One Little Number

At 11:52pm, my mother was braiding my hair.

"Are you going to check?" she asked.

"No," I replied flatly.

"But there's only 8 minutes," she said.

"But you're here," I countered. "I need you to be out of the house. I'll check when you go to work tomorrow."

She honestly doesn't get it, and it sort of amuses me, that she can't seem to comprehend the pressure she puts on me, explicitly and implicitly. But then I can feel her smile evilly, really, just the vibes shifting.

"Well, I don't think I'm going to work tomorrow," she says nonchalantly. "You know... I think I'll do some cleaning, and I have some shopping to do."

And I can't help but think how eeeevil she is, my mother. I sleep after midnight, but I absolutely cannot make myself check. Although I'm not usually a dream/nightmare person, I have vague recollections of a kind of dream or nightmare, numbers of a possibly ATAR or study score spinning around, not making any sense.

In the morning, my mother's in my room.

"Are you going to check?" she asks, her voice sing-songy.

I pretend I'm still asleep, moaning and pulling my sheet over my head. When she's gone, I take my phone off my charger, turn on the WiFi and hide under my quilt. My friends' group on Viber, AWESOME, is alive and kicking. Hundreds of messages pile up and keep going, and I try to go back, get updated, but it's impossible. The only thing I get is that everyone seems to be alive.

Of course they note that I'm online, and then they're asking me. Are you alive?

I can't check. Up until now, the waiting period was torture, like being on death row, waiting for the execution date. But right now, the waiting is a mild comfort, because as long as I don't know, there's this possibility that I may still do well. Whatever happens after, of course, cannot be changed, and that's even scarier than not knowing.

When they realise I can't contribute to the group, Star messages me personally. Pep talks me into it, mingling motivational and demanding. It's weird - I have never been this nervous in my life. My eyes literally tear up, my stomach feels like it's holding stones, my throat hurts, and my hands are sweaty. It's gross, but as my fingers tap against the screen of my phone, they leave little pixelated rainbows.

But she tells me that she's alive and kicking, which is what she said last year when we got our Literature/Methods results, and it's enough. I log in. I check. I die.

98.70

It's jizbillions more than I expected. Okay, not jizbillions. I was arrogant enough to think I'd do better than my sister, though not by much. But this is a lot. This is huge. I can't even speak.

I crawl out of bed and traipse to the kitchen and show my mother. Her eyes scan the screen, they widen, light up, and she screams a little. Envelopes me in a huge hug.

And it's too much for me, so I go back to bed and crawl under the sheets. Inform the rest of my friends that I'm alive. Start checking up on my comrades. Outside my room, the house is abuzz. My cousins shouting their congratulations, then hushing 'cause they think I'm asleep. My dad coming in to see my room. The calls start coming in, because that's what it's like, being a part of the Curry community. They start going out too - we have a whole family to inform. It's insane.

The best part is that 90% of my friends so far are alive. And well. And happy. And I'm so proud of us, I really am. My school in particular - we're usually considered a part of the ghetto, you know, with the leftovers, the rejects, the thugs. And I know 7 of us so far have 90+ results. Star got 99.35. We killed it.

An annoying side note: the Herald Sun newspaper published an article on the high achievers. They mention a whole bunch of schools, taking the time to mention Dandy High's highest result was 96.1. They did not mention our school, when, excuse me, we did a lot better. Let me repeat: STAR GOT 99.35.

The same day, Monash uni calls up and informs me that I've won a scholarship. That very day, they're having a ceremony for high achievers. That very day. I don't even know what to do anymore. It's all above me.

So there you have it. I'msohappylikeyouwouldn'tbelieve. I could cry. I could cry because my peers killed it, because we put in the effort and we got the rewards and no one can say that our school is crap. I could cry because I showed my mother that I don't need to go to a posh private or select entry school to get a good result, nor do I need to have a million tuitions, or do all the sciency mathsy subjects. I could cry because I haven't let anyone down - not my parents, not my teachers, not my friends, not me. I could cry because everyone's so happy. I could cry out of gratitude, thank God, literally. I could cry just out of relief.

The funny thing is how little all this will mean in a couple of months. We'll all start university, and we'll realise how insignificant the ATAR - this number - is. We may even forget what we got, like my sister did. I used to think it was unfathomable. Now I'm not so sure.

But until then I'm going to enjoy it :)

Peace in,
Laila

#WeArePretenders

So, in light of Lisi Harrison's new series 'Pretenders', she sort of started a little trend (it reminds me of a little virtual revolution) where you confess your sins the way you pretend in the real world... I don't really know how to explain it, so I'll give you a few examples:

And my favourite:

I'm not entirely sure you guys read Lisi Harrison, but I do love her, maybe just as a person if not a writer (I feel like I can't say as a writer considering I haven't read all that many of her books). I started reading her Clique series when I was pretty young, it's all about rich girls in a fancy school, and although it sounds really superficial with all the extensive clothes descriptions and whatnot, I don't know, there was always something in it that clicked with me. As cliche as it sounds, maybe it's just that despite all that glamour, they really are just like 'normal' girls. And although I haven't actually finished reading the series, nor have I read any others by her, because I don't have access to them, I've been following her blog for ayyyyges and I think she's just amazing and I love her ♥

And I like this idea. 

I know the ones I've shown you guys are pretty exaggerated, but there are more 'realistic' ones, and you know, I thought I'd give it a go. Just for fun. So yeah. Here it is.

1: I'm a pretender in the sense that I act like I'm a dedicated tomboy because I don't want to give my older sister the satisfaction of knowing that I've 'grown up' in some ways, but I'm really excited now that she's on holiday, because I have full access to her wardrobe :)

2: I'm a pretender in that I tell my mother the sole reason for my choosing to become a midwife/paramedic is because it's a kind of selfless, helpful job, so my mother can't argue with me, but my choice also relates to a certain kind of adrenaline rush. I'm halfway into it for the thrills.

3: I'm a pretender because some people seem to think that I'm super confident and comfy wearing my headscarf everywhere, but sometimes I really do feel...well, you know.

4: I'm a pretender because sometimes, when my mother tells me to do things, I say I'll do it, and she'll keep repeating it, and I'll keep saying I will, and it will end with this whole: I'LL DO EEEET, OK? ... And then I don't.

5: I'm a pretender because I often check my phone like I actually expect something new or important to pop up, when I know, and you know, and probably everyone knows that that's not going to happen.

6: I'm a pretender because I act like I play music while I vacuum just to make the chore fun, but in reality, it's so I can sing along really loudly and not have to acknowledge my cat-being-strangled voice. And... I like vacuuming.

7: I'm a pretender because I roll my eyes and make sarcastic comments when I watch soppy love stories and cheesiness with my friends, but really I'm a sucker for happy endings. I also love Full House.

8: I'm a pretender because I shuffle my feet and bob awkwardly when I'm forced onto the dance floor at parties, insisting that I don't dance, but I'm liable to going all out and everywhere when I'm at home.

This is seriously me at home

9: I'm a pretender because I give the impression I'm an English nerd at school, but in reality, I have no idea what I'm doing when I write an essay, and I still don't understand what I'm doing right sometimes. (But hey, I'm not complaining.) 

10: I'm a pretender because I like to think I blog for me and no one else, but I can't help screaming a little inside, when one of you comment, or I get a new follower :P

So there. #WeArePretenders.

Are you?

Peace in,
Laila

Money, money, money.

On the 14th of November, a father was admitted into hospital. The doctors performed tests and gave him a report, and they were ready to release him. His family - wife, two daughters, two sons - were about to come visiting, but he calls his oldest son to tell him not to worry. He tells his son to just come by himself to pick him up, there's nothing wrong, why cause the hassle of hiring a van to get everyone to town?

So off this boy goes, catches a bus to town to pick his father up. The story gets a bit awry here, but from what I've heard, on the way out, his father had his first stroke. The boy is there to see it. He's around for the second stroke, he's around to see his father die. I heard he fed his dad, too. When he set out that day, with the intention of bringing home his father, he didn't realise it was going to be a dead body.

His younger brother too, still in school, did not realise that when he left for school that day, that was the last time he was going to say bye to his dad. The girls, too, went about helping their mother wash the clothes and make lunch, they didn't know that some of those clothes and some of that food were not going to be worn or eaten.

You probably want to know what was on the father's report, right? Well, it said 95% of his kidneys were gone. 

The thing about kidneys is that they don't just go. They don't just fall apart like that, one day. It's a gradual thing, and there are signs, signs that the father must have noticed up until the moment he was finally admitted into hospital. So why, you wonder, wouldn't he go to the doctors earlier, when these signs first cropped up? Why didn't he tell anyone earlier?

Money. He didn't have the money. Doctors appointments in Sri Lanka are pretty darn expensive, and his family just didn't have enough. He could have asked someone, right? Mentioned it... our side alone, my mother has three brothers and three sisters. Surely someone could have dished up.

About two years ago, we went on a holiday to Sri Lanka, and that proved to be the period where our family was conned, and we lost all our money. Not just that, but this 'business' involved the wealthier members of our family, so they too, went down with us. It was on that holiday that my dad told my uncle, who had reluctantly admitted that he needed some financial help, that he would aid him in any way possible. But my dad never got to, because, as I said, the money was all gone by the end of that holiday.

It makes me sick. Don't get me wrong, I'm not calling for a revolution, to burn all the money in the world and live in this happy chappy, airy fairy utopia, where love makes the world go round, and everyone just gives, gives, gives. I know the communist dream is only that - a dream, because in practise it never works. But that doesn't make me feel any better about the inequities of this world. All he needed was a bit of money, and maybe this never would have happened. But then, huh, what's meant to be is meant to be, right?

And still money is the problem. None of his kids are working, nor does my aunt. The oldest daughter, besides being a bit fussy, can't get married because they don't have the means to meet the requested dowries from the umpteen suitors that have come along (completely unIslamic, btw -_-' ). The son has just finished some major exams - O-levels, A-levels? all the same to me - and we're trying to get him to come here, but again, you have to have a certain income to sponsor someone to come over, which is also true of his sister. We're working on it, but it feels like no one has enough. The youngest is still in school, and I guess everyone's going to try and contribute to the tuition and school fees.

On Thursday (the 28th), my sister went overseas. She had this money saved up for a party we were going to host for our friends at the end of the year, but we decided it was better used going overseas. I haven't spoken to my cousins, yet. They're grieving, and understandably, talking on the phone is not the first thing on their minds. And besides, what can we possibly say from over here to make it okay? When someone's mourning, the best thing is just to be there, you know? And however you need to help should manifest itself without you having to offer pre-written, conventional condolences.

I admit I was a bit jealous. Not in the sense of, God, I hate her, why does she get to go? I want to go, it's not fair, my life sucks, I hate the world. It's more like, gee, I wish I could go, but I ain't hatin' on nobody because I can't. It's strictly a moral support trip, and everyone has been saying that if we had the money (again! >.< ), they'd have sent me too, so I'm not holding it against anyone. 

And then this nasty voice starts up in my head, going something like this: Well, will you look at that? When Number One finished school, not only did you guys go on holiday to Sri Lanka, but within that you also went on Umrah. And yet, when you finish school, not only is there no overseas holiday, not only do you just mostly wallow about at home, but there is the added list of  demands - get a job, get your license, tutor your sisters, clean this, do that. And they're even talking about marriage. They just can't wait to get rid of you, huh?

Really hate that voice. 

Anyhow, I don't really know why I blogged this. I told Linchy I would blog something, and I've been meaning to, but I couldn't figure out where to start. So here is Something. My life as of recent. 

I'm not as depressed as this sounds, awnestly. My uncle, he will be missed, but we watched a part of his funeral on Skype, and I actually saw him, and I expected something ghastly and emaciated, but in fact, he looked almost beautiful. Glowing. Nur, they say, right? Isn't it supposed to be a good sign? I put my trust in God. And I know my sister will be helping my cousins, even if I can't. I actually have another cousin coming in two weeks or so. And I've also been given this new resolve - I actually am really attempting to get a job, for me, now, because I want to save up and go to Sri Lanka at the end of next year. New Year's goal, I guess.

And, one more thing: this is so cheesy, but make sure the last thing you say to someone before you leave them, whether it be before you go to school or work, to sleepover at a friend's place or go on a grand trip overseas, make sure it's nice, okay? My mother, she kind of had this experience, in this post. One day, she said her salaams and went to school, and when she came back, it was to her father's funeral. Just like that. You never really know when you're going to speak to someone for the last time, so try, always try, to end it on a good note.

Be happy :)

Peace in,
Laila