[Archive] Short Story: The Hat

Presenting: An original short story by the GEEKINTHEPINK. Please read - it's only 1300 words.

When Anne tore the last of the wrapping off and opened the carboard box, revealing the hat in all its glory, she fell silent. Her slight smile vanished, and she bowed her head, bending down to peer closely at the hat. I couldn't see her expression; her wavy jet-black locks obscured my view of her face.

"Well?" I said anxiously, "Do you like it?"

"Thanks, Brian," she said quietly. "This is really... I mean, you're the first one to think of that." She giggled softly. "Always the practical Brian."

I was relieved. I'd known Anne long enough to tell that she genuinely liked the hat. "Try it on," I prompted.

She did, fitting the baby-blue bucket hat on her head, her long wavy black hair spilling out from under it to fall down to her shoulders. She turned to me with a smile, putting her hands on her hips and striking a fetching pose. "How do I look?"

I cocked my head to one side and appraised her with a critical eye. "You look..."

"Yes?"

"Not bad," I said. "Not bad at all. A pontianak wearing a hat."

She slapped my arm and laughed, a light silvery sound that always reminded me somehow of the gentle tinkle of windchimes blown by the breeze.

"Idiot," she said.

"By the way," I said, "Cik Laila was asking after you again today. I said you'd show up tomorrow... with another letter."

Her face fell, and she turned her back on me and began fiddling with bits of the torn wrapping paper. I said nothing, pointedly waiting for an answer. We must have stood like that for over a minute.

"I don't like school, Brian," she said finally. "You know why."

"Do this for me at least," I said.

She sighed. "Okay," she said, turning back to face me but not looking me in the eye. "I will."

"Promise?" I held up a little finger to seal the promise with, just like we used to do as kids.

"Promise." She smiled as her finger captured mine.

* * *

She was okay for a while, then she began cutting classes again. At times, she'd come up with a letter of excuse from her mum for our class teacher Cik Laila. Other times, she'd be empty handed. On those days, Cik Laila shook her head and wrote a little 'P' in her attendance book - P for ponteng, or truant.

Towards the end of July, she didn't attend classes for a whole week. My calls and text messages to her mobile went unanswered. Despite the upcoming PMR trials, I took time off one day to visit her. When she opened the door, she was wearing the hat. I could see that she looked pale and gaunt, and her red eyes told me that she had been crying.

"Hey," I said.

"Hi," she said, somewhat forlornly. She smiled wanly. "I'm so glad you came."

We talked a lot that afternoon, our conversation meandering along through school gossip, the latest hits by our favourite bands and the upcoming Hollywood blockbusters. Later we circled back to what was at the forefront of our minds.

"Cik Laila wasn't happy, Anne," I said. "And I know you're not bedridden. Come to school lah, everybody wants to see you."

"What's the use of going to school?" she said petulantly, turning her back on me to stare out the window. "Especially for someone like me? With my condition?"

That really got me angry. I knew Anne; I knew that she was one of the most cheerfully optimistic people in the world. It angered me, and frightened me, to see her so depressed.

"Anne, snap out of it. I've been your best friend since we were kids. You've never been like this before. Get up. Let's go get our bikes and ride around or something, make the most out of what time we've got."

She turned, and spoke softly. "Brian, I'm going away soon. I know I am. I just want you to know that you've always been my best friend, and I'll probably miss you the most."

I didn't say anything. What was there left to say?

* * *

She left in September. We had just received the results of our PMR trials, and I was celebrating with some classmates at a nearby KFC outlet after school. I’d collected her test papers on her behalf, as she’d said she was ill and hadn’t attended school the whole week.

“Eh, macha, what did Anne get?” asked Raju, one of our classmates.

I took out her papers. She’d done pretty well, scoring almost all distinctions and beating three-quarters of the class… me included. “BM seventy-nine, English eighty-six, Maths sixty-nine, Science eighty-one, Sejarah seventy-seven, Geo ninety,” I read. “Aiyah, better than you-lah Raju!”

"I say man, how can Raju? Sick also can beat you lah…" teased Choon Seng.

Just then, my mobile rang, the characteristic ‘beep-beep, beep-beep’ signaling a text message had been received. The SMS was short and to the point. It was from her sister.

I closed my eyes. In my mind’s eye, I could hear that windchime laugh again.

...I just want you to know that you've always been my best friend, and I'll probably miss you the most...

“Hey man, something wrong?” said Choon Seng.

I opened my eyes, and my gaze fell onto the test papers I held in my hand. Her name was printed across the top in her neat handwriting. I tossed them onto the table, where they landed next to my paper plate of chicken bones.

“What a bloody waste."

* * *

She gazed back at me with a time-frozen smile on her face. ANNE TAN SOON LING, read the headstone, in golden-yellow letters engraved into the black marble. 7-12-1993 - 20-9-2008. The words “DEARLY MISSED,” and that was it. On the back, I knew, was etched the names of the many members of her extended family.

As far as I could tell, her entire clan was present, as were a few of our classmates, our school principal Puan Faridah, Anne’s next-door neighbours, even her oncologist and two or three of the nurses from the hospital. Throughout her long fight with leukemia, she’d touched the hearts of many of the hospital staff.

The funeral service was short, and the eulogy delivered by her brother highlighted all the characteristics of her perky, cheerful personality that all of us remembered so painfully well. Everyone tossed flowers into the grave, and almost everyone cried, including the nurses, Puan Faridah and our female classmates.

Us boys stoically refused to cry, forcing the lumps down our throats, but even Raju who prided himself on being cool-headed had to turn away and wipe furtively at his moist eyes. The first of our number had left us.

After it was all over, Mr. Tan drew me aside. The bespectacled stockbroker’s eyes, usually jolly and twinkling, were red-rimmed, and he forced a wan smile onto his face.

“Thanks a lot for everything, Brian,” he said. “I understand you and Anne were close friends, and I know that towards the end you really cheered her up with your visits. She asked me to give you this,” he said, taking something from his pocket.

It was the hat.

“Thanks, Uncle,” I said. “Thank you.”

“How are you going home? Want a lift?”

“No thanks, Uncle,” I replied. “I’m taking the bus.”

He nodded and glanced at the grave, at the two men waiting beside it and the caterpillar-tracked backhoe behind it, standing ready to fill it with earth. “Take care.”

I fingered the hat and the long, lustrous black locks of the wig attached to it. I briefly considered throwing it into the grave too, but decided not to. I folded it up and stuck it carefully into my pocket.

Surprisingly, right now I felt nothing. Perhaps later, I'd feel something - I don't know what i'll do then, cry, swear, break something - but right now I didn't feel anything.

Perhaps later, when the full implication of what had just happened struck me.

Perhaps later, when I'd realise I'd just had a major part of my life gapped out of me.

Perhaps later, when I'd realise my best friend would no longer be there to play, tease, smile, comfort, talk, or just BE with me.

Perhaps.

THE END

- Copyright © CHOY JI IAN 2008 -

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