Half a Beat Too Late
No matter how I looked at it, my high school life had gone completely wrong.
Man, I should've actually studied for once.
They say the old folks never get it wrong, and maybe they had a point. Had I gotten too comfortable just looking at last year's cutoff scores?
Regret always arrives half a beat too late. This time, it showed up with my high school assignment results.
Summer of 2002. South Korea was on fire with the miracle of a World Cup semifinal run, and the entire nation poured into the streets wearing red. That burning fervor carried straight through to the maternity wards the following spring.
Lee Sian, World Cup baby, born in 2003. That's me.
Honestly, in all sixteen years of my life, I'd never once given a thought to being a World Cup baby. So what if there were a lot of kids my age? More people to make friends with, right?
Like hell it was.
More kids meant more competition, and more competition meant the cutoff scores went up. By a full twenty points, no less.
My grades were average — dead in the middle of the class. By last year's cutoff, I would've gotten into the high school right down the street with points to spare. By last year's cutoff, that is.
First choice: rejected. Second choice: rejected. The day my teacher told me I'd been turned down by my third choice as well, I sprawled across my desk, stared at the ceiling, and came to a realization. Sometimes life goes sideways even when you haven't done a single thing wrong.
Pushed back and back again, I ended up at Ido High School.
Ido High School. A brand-new school that had taken in its first freshman class just last year. With such a short history, there wasn't much known about it. Except for one thing — a legend that every middle schooler in the neighborhood knew by heart.
The inaugural class who'd enrolled last year had started as twelve homerooms as freshmen. By the time they became sophomores this year, they were down to ten. In a single year, two full classes' worth of students had evaporated. A number built from dropouts and expulsions, stacked one on top of the other. A number that could never come out of a decent school.
And so the day of the entrance ceremony arrived, and the gymnasium filled with freshmen. I stood in my assigned line and glanced around without much thought. Then, half a beat too late, the regret found me.
...What the hell is this lineup.
A guy in a black puffer jacket over his uniform stood there snapping his gum. In the next row, a kid with hair dyed a glaring yellow was in the middle of a yawn, a tattoo flickering into view on the back of the hand he'd jammed in his pocket. Behind him, a guy with piercings dripping from his ears was locked in a staring contest with someone.
A staring contest on the first day of the entrance ceremony? When did they even find the time to start hating each other?
Up on the stage, the principal was diligently delivering his address, but not a single word of it reached my ears. With nowhere safe to look, I stared down at my own toes. Make eye contact with the wrong person here, and my first day of school might also be my last.
Of course, not everyone was like that. Kids like me were mixed in here and there, looking around with dazed, cautious faces. Odds were they were fellow casualties, washed here by the cutoff scores. That kid over there, neatly pushing up his glasses — no matter how you looked at him, he seemed like the type who'd been aiming for an international high school and fallen short.
Still, if you went by market share of the gymnasium, the other side had an overwhelming majority.
In that moment, I couldn't help but understand why twelve classes had become ten.
And at the same time, a goal took shape.
Survive.
Quietly. Meekly. Like air.
I just had to last three years. I could do this. I could do this — if it's me, I can!
...Right?