That post on being a pick me girl is still not moving. So I’m still not going to force myself to finish that one (it’s frankly bizarre, now I’m noticing that I sometimes set myself arbitrary and extremely stressful deadlines – why do I do that?)

Instead, let me tell you a story about something that happened to me in Secondary School. Sec 1, it should be.

It’s a Thursday, which is a late day for me, because I take Japanese. And I’m hurrying, as usual, because my dad picks me up from school, and he Does Not Like when I’m late, and sensei Does Not Usually release us on time.

I step through the narrow gate, with its odd traverse bars—and immediately I see my dad, waiting by the car, and from the look on his face I know something’s not right. I know I’m in for it—and not because of something trivial, like being late. I greet my dad. He says nothing back. That confirms it. My stomach sinks. He gets in the car. I get in the car.

My mum is in the car too. She looks upset too. She turns to me as my dad pulls like a demon out of the parking lot. Before she can say anything, my dad turns around, and is screaming at me.

They received a call from my form teacher. The principal would like to see me.

Now, for context, because things have changed so much since I was thirteen: back then, teachers did not ask to meet parents unless something was dreadfully, terribly, abjectly wrong. And those stereotypes about old school parents joining forces with the teacher to destroy the kid instead of taking the kids’ side? I can confirm: absolutely true, at least for me. And also, to crown this tottering monstrosity of a cake, here’s the disgusting cherry: my parents were teachers too. So they knew. They knew. I must have Messed Up Royally. And this wasn’t a teacher I was being “invited” to meet. Oh no. ‘Twas the Principal Herself.

What did you do? My parents wanted to know.

Good question. I had no idea. I start going through my memory banks. I genuinely cannot think of anything I might have done, or left undone, or done wrongly, to warrant this level of punishment. The panic rises. What had I done?

Dear Reader, I urge you to play along. What had I done, to be asked to meet the Principal?

My parents finally revealed the why. (Why they’d been grilling me about what I’d done, when my form teacher had told them, I have no clue to this day.)

A classmate had accused me of doing witchcraft.

Yes, you read that right. A classmate had apparently gone to the Art Teacher (which, huh?) who’d gone over our form teacher’s head (all these juicy details came from my form teacher, and came pouring out to me because my parents were that enraged) and went straight to one of the Vice Principals who then Escalated the Matter to the Principal.

Well, ok, if I were in the VP’s shoes, I’d have done the same. Whoever heard of such nonsense? Not something I’d want to handle.

Here, Dear Reader, is the list of specific accusations levelled against me:

• I wore a crystal on a chain around my neck (which is true, and very much against school rules, but my mum made me wear it, for luck).

• I talked frequently about witches and witchcraft (which is also true, and the irony is that I even knew exactly what that classmate must have heard me talking about—Fear Street Sagas).

• Actually, I talked frequently about occult and esoteric things all the time (yes, guilty as charged).

• I brought crystals to school (I did, once, to show my close friends, because the crystals are very pretty and my friends wanted to see them).

Can you see, Dear Reader, how damnable this trap was? I could not say no to any one of these accusations. Not one. I had said, and done all these things.

But what sort of abysmally stupid and narrow-minded brain draws that conclusion from a thirteen-year-old girl having unusual interests?

Of course, now, I wonder if my classmate really had accused me of being a witch. I wonder if that’s what the Art teacher actually said. It doesn’t sound like something any sane adult would go to the Principal with. Maybe the specific charge got garbled as it filtered from the Principal, to my form teacher, to my parents. Maybe the Art teacher was just Really Concerned that I was losing my mind?

No. It’s still a stupid and narrow-minded interpretation, to activate this level of panic over a thirteen-year-old girl having unusual interests.

And, most important of all, it’s not right, for a teacher to listen to one student’s accusations, and not speak to whoever is being accused. That’s bad teacher-ing, right there.

Such a scolding I received, nonetheless.

You know when Brutus says in Julius Caesar,

Between the acting of a dreadful thing

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream?

The torture just kept on. Because now I had to wait for that dreadful meeting, and wonder what was to become of me.

Did I feel angry? Oddly, no. I remember feeling bewildered. I remember feeling terrified. And beneath all that—just weirdly betrayed. Why had this random classmate done this to me?

I say random classmate, because to this day I do not know who it was. I did ask my form teacher—who, by the way, is one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met, this really cheerful, kind man called Mr Tan Han Kiang—but he refused to tell me. Rightly so, I suppose. Because yes, I would’ve gone after this girl.

I suspect I still would, if I ever find out who it was. Is this petty and vengeful of me?

When I was finally, finally hauled out of class I think I died more than a little inside. I had to walk out during the middle of a lesson, go down the spiral staircase, down the corridor past the tiny Chinese garden, and into the General Office, then run the gauntlet of the Admin staff in the office.

I’d never seen a Principal’s office before. I distinctly remember consoling myself with the thought that at least, I would get a chance to glimpse this inner sanctum. I knocked politely on the door.

Our Principal at the time was Mrs Tay Sor Har. She told me in a very, very calm voice to enter, but I panicked the moment I stepped through. One wild glance took in a seating area—gigantic armchairs around a tiny coffee table—and further in, a big desk and a wall of cupboards stuffed with… many things. Who knew? I was barely functioning.

She told me to sit. She must have indicated the chair at her desk—but in my panic I headed like some sort of blundering insect to the overstuffed armchair which was right in front of me.

Mrs Tay raised her eyebrow a little at that—but sat with me nonetheless.

Dear Reader, I’m so glad to say this story has a happy ending.

We talked. And she did not talk down to me. She asked me what I liked to read. She asked me such—there’s no other word for it—genuine questions about the fantasy and horror and gothic novels I loved so much. Then she explained that I needed to work on communicating with my peers. She said one couldn’t assume everyone else read and believed the same things. At this point she paused and asked me, very soberly, whether I did understand that what I was reading was fiction. I said, of course—although I did wish some of it was real. She asked me, did I understand that the things I said and did had an effect on others. I said, of course.

We talked. And then, as the conversation wound down, she said something to the effect of, hang on, she had just been given a book she thought I might enjoy. She went to her desk, fished out a book, and passed it to me.

And that, Dear Reader, was how I got my first copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

Did anything come of that odd episode?

In a way, not really. No one ever spoke of it again. No one. Not that Art teacher, not that classmate (whoever she was), not even my parents.

In some ways, the whole nonsense incident was good for me. I was introduced to the Harry Potter series. I have good memories of Mrs Tay’s wisdom, calm, and graciousness. I have good memories of Mr Tan’s cheery support.

In some ways, it was awful for me. I found I could not trust my classmates after that. I became very, very conscious of how odd and weird and maybe unsettling others might find me. I think in some ways, I coped by leaning into that image. Go big or go home, right?

It’s also a wonderful lesson about being inclusive, though, isn’t it? Or perhaps it’s a lesson about how concerns can get distorted the more people those ideas filter through. Who knows?

But for a brief few days, I was a witch.

It was a damn dramatic moment. I suppose in an odd way, I’m glad it happened?

It’s provided me with a story to tell, if nothing else. 😊