Subhana Mysha
Red Pens
Nonfiction
by Subhana Mysha
At school, no one knew me. I was the leper, the seeds of a grape, bitter and unwanted.
But I was there, chewed and spitten raw. Everyone knew me as the keling with frizzy hair, the terrorist who always got yelled at by her teachers, the quiet
one that always forgot her red pens. The teacher, Ms. Ong would yell out to the class,
鈥淓veryone take out your red pens for corrections on our English test!鈥 And there I
would be, my table completely empty鈥攄evoid of books, pencils, paper or red pens. I
didn鈥檛 know why it mattered so much, I had always gotten every question wrong. The
papers would have been molded and soggy, red ink flowing to every corner. The questions
would drown, and the words wouldn鈥檛 be legible anymore. Homicides and bad grades just
didn鈥檛 happen in Singapore, and so I didn鈥檛 happen either. I looked behind my desk,
where a Malay girl that always seemed to side-eye me in the hallway sat. I asked,
my mind already predicting the response, 鈥淐ould I borrow a red pen?鈥 She looked at
me as if I had confessed to murder, her eyes as wide as saucers, 鈥淢y mom told me you
Indians have diseases, so I can鈥檛.鈥 I paused, went back to my seat and sat patiently.
No red pen, no drowning paper, just me and the vultures picking at my organs like
some rotten corpse. Maybe I did have a disease. Everyday it felt like the plague was
hugging my rib cages, thrusting in and out of some space in my heart until it was
ragged and beaten. It鈥檚 been 6 years, I鈥檓 still a diseased girl that has no red pens.