RUIN ME

ZEPH

Dear Diary,

I had such a rough day yesterday. . .

The school principal called me out in front of many students watching just because I hadn’t trimmed my hair yet. So I was walking through the school corridor when I noticed him checking each student, particularly the boys, to see if they had the proper haircut. I didn’t. So I hurriedly put on my hoodie to cover my hair, and when I tried to sneak past him, he grabbed my arm and yanked off my hood to inspect me. When he saw my hair—the same old hair—he was furious. He asked the crowd if they had any scissors, which one of them gladly lent him. He then handed it to me and told me to shave my head in front of everyone. Of course, I didn’t do it. “My hair, my rules,” I told him so, which then resulted in my suspension from class.

We all know that all of the boys at school are required to keep their hair short. He did warn me a couple of times, but I ignored him. As a result, I got what I deserved. I’m not sure how long my suspension will last, but one thing is sure: I’m fine with it!

Sincerely,

Zeph Mckee

[Journal Entry 168]

***

It’s early in the morning. The sun is rising, and birds are chirping their usual tones. I find solace in the breathtaking view of these lush green jungles just beyond my window. But usually, when I’m looking out the window, it’s not to find out what’s going on outside but rather look at what’s going on inside. My thoughts become my companions in this solitude.

Suddenly, a knock on the door snaps me out of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. “Who’s there?” I ask.

“Breakfast is ready downstairs,” says mom. “Hurry up! We’ll be leaving before seven.”

My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I scoot my chair closer to the desk. I save my diary’s entry of the day, then shut down my laptop. “Do we have anything scheduled for today?” I ask irritably.

“We’re getting ready to go to school.”

“I’m suspended.”

“I am aware of that.”

“I’m also grounded, remember?” I say firmly. My mother had imposed a punishment last night. I’m not allowed to leave the house until my suspension is over, and I have no idea when that will be. She really doesn’t know much about me, not even my interests. How do you ground an introvert? It feels more like a favor than a punishment. “I’m not allowed to leave the house, right? Well, you can go to school by yourself if you want!”

“Zeph! Open this door!” She raps on my door with such force that it strains my eardrums. “NOW!” As her rage flares again, I dash over to the door. I open it, only to be met with her pointing a finger at me, her eyes filled with disappointment. “You are such a disappointment! When will you grow up?”

“I’m already a grown-up.”

“Then act like one! I don’t know what to do with you anymore,” she says, frustration clear in her voice. “Aren’t you threatened by your younger sisters? They’re excelling in the Philippines, while here you are, failing your classes and getting suspended due to your behavior! It’s embarrassing that I brought you to Brunei.”

She continues to scold me, her frustration unabated. “You wasted the opportunity your stepfather gave you. He foots the bill for your absurdly high tuition fees. He goes out and gets you groceries and other necessities. Can you imagine what his daughters will think of us? That we’re merely exploiting his generosity? Is that what you want?”

“Enough, hon,” Ahmed interjects, placing a calming hand on my mother’s back. His gaze shifts to me with a stern expression. “Go have your breakfast now. We’re running late.”

“Yes, Ahmed,” I say and make my way downstairs.

As I sit down to breakfast, I can’t help but feel that, no matter how much I eat, these meals fail to satisfy my stomach. I’m in desperate need of rice, but people in this house rarely cook it. However, they do serve this unique French toast bread stuffed with a delightful filling that can only be found in this country, and I quite enjoy it. There’s also a hot tea on the table, so I’ll manage.

We set off for school, with Ahmed behind the wheel and my mother engrossed in her phone beside him. In the rear seat, I plug in my earphones, finding comfort in the captivating scenery passing by outside the window.

“And it only hurts when I’m breathing,

My heart only breaks when it’s beating,

My dreams only die when I’m dreaming,

So, I hold my breath. . .to forget...”

— Shania Twain

Listening to her songs fills me with nostalgia, evoking memories of my dad—the one who introduced me to her music when I was a kid. I remember not being able to resist watching her live concert every day, mimicking her moves while my pants were wrapped around my head to serve as my hair. He must surely have regretted his decision.

“Zeph!” Mom’s voice snaps me from my daydream. I turn to her, and she shoots me a stern look.

I quickly take off my headphones and respond with a hint of irritation, “What?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to put your headphones away when you’re in the car? You never pay attention.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, rolling my eyes when she looks away.

Mom continues to scroll through her phone, adding, “I received a text message from your guidance counselor saying that the principal needs to talk to us about something important.”

“Alright, is that all?”

“It’s honestly quite alarming,” she remarks.

I’m about to put my headphones back in my ears, but she says something else again. “And don’t use your headphones if you don’t want me to throw that away.”

“Fine.”

Honestly, I’m anxious about what’s in store for me. I can sense Ahmed’s concern; after all, he’s the one covering my tuition fees. We’d never ask him to do anything like that though. On the other hand, Mom has only started showing concern now that something bad is already happening to me. She was too busy with her own problems that she forgot to check on us.

Taking a deep breath, I read the words engraved on the massive mahogany door before me: PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. I’m not sure how well I can hide my anxiety, especially now that beads of sweat are forming on my forehead. And I thought I was used to getting into trouble!

Ahmed knocks gently on the door before letting himself in. “Assalamualaikum,” he greets. It’s the traditional greeting of Muslims.

“Assalamualaikum! Please, have a seat!” Principal Aqib welcomes us to the chairs arranged before his grandiose desk. His office boasts extravagance, with wall-to-wall red carpeting and an array of golden furnishings that make it far from your typical office.

“Shall we get down to business?” Aqib asks, causing my heart to race. Mom and Ahmed nod and exchange glances at each other.

Aqib clears his throat and begins, “Your son has been a student at this school for about a year now. He’s presumably new to the country, so it’s normal that he’s struggling to adapt to his new surroundings and cope with the lessons.” His gaze shifts to me as he raises an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

I nod and gulp, shifting my gaze to my fidgeting fingers.

“Tell me honestly, were you really struggling? Were the lessons so difficult that you flopped all the subjects?” Aqib’s voice carries doubt. I nod, but I can sense he is not convinced. “If that’s the case, why did you excel at the beginning of the school year? Your math professor, Kiaan, even approached me to request your transfer to Class A because he believed you didn’t belong in your current class. I agreed and was genuinely pleased for you.” Aqib leans in closer, examining me closely before slamming his desk. “However, you declined his offer. You had an outstanding performance at the start. What ever happened?”

“What exactly do you mean?” Ahmed asks, his brows wrinkled.

Aqib leans back in his chair and makes an alarming grimace at my stepfather. “It’s evident that you’re completely unaware of what’s been going on with your son lately. Firstly, your son no longer attends assemblies. When I asked him why, he claimed to dislike crowded places, fearing he might pass out due to his weak heart.”

Mom comes to my defense, saying, “Well, he really does faint quite easily.”

Aqib exhales deeply, growing even more frustrated. “And I considered it without requesting a medical certificate. Secondly, his absenteeism and tardiness have become chronic.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mom asks, worry etched across her face.

“When he’s not absent, he feigns illness to spend the entire day in the clinic, essentially missing all his classes.”

“Why would you think I was faking it?” I ask, but he proceeds to the next on the list.

“Furthermore, you have no idea how many times I’ve warned him about his improper haircut. As far as I recall, I’ve warned him more than ten times already! But he never listened to me. His response? ‘My hair, my rules!’” Aqib exclaims, mimicking my tone of voice. “He showed no respect for me as the principal of this school.”

Ahmed looks at me, his expression filled with concern. “I did ask you about your hair last time, right? You said it was fine.” He seems to forget that he’s just my stepfather.

Aqib continues, “Lastly, we are all aware that he failed all his classes. He doesn’t do his homework, and according to the teachers, he left some of his exam papers blank.”

“What?!” Ahmed overreacts.

“So what grade are we going to give him now?” Aqib asks. “Do you think any school in Brunei will be glad to have him despite his bad records from this school?”

A tense moment follows, with worry evident on all their faces.” I’m sorry to inform you that starting today, your son is no longer allowed to attend classes at this school.”

I’m shocked by what I hear. “I’m expelled?” Aqib doesn’t respond. “But I thought I was only suspended for a few weeks? That’s what you told me!”

“You have serious behavioral problems that we do not condone in this school.”

“Is there really no other way?” Mom pleads, gripping her husband’s arm tightly. “Perhaps he can retake all the exams he left unanswered if you give him another chance? He’ll do well this time. I can promise you that.” Is she crazy? I left those papers blank because I had no idea about the topics.

“As much as I would love to give him another chance, our decision has been made. There are no second chances, Ms. Elise,” Aqib states. “We believe it’s best to send him back to his home country to continue his studies. Don’t worry about his grades. We’ll make sure he can still proceed to the next level, as we believe your son is very bright. “

“Besides, I don’t think he likes it here,” he adds. “He hardly socializes! Many girls have waited for him outside his classroom, yet he’s never entertained any of them. Humans are social creatures! If we don’t have somebody to talk to, we’d go insane!”

“You don’t have any friends?” Ahmed asks me.

“Actually, I have one,” I respond in a low tone voice.

But, sadly, I’ll have to leave him behind for good.