1 6a Helen He Chang Final

The Picture

Written by: Helen, P6A, 2009

I angled the camera to my right. The beggar looked at me expectantly and I felt annoyed. If he thought that I would pour coins into his old, scruffy bowler hat, then he was quite wrong. I had no sympathy for beggars. If he really wanted money, then a job was always the solution. Surely work was not that hard to find. Still, he looked quite pathetic, sitting on the cold, hard concrete floor outside the building.

I was just about to take a picture when someone tapped me hard on the shoulder, causing me to fumble and lose what could have been the perfect picture for the contest. Now, I fancied myself as something of an artist and did not take kindly to being disturbed while working. I suppressed my irritation and spun around, expecting anything but a boy with a shaven Mohawk staring at me.

I let out an embarrassing squawk of surprise, nearly dropping my precious new camera. I immediately turned an unbecoming shade of red, which, I knew, made me look rather like a tomato. Still, you cannot blame me. The boy not only had a shaven Mohawk, but also gothic tattoos on his arm. Chains of cheap jewellery also hung around his neck which was tightly-wrapped in a spiked collar. Indeed, he was quite frightening

to

me,

a

girl

who

had

never

protested

against

anything.

“Hey there, Alice! How are you doing?” This sound shocked me out of my reverie, partly because this hoodlum knew my name, partly because he actually sounded nice. How could he have known my name? Could there be something more than meets the eye? As I peered more closely at him, the answer came to me. “Michael? Is that you?” I asked, a bit hesitantly.

Michael was an ex-classmate of mine who had dropped out of school a few years 1

before. It was not unexpected, as he had gotten into heaps of trouble for smoking, truancy, and had a mean reputation of being a rebel.

It was surprising, though, that I should meet him here, in this dank side alley. “Yes, it’s me!” he replied, grinning with hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his baggy trousers. I paused and frowned. I, of course, was dressed in a pleated skirt and neatly-pressed blouse. You could say that mixing with such questionable company was not foremost on my agenda. Something in my face must have given me away, as he realised my discomfort and wiped away his smile. He then cleared his throat and tugged at the end of his long shirt, shooting a question that I was not prepared for, “Erm, listen, Alice… I was wondering if you could do me a favour. Could you lend me some money?”

“No!” I said the word without quite meaning to. He had been half-expecting me to refuse him. I saw that, as he pleaded with a look on his face, curiously reminiscent of a cute little puppy, “Come on, Alice. I’ve changed.” Changed? Not by the looks of him. Michael looked like he was on drugs, with his dark eye-rings. If for one moment he thought I would be that gullible, he was in for a surprise. “All right, then,” I questioned doubtfully, “what do you want the money for?” His eyes darted around shiftily and he replied in a tense voice, “You wouldn’t understand. But believe me, Alice, I’ve really changed…”

Suddenly, his expression darkened. “I’ve got to go now,” He said brusquely. I followed his gaze and found a well-rounded policeman waddling around the corner. Before I knew it, Michael was gone, leaping over the boxes. I saw him turn sharply into a dark and even smaller alley. Then I made me decision.

I ran over to the policeman. “Err… How may I help you, Miss?” the bumbling 2

policeman asked. I told him all about Michael, how he looked, his reputation, and what I suspected. “Oh dear! And where is this boy now?” I experienced a twinge of guilt, but squashed it as one would a fly. “Down that way,” I said, pointing to the alley where I had last seen Michael.

The next thing I knew, two policemen were chasing after Michael. I looked on and wondered if they would catch him. I recalled Michael’s pitiful face, and had a small moment of doubt. What if he wasn’t bad? What if I had wronged him? No, no, I convinced myself. He only wanted the money to buy drugs. Nothing good could come out of him.

Not long after, the policemen came out, dragging Michael by the arm. They took out a set of handcuffs and cuffed his thin wrists together roughly. I looked up and my eyes met his dark, mournful ones for a split second. That strange sparkle in his eyes, could he really be innocent? Before I could react further, Michael was shoved into the police car and driven away.

I looked behind me and saw the old beggar hobbling towards me. He stared at me for a while, and then lamented, “That boy saved my life.” He gestured towards the fast-fading police car. Saved his life? What was this delirious beggar talking about? I listened intently as the beggar started to share how Michael had discovered him, lying on the ice-cold floor, starving, hungry, and near death. He told me of how Michael had used what little money he had to feed him, and how he would ask for money from people to help him, even though Michael himself was poor too.

I felt so ashamed of myself. Horrified at my actions, I thrust a handful of notes into the beggar’s hands and ran off, camera dangling in my hand. As I ran, I remembered 3

what Michael had said: “… You wouldn’t understand, Alice. But believe me, I’ve really changed.”

What had I done? I grabbed my head in shame. I had turned in an innocent person to the police based on a wrongful accusation. Michael had done nothing wrong. In fact, everything he did was right. I was sure the police would ascertain that fact after further investigation but I felt remorseful for the mistake I made. Upset, that I had no confidence to trust because I was swayed by looks. Speaking of looks, I suddenly remembered the photograph I had taken, the one which Michael had spoiled at the last moment. Flicking the switch of my digital camera, I looked at it and bit my lip. The picture was perfect, the angle better than anything I had ever taken. It was unbelievable…

As I held the golden trophy in my hands, it occurred to me that I should say something. “This is for Michael. Michael, wherever you are, I want to say that I’m sorry for not trusting in you and that I’ll never make that mistake again.” The crowd looked confused, but clapped enthusiastically nonetheless.

I would like to think that in some mysterious way, Michael knew that I was sorry and had vowed to be a more trusting person. Could I really judge a person from his inside and look beyond what was captured on a photograph? Only time would tell…

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