Behind the Scenes

SCENE TWO: PAT TALKS

"What porridge? I didn't buy any. You said this morning that you wanted to have spicy glass noodle salad, so I bought it for you after classes. But you came back so late and the noodle salad got all soggy. You didn't pick up the phone and then showed up with this bruised face. Now you're telling me to buy porridge for you because your mouth hurts? Does a scumbag like you have the right to make such a request?"

We're in a corner apartment near the university, with two small bedrooms, one bathroom, a shared area, and a refrigerator room. I call it therefrigerator room because the area is far too small to be called a kitchen. Now Pa, my precious little sister, is lecturing me about the same old topic. Hearing her voice nagging me here has become a routine.

I mean, I wake up, have breakfast, study, have a fight, come home to get nagged, then I go to sleep, wake up, and again end my day with her lecture. Never learned my lesson. If Pran and his gang saw me standing here meekly with my hands folded in front like this, they would tease me for another ten lifetimes. Even so, I guiltily mumble an excuse to my nagging sister.

"I didn't start it this time, Pa. Pran did."

"Was there ever a time you weren't the one starting a fight, Pat?"

"I mean it. I was studying when Gon came to me and said Pran brought his gang to beat him up."

"Stop acting like you don't know Pran. Your friend must've started it."

"Whoa, are you my sister or Pran's?" I whine. In this world, I only yield to Pa. This three-years-younger girl, who used to be a baby toddling after me, is now glaring at me and taking my enemy's side.

"Wait on the bed," Pa orders sharply. She moves a chair to the front of the crazy tall bookshelf and climbs on it to get the dark-colored first aid kit kept on the top of the shelf. Still looking annoyed, she slams the box on the cushion, making me jolt. I'm afraid she'll tell me off again.

"Stop fighting, will you? How's Pran, by the way?"

"That punk got his ass whooped. What do you think? You should be proud to have a brother like me. Ouch! What was that hit for?"

"Stop being so pround of being a delinquent. It's not even cool."

"Cool or not, I'm a popular guy. Quit nagging, will you? You're worse than Mom."

"That's because Mom never nags at you," my little girl scolds, fumbling for ointments and other materials: mercurochrome, balms, painkillers, bandages, and gauze.

"There are no cotton balls left."

"What? We just bought some at the beginning of this month."

"Who told you to get into a fight every other day? Your medical supplies cost more than my tampons."

"You're exaggerating."

"Don't make me feed you with those bills. They'll get your stomach full." Pa puts everything back in the box, closes the lid, and locks it for good. "Ask Pran to treat your wounds."

"Huh, what?"

"We ran out of the stuff. And I don't want to go back downstairs. I'm already in my pajamas, as you can see."

"It doesn't take long to change."

"Or you can just knock on Pran's door and ask him to treat the wounds. Which one is easier?"

"Pa, come on, go to the convenience store for me, please."

"Don't use that soft tone." The girl rises to her full height and crosses her arms to show her seriousness. "This is your punishment for getting into a fight. I'm so sick of it. Oh, and if you get into another fight this week, I won't let you sleep here for real."