Although the “cheating incident” had been a big deal when it happened, when it came to Mali, people acted like it was expected.
The school didn’t push the matter and over time, everyone forgot. When exams came around, Mali simply went back to her usual habit which was to hand in blank answer sheets.
Mali was a special case in that school. Not doing homework and turning in empty test papers was normally enough to get you expelled. If it were anyone else, they’d have been sent packing long ago.
Her homeroom teacher had wanted to kick her out for years since she was dragging down the class average but never dared to.
When Mali enrolled, the principal himself had brought her to the teacher’s office and secretly told the staff to keep an eye on her and be more tolerant.
Most teachers knew why.
Back in his youth, the principal had spent years teaching in a tiny village in the northeast. He’d even married a local woman. Mali’s mother was from that same village.
Of course, Mali who was quiet, stubborn and preferring to keep to herself knew nothing about this. She just carried on with her own little life.
Lately, she’d been bored. She’d read all the books her mother had left behind so many times she could recite them. That meant her nightly ritual of sneaking a candle to read under the mosquito net at her father’s woodshop was no longer as thrilling.
Daytime was dull enough — sitting in a classroom with a bunch of kids who thought she was strange — but nights were worse. She couldn’t sleep. For the past few days, she’d been wandering the village lanes, looking for something interesting.
She’d already taken apart and put back together the old transistor radio in the storeroom more times than she could count. Every time she saw the maze of wires and dusty boards inside, she hesitated, afraid she’d break something she couldn’t fix.
That Saturday, there wasn’t much work at the woodshop, so her father came home early.
From the doorway, Mali, who had been sitting in a daze, noticed he was carrying something heavy and odd shaped.
When he reached her, he dropped it to the ground.
Thud.
“What’s that?” Mali asked.
“A scrap piece of metal from the shop. They didn’t want it, so I brought it home,” her father said, heading to the clay water jar to wash the sawdust off his arms.
“Scrap metal?”
Her eyes lit up. She scrambled over, turning the piece in her hands.
Her father chuckled. “Take that to Uncle Somchai at the end of the road. He buys that stuff. Ask him for five baht.”
“Five baht!”
Five baht could buy a small bag of tamarind candy and still leave enough for two sticks of grilled pork. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.
She grabbed the scrap and hurried toward the gate. Their old brown dog, half asleep in the shade, trotted after her.
Her father watched her go, his smile fading into a shadow of guilt.117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXwUUJnVwQD
Mali… you’ve had a hard life following me. Her mother had written, asking for her to come live in the city. He’d never told her. In all these years, the letters came from her mother’s side, never his. He didn’t think the city was a place for a girl like Mali.
At the edge of Ban Nong Phai, next to the dusty road that led toward the district town, lived Uncle Somchai, the scrap collector. Mali didn’t know his real name, everyone just called him that.
When she was younger, she’d see him riding his rusty bicycle through the villages but lately, he’d mostly stayed at home.
His yard wasn’t far, and she’d been there with her father before.
Soon, she reached the gate. Inside was a wide yard crammed with old things but it didn’t stink the way she expected. Pots of bougainvillea and orchids hung here and there, softening the clutter. Mali thought it looked nicer than her own home.
To her, the place was a treasure island. Old tin, broken fans, cracked plastic chairs, piles of tires, heaps of mysterious metal parts… Every time she came, she wanted to pick up and inspect everything.
“Where’s Uncle Somchai?” she muttered, wandering deeper. The gate had been open, but he wasn’t in sight.
Under a large corrugated roof, she found stacks of things that couldn’t stand the sun or rain: cardboard, old schoolbooks, yellowed newspapers, piles of magazines.
“So many books?”
Her scrap metal clanged to the ground as she rushed over, squatting to flip through the pile. Most were damaged or missing pages but her pulse quickened anyway.
She’d been here before but never this far inside. She hadn’t realized the real treasures were here.
Then she saw a tattered magazine cover showing a sleek black electronic part with neat rows of silver pins. Her old radio had something just like that.
She opened the first page.117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOPaCiUTdcv
“Radio has been around for over a hundred years… In the late 19th century, many brilliant minds…”
She was hooked. She read hungrily, forming for the first time an idea of what this magical thing called “radio” really was. But halfway through, she realized the pages were sliced in half. Still, she read on, piecing together what she could.
Cough, cough…
Startled, she dropped the magazine.
She turned to see Uncle Somchai behind her, in a faded work shirt, one glove blackened with grime.
Mali straightened quickly, scooping up the metal.117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9h0CSrTLTn
“I came to sell scrap.”117Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8S9BuAHyoQ
and then Add to home screen.