[Scene: Malaysia]
Riiiing! Riiiing!
As the final school bell rang, the air buzzed with relief. Students burst out of their classrooms like arrows let loose, laughter trailing behind them as they raced for freedom beyond the gates.
But not everyone loved this hour.
A heavyset middle-school girl shuffled out last, her eighty-kilogram frame moving slowly under the afternoon sun.
Outside, cars of all shapes and sizes were lined up in chaotic rows. Parents stood further down the road, waiting with soft smiles and gentle waves.
She watched as her classmates were ushered into polished cars or walked hand-in-hand with their parents, fading into the busy afternoon streets. A pang of envy tightened in her chest.
Glancing up at the blazing sun, she wiped sweat from her brow and muttered, "This heat's gonna kill me."
"Bye, Ong Ya Ting!" a classmate called out.
"See you," she mumbled, speeding up as she crossed the road toward a stretch of small shop lots.
After passing a dozen storefronts, she reached the corner where a battered old motorcycle was parked. Sitting astride it was a skinny man with hollow cheeks—her father.
He gave her a crooked smile, already half-rising from the seat.
"Just go! Let's get out of here!" Ya Ting snapped, tossing her bag into the bike's basket and snatching the helmet from his hands. She glanced around, relieved no one from school had seen them.
Ya Ting had insisted her dad wait here instead of picking her up in front of the school. Everyone else got into shiny cars or air-conditioned buses—she couldn't bear the humiliation of being seen on this rusty old bike. That would be a social death sentence.
On the ride home, her father chattered away, asking questions she didn't want to answer.
She hated it. Hated the sound of his voice. Hated that he earned so little, that they lived like this—invisible and poor.
"Can you just stop talking?" she snapped, her tone sharp enough to wound.
Her father fell silent.
And so, they rode in silence. Her father turned onto a narrow kampung (a Malay village) road—a shortcut home that skipped most of the traffic lights.
Suddenly, a stray dog darted from the roadside, barking madly as it chased the motorcycle.
"I told you not to take this road!" Ya Ting shrieked. "Speed up!"
The engine groaned as her father accelerated, but the dog kept closing the distance.
She turned her head. The beast's gaping jaws were less than a foot from her calf. Screaming, she yanked her leg up, leaning hard to the left.
It was too much.
CRASH!
The world spun. By the time Ya Ting realized what had happened, the motorcycle had already tipped over, and she had been thrown several feet away.
Heart racing, she scrambled up.
Woof! Woof!
The dog was right in front of her now, teeth bared and growling.
Without hesitation, she bent down, grabbed a palm-sized rock, and hurled it.
"Get lost!"
The rock hit its mark. The dog yelped and fled, tail tucked.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her father limping toward her, the bike now upright again.
"Useless mutt!" she shouted—though it wasn't really the dog she meant.
She was furious. Furious that he couldn't keep them steady, that one slight shift had brought them down. Pathetic.
"Are you hurt?" her father asked, eyes full of worry.
Ya Ting checked herself. Her palms were scraped, but it was her knee that had taken the worst—flesh torn open, blood oozing freely.
"It's fine. Just a scratch." She pulled tissues from her pocket, wiping away the blood and bits of grit like she'd done a hundred times before.
For a girl who tripped over her own feet weekly, this was routine. She didn't even furrow her brows, calling herself tough. Her classmates had other names: tomboy, freak. And if anyone dared call her a fatty, they'd better be ready to fight.
Her father crouched, examining the wound. "That's deep. We should see a doctor."
"No. Just take me home," she said coldly.
"I'll clean it up when we get back."
He checked the bike—no major damage. They rode home in silence.
As soon as they got in, her mother exploded.
"What the hell is wrong with you? How could you let her get hurt like that?"
If it were Ya Ting yelling at him, her father would just shut down. But when her mother yelled, it was different. He yelled back.
Fury clashed with fury. Words flew like fists.
Ya Ting stood there, disgusted. They fought like this all the time. Every day, it seemed. If they hated each other that much, why were they still together?
Unlike me — I don't get to choose not to be your daughter.
The shouting reached a crescendo, and finally she snapped.
"Enough!" she screamed. "You'd rather scream at each other than help me bandage my leg?"