Melancholy *slap*

I signed Abigail's The Looking Glass, stapled one doodle of her snoring in bm class, and then proceeded to read Paul's poem to her. Its amazing how long i've known the two cousins. One decade. Abigail loved pink, a colour i am genetically predisposed against, and Paul bit my arm. What a way to start a friendship.

My yearbook is filled with signatures now. From Tang's girlfriend wishes to Chin Peng my osotogari is better than yours neninenipupu, from Cikgu Lau don't dream of ants to Garricks wishes of the future, it condenses five years of memories, of character building and choices, friends, foes and the occasional blurb. Imagined how different it could've been.

I was given a choice by my father after the upsr.

"St Joseph or St Thomas?"

To tell you the truth i didn't care which, as long as there was no chinese.

And now, looking back over the years, i can't help but appreciate everyone in the school. Tay for being much, much better (see?! i edit). Kenny for being the much needed Rock to the class (perhaps he should be called Peter?), Paul for being The Psychologist. Aidan for being the sexually starved genius. Okay i was kidding.

What am i now? Still changing, the boy who didn't understand much bm at form 1, was mixed up with Paul and was thought to be an iban? Or am i a different person?

I like to think so. 14 year old me would've punched Goldon in the face when he boasted of how much he had done for the school after one particularly grueling add math session. But i didn't.

I think that's an improvement, don't you?

Neko And The Chair

This was originally meant for the Thomian Magazine, but since i missed the deadline, here it is for the rest of you to sample:

The cat had not left. It was there, curled up, lazily flicking its tail and regarding us the way a queen commands her subjects.

"Who?" I asked.

My mother pointed at my father, who hurriedly hid behind a newspaper.
"Alright," I demanded, "Who bought it?"

Both of them shook their heads. My mother wrung her hands in exasperation. "It followed us back from the flea market. I don't know how - but when I opened the door all I saw was this orange flash of fur and then -"

The cat genially raised a paw and started washing its face. The four of us looked at it again.

"It's in my chair!" Bill wailed, "Get rid of it!" This was unfortunate - my mother and father had recently brought the armchair back from one of the many flea markets they visited, and my brother was happy to finally have a spot to call his own.

"Do it yourself." I retorted, and I made to turn away.

But the pleading look on my mother's face and my father's bandaged hand made me stop. Bill took a step towards the cat. It looked up at him and hissed. Bill took a step back.

"What fish do you have in the fridge?" I asked.

"Salmon."

"Any leftovers?"

We brought it out and waved it in front of her. The cat closed her eyes and waved its tail, as if smelling a banquet of flowers.

"Here, kitty," I said, "Kitty kitty kitty ..."

The cat opened her eyes and shot me a stare that meant business. For a few seconds we both locked eyes, a battle of wills. Her green pupils dilated until it I was swimming in the blackness within.

I retreated.

Cat: 1; Family: 0

In the end we decided to leave it alone, hoping it would tire and leave. No such luck. My father turned to CNN, hoping to bore it to death, but when I peeked into the family room it was my father who was asleep and not the cat. To tell you the truth the cat seemed very interested in Israel's war with Lebanon.

"Lights out." My mother announced. "Jess, go wake up your father - We'll leave the cat overnight."

"What if it poops in my chair?" Bill wailed.

The next morning the cat was still there. We ate breakfast in the family room, in full view of her, hoping to tempt her out of her throne. She watched us, but yawned and looked away, waving her tail irritably. It was as if she was saying: "You can't fool me. The chair's still mine."

We gave up and went to school, with father driving and mother swearing revenge on the cursed animal - she sat in the front seat with the Yellow Pages in one hand and her Motorola in the other.

"Hello? RSPCA? Yes, I've got a stray ca - what do you mean you're full to the brim? Epidemic? Can't you just - but we need - oh drat."

And it went on like that for the twenty minutes it took to reach school. Apparently some pet sickness - feline influenza or whatis - was making its rounds in the suburbs and holding up every animal related organization within a 10 kilometre radius. Mum was dialing the number of the sixth vet when we reached school and I reluctantly left the car, although feeling as frustrated as my mother.

I believed the scoreboard read: Cat: 2; Family: 0.

It didn't help that Math was the first period of the day. "Did you know there's going to be a cat show at the Civic Centre next week?" Michelle asked, looking up from her trigonometry.

"Don't talk to me about cats!" I snapped back, mind still preoccupied with the domestic crisis back home. Michelle looked hurt, and immediately I felt horrible for lashing out. I forced myself to relate the whole story to her from beginning to end.

Michelle chuckled when I finished. "Mind if I follow you back home?" she asked later, "It should prove interesting to try and get rid of her ..."

When we got back, Michele and my father and I were treated to high pitch yowling, punctuated with several human screams. It was like a horribly constructed comedy: a man ran out of our front door, pants in shreds. Our gazes followed him down the driveway, out the gate and into a van - which promptly revved up and shot away.

Mother was at the doorway, "And he was the only vet we could get hold of ..." she sighed. "Jessica, get a broom and follow me in - we've got quite a mess on our hands."

She wasn't kidding. After removing four cushions, broken pieces of porcelain and the ripped canvas of a painting (all the while under the benevolent gaze of the cat, who by now was cleaning her claws), I had to admit the score was 3 to nil, in the cat's favour.

"You know," Michelle commented as we cleared the room, "You're lucky most of these ornaments are second hand, otherwise your mum might've injured herself attacking the cat."

Michelle wasn't being blunt nor was she being rude. Both of us knew that my parents loved visiting flea markets, buying good furniture at unbelievably low prices. Bill's chair, for example, cost a fourth of its original price.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing homework and only half-heartedly tried to lure the cat away - after seeing her in action with the vet we had no desire to rouse her anger. Our feeble attempts were met for the most part with the occasional flicked tail or a long yawn, showing white fangs.

After Michelle left the entire family ate dinner in the family room, although there was little hope of getting the cat to budge. It slept throughout our meal and we followed suit two hours later. We were all quite exhausted.

The next day brought good news. It turned out the evening before father had slipped out and placed an ad about our problem in the Morning Post. An old lady had called in the morning and told him that she was coming around 4 to see if the cat was hers.

"Orange markings, wild look, very ferocious?" she had said over the telephone, "Sounds like my Tootsie!"

Our hopes were up. I told Michelle about it during English and we both waited impatiently for school to end. But there were a few things that occupied my mind. For example: how was she going to get the cat out of Bill's chair?

We were soon going to find out. Michelle and I spent the afternoon trying to make a dent in the History homework our teacher had set us, while munching crackers, keeping an eye on the clock and stealing glances at the now very hungry cat. She gave haughty "mrauf!"s each time we took one out of the tin.

At exactly four an old van drove up to our house and the doorbell rang. My mother hurried to the door and opened it to reveal an old woman with greying hair and even, white teeth. She was smiling warmly at us.

"Hello," she said, "Where's Tootsie?"

We led her to the family room, where she gave a cry of delight and launched herself at the cat. We blinked; the cat was on her lap and the old lady was in the chair.

"Do you know this chair belonged to me once?" the woman said, stroking the armrest with one hand and the cat with the other. "It's Tootsie's favourite. The poor girl must've hunted it down after it got stolen a month or two ago."

"You haven't seen her for that long?" My mother asked, awed. "I got the chair at a flea market - I never guessed that it was - "

"Not to worry, not to worry," reassured the old lady. She got to her feet and put Tootsie back in the chair. "I'll pay for it and reimburse you for your trouble. Then let's lug it into my van - oh you poor girl, I've never seen you so thin ..."

The conclusion to the crisis seemed near, so Michelle left for the toilet at the back and I went to find my father. Both my parents carried it to the back of the van and we stood waving goodbye as the old lady and Tootsie drove off.

"Well." said my mother as we went into the house again, "All's well that end's well, I suppose."

"And to think that the cat traveled all that way just for one chair -"

At that precise moment Michelle came in from the toilet. She was pale and shaking, and we all paused to look at her.

She struggled to get the words out: "Do you - by any chance - keep a python in the aquarium at the back?"

*Neko means 'cat' in Japanese.

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