Whiteout

She never felt this stupid before. How could she let an idiot guy rule her like this twenty-four hours and seven days a week? Why couldn't she get his boyish smile, his solemn dark eyes, his Adonis nose and his Greek cheeks off her mind? She is a sensible girl. Her friends even think that she is one of the most mature persons they've ever met. So, why does she feel like a silly school girl whenever she sees him pass by in the hallway? Even worse, when she attempts to play it cool, her hurried walk slows down into a gangster's limping saunter and people stare at her wondering if she is a disabled Frankenstein. Always, she would look in the mirror wondering if the scars from past pimples stand out too much. She dare not put foundation on. It's not even the right shade of her skin and it makes her look darker than she already is. Besides, she has no clue how to apply it in the first place. Countless days are spent with sighs and scribbles in her diary. Whatever could she do to make that cute guy notice her?

Already he has noticed her once she thinks. It was at an award day, when he teased her for long minutes and asked her to sit on his lap. That's a big hint, right? Then why does he ignore her in the hallways? Why does he talk to her only for homework? Does he like her? Does he care? Frustration wrangles at her brain. Countless hairs are lost as she viciously takes her anger out with a hairbrush to her head. Brush, brush, rip, flip, brush, brush, rip, flip. She refuses to cry. It's not her thing. She never cries for a guy.

Exams come. "Yo, I need whiteout." She hides hers. She has no wish to share her things with him. "I see that. Give it here." The English teacher looks at her expectedly. She grudgingly throws her whiteout and begins the task of writing an essay upon Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare's very stupid and very ill-fated lovers. "Ugh…" she says. Forty-five minutes pass. She has a great outline planned though it looked muddled with out her whiteout to hide the pen scratches. Still, a guaranteed A+ on the conceptual grasp department. With great discipline did she manage to take her mind off the guy, but it wasn't enough. The outline took fifteen minutes too long and she managed no final draft of the essay. Romeo and Juliet's explanations lay incomplete, her story unfinished and unheard. She was going to fail. And she blamed it all on her stupid heart.

A week passes and exams are over. She sees him once more, but doesn't talk to him much. She pretends things are alright between them. It's not, but he doesn't need to know that. His ego is big enough as it is. She sees him one last time and finds out he's going away for the summer. She'll miss him terribly. Surprisingly he talks to her and not about homework. He says he'll return her whiteout soon right after he comes back from his break. Her heart tearing in two, she manages to type out that he should have fun. He thanks her and signs off. She spends the rest of the night looking at his pictures tracing the features she had come to adore.

Summer whizzes by. She has had time to recover the hurts, the guilt, the unruly feelings, yet she still anticipates seeing him. Once timetable pick up day arrives, she waits impatiently in the sweltering line, her makeup melting. Where is he? She sees him and he sees her. He turns away. She turns away. It's hard to look at the living flesh and body of your infatuation so suddenly. She looks back. He's talking to his friends. She decides that she will see him soon at a narrower spot. He avoids her. She doesn't notice. The day ends as all the students were given the information they needed, but she didn't have the information she wanted. Where was he? What classes did he have this semester? What classes did he have next semester? How was his vacation? How is he?

All questions came back revolving around her head. She couldn't stop talking about him. Her friends take her obsessions kindly, patiently. It's normal for them to see her struggling with her pride and mind and heart this way. The first day of school arrives. She sees him three times. He ignores thrice. "That's it…He doesn't care about me." She whispers, tears threatening to fall, but she doesn't let them fall. She's angry. Who is he to make her weep like this so? She is not weak and nor will she ever be.

She steels her heart for the second day. She braces herself. If he ever comes to her Law class, she would ignore him completely. Students arrive, one of them, her best friends. She is still looking and anticipating, letting herself slightly slip beneath the barrier of ice. Suddenly, a flash of white! She catches it clumsily, the object thrown at her. It's her whiteout? She looks up. Her best friend smiles. "He gave it. Stared at me for the longest time until I looked at him. Then he just blurted out that he needed to give this to you."

My mouth hung open and bewildered. I stared at the whiteout, looking at the blue label that gave the device a more precise name: corrector pen. I groped it awkwardly. It felt cold and not a part of my supplies any longer. Where has it been all summer? Did it travel to Greece with Tom? Or did it stay in his lonesome bedroom atop an unusually clean desk for him to take as a reminder? I continued to stare at it's whiteness. White, the colour of peace for the UN. White, the colour of mourning for the Hindus. White, the colour of the flag meaning to surrender to one's enemy. Does he mean to say sorry for all that will never be for us? Does he mean sorry, he just wants to stay friends? Or does he mean to say sorry for ignoring me all this while. Whatever the case, I accept his token of truce. I have surrendered, mourned and now I have made peace with myself. Who knew how well whiteouts repaired broken hearts.