The first few classes of Mandarin covered the language’s four tones and basic vocabulary. Alana was amazed by the sing-song cadences, which had syllables sliding down slippery dips, bouncing on trampolines, ascending to the sky and hovering in the air. Say ‘ma’ using the wrong tone and you could be calling your mother a horse instead! Alana’s partner for conversational Chinese was Miller. Miller never volunteered an answer and, if he was called upon to contribute, he mumbled or stared into space. Miss Wu reacted, first with patience, anger, and then she gave up. Miller, to all intents and purposes, was like wallpaper – there, but not really noticeable.
Jing Ren’s and Jaey’s presentation on ‘Introductions’ was Alana’s first warning that something might be wrong.
“Nĭ hǎo. Wǒ de míngzì shì Jing Ren. Nĭ jiào shénme míngzì?” Jing Ren said with confidence. (Hi. My name is Jing Ren. What’s your name?)
Jaey replied, “Nĭ hǎo, Jing Ren. Wǒ de míngzì shì Jaey. Hěn gāoxìng jiàn dào nĭ.” (Hi, Jing Ren. My name is Jaey. Nice to meet you.)
“Wǒ láizì Mǎláixīyà. Nĭ cóng nǎlĭ lái?” Jing Ren responded. (I’m from Malaysia. Where are you from?)
“Wǒ láizì Mǎláixīyà shì yě.” Jaey said with a smile. (I’m from Malaysia, also.)
“Nà hěn bàng! Wǒ zài jiē lìng yīgè Mǎláixīyà de péngyǒu hē kāfēi. Nĭ xiǎng jiārù wǒmen ma?” Jing Ren said, struggling slightly with the long sentence. (That’s great! I’m meeting another Malaysian friend for coffee. Would you like to join us?)
“Xièxiè. Wǒ xiǎng jiārù nĭmen.” Jaey said with another grin. (Thank you. I would like to join you.)
Alana glanced at her notes, which looked and sounded vastly different. The class had been asked to come up with their own translations for a script based on the common theme: ‘An invitation’, so everybody’s would be different, she reasoned.
She tried to ignore the alarm bells ringing in her brain. She had been assisted by Ling Ling, and surely she would know her Mother Tongue. Casting her mind back to Ling Ling’s animated demonstration of the script, Alana mentally rehearsed all the tips she had been shown. According to Ling Ling, the four distinct tones of the language were just the beginning. There was flouncing, batting of the eyes, and hip-holding, too. “Like the French feminine and masculine, but more overt?” Alana had enquired. Ling Ling’s answering cough could have meant anything.
Jing Ren and Jaey sat down while the class clapped politely.
“Alana and Miller,” Miss Wu announced. The Mandarin teacher sat ramrod straight. Her face was as round as a peach and her skin flawless. She had the kind of hair used for shampoo commercials – silky, straight and long – that hung to her waist. She nodded her head at Alana like a Chinese Empress consenting for court to proceed.
“Nĭ hǎo, Alana,” said Miller. (Hi, Alana.)
Alana replied, “Leiho bo?” with a friendly wave. (How are you doing?)
Miss Wu winced.
“Wǒ hěn hǎo, n ne?” Miller mumbled. (I’m fine, and you?)
“Okay, loh.” Alana remembered to push Miller playfully on the shoulder. “Wah seh, you so stylo milo today. You got pak toh izzit? (I’m okay. Wow, you look very stylish/fashionable today. Have you got a date?) Alana flicked her hair, batted her eyes, and put her hands on her hips.
Miller, taken aback by this sudden show of femininity, stuttered a thank-you. “Xièxiè.”
Alana ignored the sound of Miss Wu’s teeth snapping together and ploughed on. “Who izzit? Who izzit? I know her one, or not?” (Who is it? Who is it? Do I know her?)
Miller, unsure of what Alana was talking about, continued blindly.
Miller: “Wǒmen yìqĭ chī wǔfàn.””(Let’s have lunch.)
Alana: “Can … can. Tài hǎo leh … you belanjar?” (Sure, we can do that. Great … your treat, right?) Ling Ling had been most emphatic about including this. Never go out, she warned, without deciding who was picking up the tab. When Alana protested, saying it sounded rude, Ling Ling had pushed her objections off the cliff.
Miller was relieved that their presentation was over. “Hǎo ba, wǒmen zǒu ba.” (Okay, let’s go.) Alana turned to see the Mandarin teacher’s face, no longer a subtle peach, more a livid beetroot. “What are you speaking?” Miss Wu asked, appalled.
“Umm, modern Mandarin?” Alana replied uncertainly.
“No, no, no. This is not Mandarin. This is an abomination!”
Alana’s original hunch had been correct. She should never have taken up the offer from her mad-cap ‘aunt’. But Auntie Ling Ling later defended her decision to teach Alana ‘Singlish’ – Singapore English – on social grounds. Singlish, she explained, was extremely useful when you wanted to hang out with friends, go shopping or order food. It was a fusion of English, all four Chinese languages (Hokkien, Cantonese, Mandarin and Teochew), Malay and even Punjabi, reflecting the diverse, colourful blend of cultures living there. “Wah seh, how you expect to pick up boys with: ‘Hi. My name is Alana. What’s your name’? I mean, like, bo-ring!” she fake-yawned. “So obiang! Old fashion, lah, all that formal Mandarin.”
“I’m not supposed to be picking up boys!” Alana fumed.
“Eh, I’m trying to make education more exciting, okay?” huffed Ling Ling, who slipped into more slang on the rare occasions she got angry. “And practical.” She aimed a pointed look at Emma, who shrugged. “An zhua? (What’s your problem?) You yaya papaya (arrogant) orready, (already) lah. Now you know more than me, dowan (don’t want) my help. But I tell you,” Ling Ling wagged a warning fingernail of shimmering bronze, “learn proper way, where got fun one? Soo stoopid, you kuku-bird!” She grumbled under her breath. Ling Ling, her Singlish and her pick-up lines disappeared in a blur of shimmery chiffon.
The next morning it was doubly frustrating when the school administrator did not transfer Alana to Malay as soon as she put in the request.
“Please, please, please,” she begged, “I have to do Malay.” She searched for a valid excuse and found nothing. “I’m desperate.”
Mrs Machlin shook her head. “That’s not a good enough reason, Alana.”
“Well no, I know, but … I really, really, really have to transfer!” she insisted, lowering her voice. Her eyes skittered. She had just noticed Someone Else in the office.
Mrs Machlin caught the panicked glance Alana shot Flynn and instantly drew the wrong conclusion. “I … see. Desperate to ‘learn Malay’, huh?”
“I’m not … it’s not because of …” Alana protested, but this only confirmed Mrs Machlin’s suspicions.
“It’s alright, Sweetie,” she whispered loudly. “I used to have a crush on Johnny Pike. He was as cute as a button. A bit of a ‘bad boy’ too,” she added. Alana wanted to D-I-E! “Lucky for you it’s the beginning of Term. Here,” Mrs Machlin said, handing Alana a piece of paper, “this is your amended timetable. Good luck with ‘Malay’!” she said with an exaggerated wink.
Alana left before Mrs Machlin could do or say anything more to embarrass her. But she did risk one last look over her shoulder and caught Flynn’s eye. His waggling eyebrows said it all. Naturally, after yesterday, Flynn would assume she was ‘desperate’ to transfer to his class because of him. Alana left the office seething.