My class conduct doesn’t improve a lot. I am still The Distractor. I scream and laugh out of nowhere in the middle of lessons. When I wasn’t disrupting an Economics tutorial, I wasn’t in school. I’d be at the polyclinic waiting in queue for a medical certificate to insure my ass against truancy.
My Chinese tutor treats me like I have Down’s syndrome. I… Like it. Char and I will commit the exact same sin of copying Nut’s Geography essays during Chinese lesson. Once we’re discovered, Char will get sent out of the classroom immediately, without even a chance to explain herself. She usually mumbles something like “I wasn’t even copying. I was listening” under her breath as she stomps out of the classroom. I, on the other hand, will get asked very nicely, with kind sympathetic eyes “why do you do this? Do you know it’s wrong to be doing other homework during my class?” (in Mandarin, of course) I respond with a smile and a chuckle – probably why my tutor thinks I’m retarded – and then resume copying Nut’s essay.
We sit for our Chinese A-level much earlier and I fail. As a result, I do Chinese B (primary school standard). Everyone in my class is a non-Chinese. Our tests are multiple-choice format and I end up copying the Indian guy I sit next to. I pass!
We continue partying our weekends away – legally now.
By the time we finally arrived at the nightclub, a lot of things had happened and in just another hour or so, it would’ve turned to morning once more. Sarah had been an unending source of embarrassment by behaving like a retarded moron for the entire bus ride to town, we’d missed the 1-for-1 drink promotions, and the queue had grown to extend a mile from the entrance right up to the waterfront. Our friends, all of whom seem to have much more liberal parents than Sarah and I, who didn’t need to wait until their parents fell asleep before sneaking out of their homes, had the liberty to go into the nightclub to do their warm-up exercises, finish 2 bottles of cheap red wine (Jesus-like), and also vomit a little bit here and there (not Jesus-like).Fortunately, Sarah and I both knew somebody who had a brother who was friends with somebody who knew somebody who was a VIP at the nightclub. Just kidding…. We just knew Joshua- as in, we literally just knew him- who claimed his cousin owned of the nightclub, or something. I dunno.. I’m not sure. I kind of have a bad habit of only acting interested but really turning off to focus on my cuticles instead, when other people start talking too much about boring stuff/themselves/difficult topics or blowing their own trumpets.Anyway, Joshua whizzed us past the club bouncer, and we immediately embarked on our journey to the middle of the dance floor. After pushing past and receiving a handful of stares from girls, annoyed to have our bony elbows instead of boners pressed into their backs, we found the epicenter. And my heart began throbbing in sync (but against its will) with the deafening R&B/Hip-Hop bass beats.One after another, my friends were pulled away from the pack, lassoed by strange men to share drinks and a dance. With the aid of alcohol and a crossfader, each song seemed to blend perfectly into the next, making it almost impossible for anyone to espouse the conventional definition of “a dance” to mean the length of a song.Nadia’s dance partner for the night turned out to be a lion tamer (lolololol) working at the Night Safari. His name was Sin (lolol) and he was Canadian (hawt!). Despite being disorientated by the flashing bright lights and catching only a quick glimpse of his unshaven face, I was convinced there - and remain so up till today- that he had to be at least 35 years old (nawt!).
I RSVP “No, thanks” to a Catholic camp organized by the school because I want to attend a cousin’s birthday. Also, I hate camps. My discipline master pulls me out of class and tells me that “everyday is a birthday” and forces me to attend the camp. I return to the classroom defeated and in tears. Nut and Char make fun of me, and continue to make fun of me today.
I experience my first hotbox. (Am I even using the word right?) I remember everyone sitting on the floor in a dimly lit bedroom. We smoke (I try to smoke) and I watch the particles swirl in the air above me. Everything happens in slow motion. My boyfriend points at the lamp and informs me that it is the sun. I lean on a cupboard and feel as though it is trying to eat me.
I join the Dance Ensemble as my CCA in junior college. It’s a rather big and bitchy organization, but I find some sweet ladies and we posse up. We call ourselves ‘My Father’. Our periods sync and we are telepathic. The bond between dancers is beautiful.
I start studying for my A-level exams three weeks before my first paper. I would have probably procrastinated for another week if my dad hadn’t shouted at my boyfriend to stop distracting me.
Our relationship is intense, but never stable. One time we get into an argument and someone with six huskies walks by. We take it as a sign for us to stay together and try to work things out. Another time we get into an argument on the phone and don’t speak to each other for four days. Then it’s the day before my first A-level paper, I’m at a Starbucks with my classmates trying to internalize two-years worth of knowledge in three hours. (Impossible.) A friend of his happens to walk in. We make small talk and he asks me how the break up is treating me. BAM! I feel like I’ve just been hit by a big yellow school bus. I used to think breaking up via SMS was bad, but now I think breaking up via word of mouth takes the cake.
My friend Jane and I go to dance at Zouk two weeks into our A-levels, which are spread out over a month. In retrospect and in our defence, our brains were definitely not fully developed yet.
In my school-leaving testimonial, my tutor writes, “Justine has a zest for life that seems too big to be contained in the confines of the classroom walls. She has the potential to pursue a career in the performing arts, which would allow her to express herself and develop her talents.” Which I think was his super nice way of saying, “Justine is so damn disruptive and was sent out of class 60% of the time. Oh, Lord Jesus. Please let her graduate so that she becomes someone else’s problem. Heads up, I think she has ADHD.”
