Pomme Terre (Part 2, page 2 of 4)

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Part 2

My mother used to have small chats with me when I grew up with her. We left France for Kuala Lumpur when I was 7 years old. I have no memories of my father. Sometime, there were occasional dreams or nightmares, with words like "Je suis desole... Je suis desole... Je t'aime..."

Growing up now, I know I don't exactly have a pretty face. Typical Asian Chinese. Features inherited from mom. Single eye lids, small eyes, yellow skin and a big round nose. I didn't like to look in the mirror and spend more time than necessary looking at my face. I can totally relate to a pomme terre. And true enough, I do like potatoes.

There was a day, a terrible one, I came home from school. I scored a 'C' in arts. I was trying to draw an octopus in the ocean. To add insult to injury, another kid laughed that it looked like a detached mop floating in an abyss of mess. He snatched the drawing block from me and started a wave of laughter in the class. Fuming and hurt, I swore that I will never speak to him again.

I ran upstairs, into my room and locked myself, and unleashed the torrential tears that I was holding back at school.

My mom, heard the stomping of my feet and the loud bang and click of the door, ran up from the kitchen shouting "Faye! Faye ? What's wrong? .... Faye?!" She knocked on my door, the concern in her voice was evident.

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