|
|
2004-07-22 - 11:04 p.m. Enemies There she is again, surrounded by her group of friends, hovering within sight. Any time now, she will lift her head up and cast me that look, long enough to be noticed but short enough to be nonchalant, before turning her attention back to her friends. And then she will smile indulgently at them, as if she has caught a punchline or the tail-end of some praise which she is convinced is directed at her. Another one of her friends will then throw me a similar look, but a distorted copy: too vulgar, too clumsy, lacking her queen’s aim and precise malice. Because all she can do is imitate, she is destined to be a follower. Or perhaps an acceptance of her place at the periphery condemns her to these diluted mimicries. I have not figured out which one precedes the other, but it is too late to find out now. It was not always this way. About a month ago, I was among the chosen, invited to after-school lunches (contempt for canteen food) and private condominium gatherings (scorn for class barbecues). One day, the group dispersed and only the both of us were left, roaming a shopping mall. Against my better judgment I decided to stay, to perhaps be the beneficiary to some precious scandal or a two-faced opinion on some other member of the group. Such privacy had its privileges. After a few minutes, I could see that she was getting listless, her fingers stroking the hems of dresses, re-posing teddy bears and drumming her fingernails over glass cases showcasing jewellery (never once did I catch her exposing an obscured price tag). I realised soon after such privacy had its price. When I pointed out something I liked, she would retort, “You know, you are just so old-fashioned”, and when I tapped my feet to a certain boyband song I heard her mutter ‘please’ under her breath. The next week I received a phonecall where a classmate tearfully told me that I had now been considered an ‘enemy’. I learned the hard way that the best enemies to make are those you have once befriended; in this way you ensure that they can never recover enough from the shock of betrayal to strike you back. The only time I remember expressing my ineffectual rage was when I wrote down, on an on-line personals site, my dislikes: ‘hypocrites, traitors and liars’. My sister once told me that there were two things girls used to get what they want: sex and crying. But those are strictly reserved for the boys. Among ourselves: hysterical accusations, fickle alliances, enigmatic motives. The glamour of schoolgirl spite.
|