sadness and
realization that I was well on my way to get kicked out of Lawson
Girls’ High.