“So, tell
us a bit about your teen hood,” people, be it fans or interviewers, would always
ask Courtney, the influential star. She would not know what to say directly. She
had led a complicated and difficult adolescent life, and launching into the
story of it would bring torrents of tears down her smooth and flawless face.
“Are you kidding?” Courtney
still remembered that Hurtful Question. It was an abrupt inquiry at first, until
more people started asking it. It was just that one question which always
disconcerted her, which always ruined her sanguine mood. Even when she answered it candidly, others always doubted her. They said she never sounded convincing.
Soccer. There had been an
announcement about soccer training commencing for years 10, 11 and 12. Courtney,
being an avid fan of English football, decided to give it a shot. Since
discovering the World Cup Soccer when she was twelve, she had been in awe of
Ronaldo. She went to the Physical Education department in school to write her
name down on the soccer list.
“Joining soccer?” the soccer
coach inquired. He had iron-grey hair and a massive frame.
“Yes,” the self-assured girl
replied.
“What year are you in?”
“I’m in year 11.”
A light frown touched his
face. He asked that Hurtful Question.
“No.”
“All right then,” he said,
and walked off.
The sessions began, and it
was a challenging obstacle for Courtney. She was like a cockroach scampering
with its mini legs on the field while the grasshoppers were leaping far
distances. Many times she went rolling onto the grass; umpteen times she lost
her ball to her opponents; and numerous times she could not keep up with the
running pace of the other girls. But Courtney was not intending to give up. She
wanted to show that she was no worse than the others. So she attended every
lesson and took it seriously.
After several weeks of
training, Courtney’s school finally had a match with another school. It was a
tough game – with troops of ferocious warriors on both sides. When the period
was up, neither team had won.
“Whichever team scores the
first goal wins,” the umpire instructed.
Now the tension was rising.
Courtney could feel the blood-pumping organ beneath her jersey triphammer. She
was a defender, and her mind focused very hard on preventing her opponents from
kicking the ball into her goal.
The immobility and pin-drop
silence of the placid scene were broken by the blatant sound of the whistle. It
only took ten seconds before all that tension melted. The ball had come
perilously close to Courtney’s goal, but she managed to kick it away. Phew,
her mind thought. However, her estimation was not accurate when she tried to
kick the ball to one of her teammates.
The spectators and everyone
on the field watched as the black and white object flew straight into Courtney’s
goal – a fabulous and splendid shot. The other school cheered jubilantly while
Courtney felt a flush of humiliation and shame heat up her face.
“It’s all right,” her
schoolmates comforted her. “It was just a game. Everyone had fun and enjoyed
themselves.” Little did she know what was hidden behind that façade of
benevolence?
Year 11 Dance.
Courtney did not have a date
and some girls at school delightedly offered to help her. She felt a mingled
sense of excitement and nervousness in her. It was not only her first but blind
date as well. Her mother took her to the hair salon where she had her hair done
up, and then to a beautician to get makeup done professionally. Courtney wore a
tailor-made white dress. She preferred to get dresses from the tailor because it
assured her of having a one-of-a kind gown.
Damian was the name of her
date. He was a year 12 student from her brother school, Howard College. The
sight of him captured Courtney’s breath. He was the most handsome thing she had
ever seen. Together, they walked regally into the dance room. It was the first
time she had ever danced with a boy. She had her hands round the back of his
neck and he had his hands placed round her waist. His deep hazel eyes looked
into hers.
After dancing, they sat down
for drinks.
“So how’s it doing Econs?”
she asked him.
“Huh? I don’t do Econs.”
“You just said you did it.”
Damian swallowed. “Oh, yes,
sorry. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying. Econs is good. We learn about…
The sh-share market, the income dis-distribution… It’s a goo-good subject to
learn.”
“Isn’t all that year 11 work?
I did Econs for a while and then dropped it to pick up something else. Econs
isn’t my cup of tea.”
“Cup of tea? What do you
mean?”
Courtney
took in a deep draught of her berry juice.
“What year are you in?” she
questioned him dryly.
“Year 8.”
There was a queer interval of
silence.
“Year 12, I mean. Sorry,
sometimes I still th-think I’m in year 8. That was when I ca-came to my school.
I really en-enjoyed myself a lot at that time. Now that I ha-have important
exams to study f-for, I get stressed out a-and don’t know what I’m say-saying,”
the jittery boy blabbered to her.
That was it. Courtney
realized that she had been bamboozled by both parties – the girls who had set
her up and the date himself. She was dumbfounded for several moments until she
could finally ask to be excused.
As she rose from her chair,
something caught her attention. It was a dark red patch on the seat. She pressed
her fingers against it and felt its dampness. The boys and girls around her
stared at her derriere and passed whispers to one another before sniggering
heartily right in her face.
She felt her cheeks burning
as scalding tears streamed down her face, smudging her mascara and causing more
people to glare at her. She darted towards the restroom to clean up the mess.
Droplets of perspiration trickled down her body – even in a climate that had an
average relative humidity of sixty-five percent – as panic flushed her skin. The
question of what to do yammered loudly in her subconscious. She did not know the
answer to it. Such an encounter was completely alien to her.
Courtney discovered the naked
truth. Painful sobs racked her body and she felt she could not face her friends
anymore. Every now and then, her anger would surge. She would repeatedly
question why God had created her drastically different from everyone else. She
just wanted to be like her peers and be accepted. She envied the girls at school
who were tall and voluptuous, with many boys falling head over heels in love
with them.
“You’ve got a proportionate
figure,” Mother told her.
“You’ve got good skin,”
Father told her.
Her parents explained to her
that she was here on this earth for a special purpose. All that made the turning
point in her life. She went to modelling school where she trained to have grace
and style. She passed her test with flying colours and went to work as a
supermodel. At first, it was just a short contract. But when the fashion
designers were impressed with her performance, renewed her contract and
modelling became her fulltime career.
Courtney met her old fellow
mates from school but did not associate much with them as their conversations
only comprised:
“She was really terrible at
soccer –”,
“Yes, I saw what happened to
her during our year 11 dance –”,
“It was so funny –”
“I couldn’t stop laughing –”
This was combined with gay
gusts of high-pitched laughter.
Nearing their late twenties,
some of her old schoolmates had to give up modelling as wrinkles were forming on
their skin. A few more years went by, and more of them had to retire because
they were withering, even after applying the most well known moisturizing
creams. Courtney, in contrast to them, continued her occupation as a supermodel.
The words ‘moisturizing cream’ hardly ever existed in her vocabulary. She
remained looking how she looked when she was in her late teenage years.
Courtney has started her own
modelling school where women are trained professionally - to be ladies.
