The Corner (7 page)

I felt bad for Fiona, especially
when she looked so disappointed the moment Rachel had remarked, “He
had a girlfriend.” Charmine was quick to point out the use of the
past tense. Fiona’s face immediately brightened up after that.
Another girl displayed the same reactions as Fiona.

If only Rachel knew whether
Anton was attached … but even the senior girl didn’t have the
chance to talk to him.

“How about Anton and you?” I
asked. Frankly speaking, I wasn’t sure if I was glad that she
didn’t mind his humble background, or sad that she had fallen for
the same guy as I had.

A frown appeared on Mandy’s face
as she raised her shoulders. “He regarded us as transparent.
Impossible to get friendly with him.”

“Oh …” I wasn’t feeling good
about lack of advancement in her relationship with Anton
either.

“There’s one good news: I’d
learnt from Jareth that he’s in the top class.”

“That’s good.” My heart seemed
to rock faster when I heard that. Anton was truly someone who could
defy the odds. All the more I felt that he was way out of my
league. A confident, nice, pretty and sporty girl like Mandy would
match him better.

Mandy went on to disclose the
other happenings and the titbits gathered from the conversations
with the boys and senior girls. I came to know that Rachel’s
boyfriend used to be in St. Andrew gymnastics team, and he had gone
to a university in United Kingdom to study veterinarian sciences.
One of the boys was dating a second year girl from our gymnastics
club. Jareth got called to the principal’s office on regular basis
because of his unsatisfactory academic results. The girls were
wondering on who would get to know their crush first—Mandy or
Fiona.

Everyone’s attention was on
Mandy and Fiona, it should be because they were the most
outstanding among the first year students. Mandy had the strength,
agility and control while Fiona possessed the grace and
flexibility.

Should I be giving Mandy a hand
in befriending Anton? Well, I did have the advantage of seeing him
on the bus. Perhaps he was friendlier when out of his school’s
compound or outside training? However, I was terrified of facing
rejection from him. What if he straightaway gave me the cold
shoulder? He might even make a face of disgust if I approached
him.…

I still couldn’t make up my mind
when we reached the art room. The dilemma had to be shoved aside
for a while since I wanted to concentrate on my artwork instead.
Actually, besides Mathematics, Science and History, I also liked
Art, specifically modelling. Drawing, in general, was challenging
as I had difficulty projecting a three dimensional object into a
flat picture on the paper.

Art lessons were far more
interesting and enjoyable since there was no need to listen to
boring lectures. In fact, my former art teachers were the only
elementary school teachers who didn’t call my parents to complain
about my inattentiveness in classes.

I nervously surveyed the
interior of the art room before entering. I was very apprehensive
about getting a nasty surprise from the corner girl in the case
where she suddenly appeared. Somehow, I was glad to see her
standing at the usual corner. She should just stay there. The
chances of seeing her in the art room should be low. The place,
unlike most of the rooms in the school, was brightly-lit and
well-ventilated due to the full-panel windows lining one of the
walls. Various paintings were tacked onto the other walls to cover
up the peeling paint.

We were supposed to continue on
the making of human figurines. I got really excited when we first
started on it the previous week. It was my forte after all. The
preceding projects on still life drawings proved to be rather
excruciating for me to complete.

Once I had gotten into my seat,
I set out to knead, roll, pinch and mould the clay into limbs and
head. Extra care and attention was put into sculpturing the face.
My creation would be based on Cinderella. Not the one in gorgeous
gown and glass slippers, mine was the dirty-looking girl covered in
ashes and cinder. I pictured her to have long black hair with
centre parting that partially covered her eyes. Her humble white
dress would be smeared with hues of grey.

When I had finished assembling
my masterpiece, Mandy, who was sitting beside me, looked at it with
widened eyes. “It’s beautiful. The face is so pretty.”

“Thanks.” While trying to
conceal my grin, I noticed that her figurine, in the form of an
Amazon, was quite a fine piece of art. It looked cool, sultry and
imposing.

Kelly and Alice were seated at
the opposite side of my table. They had overheard Mandy’s comments,
thus looking up to check out my artwork.

“Nice,” commented Kelly before
going back to attaching a miniature baseball bat to her clay
figure’s hand.

Alice nodded in response. It was
then I noticed that she was doing the final touch-ups on the dress
of her princess figurine. It was wearing a beautiful ball gown with
ruffles and ruching. From afar, the doll appeared to be very
stunning. However, upon taking a closer look, I found that its face
lacked the contours. Its visage was basically like a balloon with
drawn facial features. I didn’t say my opinion aloud, of
course.

When the bell rang, we put our
works on a picnic table to let the clay dried and hardened. I ran
my fingers gently across my doll’s face and hair, unable to tear my
gaze away from her. I said goodbye to her before following my
classmates to get back to our classroom for history lesson.

That particular history class
managed to grab my attention, for once. Because it was about the
facts and happenings of the Thirteen-Day War. Even though I knew
everything about that war, which had occurred more than a hundred
years ago, I listened with unwavering focus when Mr. Schmidt talked
about it. Somehow, the ghost standing behind me heightened the
dread factor.

The teacher read aloud from the
textbook balanced on his palm, “The headquarters was besieged by
the invading forces. All the guerrilla fighters were killed, either
during the battles or by execution after being captured.”

A trail of coldness was creeping
up my spine as I imagined the horrors they had faced before their
death.

Mr. Schmidt put the book aside
and took in a deep breath. “The next part is not in the textbook.
Non-examinable anyway. Just sharing some unverified news from the
past.… After the war, the heads of the guerrilla fighters were
found stacked in a corner of a classroom located on the second
floor.”

I heard numerous gasps and
whisperings coming from my classmates.

Kelly raised her hand before
asking, “Is it our classroom?”

I was scared of knowing the
answer. An affirmative one would imply that the corner girl was
related to the wrathful spirits of those fighters. As the feelings
of fear sank deep into my central nerve system, my ears picked up
the familiar deep wailings of the stressed wood panels.

They came from right above
me.

Would she drop on me? Would I be
crushed? But she was a ghost. Ghosts were weightless, yes? Then I
remembered her tender touch when she held my hand. It felt so warm,
real and solid.

Maybe the best idea was to
confirm if she was still at her usual spot instead. Spinning around
to check that corner, I saw her staring squarely at the wall.

The eerie sounds stopped.

“Natalie, relax. It may not be
this classroom,” remarked Mr. Schmidt while waving his hand as an
indication for me to calm down. “And Kelly, regarding your
question, nobody has any record on which one.”

I nodded in an apologetic
manner, feeling embarrassed that I had reacted in a dramatic
fashion.

I was glad that she was behind
me instead.

My
classmates gathered around the art teacher’s table to find out the
scores they had gotten for their clay figurines. I stood by the
side, waiting for the crowd to thin out before going up to check
mine.

Mandy squeezed through the crowd
to get out. Then she ran up to me and exclaimed, “Congrats! You got
ninety.”

Actually, that was within my
expectations. I would be devastated if I got anything below
eighty.

I looked at Mandy with gratitude
for helping me to check my score. “Thanks. How about you?”

Her cheerful expression didn’t
fade away when she replied, “Got seventy-nine. Pretty good, still
an A, but he could have given me one more point to make an
eighty.”

I hoped that she wasn’t feeling
upset about getting lower score than me.

“Our report cards will not show
the marks anyway. It’s the
A
that matters,” I consoled.

“True …”

Mandy went on to rave about my
artwork and comment that my score of ninety was well-deserved. I
smiled at her as my pride swelled a little. But at the same time, I
wasn’t feeling at ease with the onslaught of compliments. When I
noticed that only a few girls were hanging around the teacher’s
table, I excused myself and then rushed over to there. I still
wanted to verify with my own eyes the marks I had gotten.

Scanning through the list of
names printed on the left column on a sheet of paper, I found mine
and confirmed that the number written beside my name was ninety. At
that moment, I felt slightly elated. Until I saw something else:
Alice had scored one hundred for her creation.

How was it possible? Mine was
better in almost every aspect. Only the dress of her doll looked
more impressive. Did he grade our works based on clothes only?

Or did he despise the humble
look of mine? A servant could never triumph over the princess?

Did he give her high marks
because she was his favourite student? But it wasn’t fair. She was
great in her drawings, but it didn’t mean that she would be as good
in sculpting.

Art wasn’t a subject that could
be graded based on objective views after all. It was subjective. It
could be twisted by one’s bias. Dedication might not yield
fruits.

“Okay class. Get back to your
seats and start on your oil painting,” commanded Mr. Simpson.

I didn’t bother to acknowledge
his words. With my head lowered down, I stormed back to my
designated seat.

After I sat down, Mandy leaned
over to me and asked in a low voice, “Natalie, are you
alright?”

I bobbed my head in a mechanical
fashion.

When Mr. Simpson announced that
the theme of the day was “Beautiful Scenery”, a vivid image
manifested in my mind.

It might not conform to his idea
of beauty. But why should I draw something that was confined to his
narrow perceptions? No matter what, he would not give me the grades
I deserved.

What if the only sceneries he
considered as beautiful were those in grand settings? Like the
palace or mansion?

What would be his impression of
a desert filled with swirling, golden sand? How about a painting of
the nice, simple, clean streets of my neighbourhood? Would it be
too humble for his taste?

Even if I drew what he wanted,
my scores were still dependent on my popularity in class.

I stabbed my brush into the
dainty pot of black paint. The glass bottle protested with clinking
sounds as I stirred its contents violently. After pulling out the
brush and spilling the paint onto the table, I started to create
illustrations of raven black, long hair and a room filled with
decay and death. Splatters of white were smeared onto the paper to
produce the grey tones, the white uniform and numerous pallid faces
that were dotted around the walls. I threw in splashes of red to
show the pool of blood forming at the base of the corner.

The final product was a surreal
picture highlighting the beauty of bravery and remembrance. The
girl staring at the walls filled with the souls of the slain
warriors … and mourning their death—she was the only one who
lamented on the loss of individual lives.

Most people would only honour
them for what they did for the country. How many would regard them
as individuals who had aspirations and worries? And realized that
they wanted to live on as much as the rest of us?

Only that girl bothered to study
every face and try to hold onto the lingering thoughts of those
valiant fighters. It was truly a beautiful scenery.

I knew my classmates were
staring at my work in stunned silence. They would further refrain
from associating themselves with me. It might be for the better
since I preferred to be left alone anyway. The painting represented
my true feelings. I wasn’t proud of them, but I needed an outlet to
express them.

After the art teacher called it
a day, told us to leave the paintings on the table to dry and then
went out for his tea break, everyone jostled their way to the wash
area to wash their brushes. As usual, I remained seated until all
were done before stumbling over to stainless steel sink. Most of
the girls had left for the next lesson in our classroom.

Mandy took a hard look at me and
said, “See you later.”

“Okay,” I replied with a
listless voice.

She stood there for a short
while and then strolled out of the art room.

Being alone and feeling the cold
water running over my skin had a calming effect on me. However, the
water couldn’t flush away the depression that clouded my mind.
After I had gotten the paint off my art tools, I staggered to the
picnic table to take a look at all the figurines made by my
classmates. Almost all were painted with vibrant colours. Only mine
seemed dull. Even the fresh coats of wet vanish applied in the
morning failed to freshen up its appearance.

Maybe that was why it wasn’t
appreciated by Mr. Simpson.

“
Nobody likes a loser like
you!”

I guessed Carmen was spot-on
with her observations. She was supposed to be my best friend. So
she couldn’t be lying about it, right? Whatever that was created by
my hands would be despised by others.