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Sarah Bovold
The One Hundred Percent
The one hundred percent is the withered pink flowers linked by thin and fragile cotton ropes chilling on my mom’s heavy materialled old slippers, which she was wearing when she trotted to my room when the minute wheel slightly passed the number 12 but the hour wheel remained in 12’s kingdom, after the website for checking the score of the College Entrance Exam became available for high school seniors who were eager to find out how many points they gained and lost for each of the subjects, and how many points they earned in total, and if they met the four-year university’s lowest accepting score, a mandatory admission score for any 4-year university that was announced by the Department of Education one or two or maybe three hours ago-time meant either nothing or everything. The withered pink flowers on the old slippers might or might not know they would die in the trash can with other withered stuff shortly after I started attending a 3-year tech college.
she
in the white and red uniform that had unified her and her peers
stood
with back slightly hunched
watching
the piece of long, medium-width, red-dyed cloth with the white-printed characters who were standing unshakably like the Armed Police Guard built a screen around the government building to defend their truth, the truth that was intangible but finely sewed in their minds, hanging
under the archway of the school’s name
saying
Congratulations! 100% of our seniors met the 4-year Universities’ admission requirement
The one hundred percent is the answer to people here who like to ask why I left, which is a question may pop up in the space between two bodies on the old but still bench in front of the historical building that was used as a library decades ago, or inside the local-owned coffee shop, one of us who became coffee addict after moving here takes another sip of their ice latte, or on the fresh-cut grass, a group of new and old friends try each other’s homemade snacks without accurately calculating the calories. Why I left is also a question that confused me since it assumes I have been somewhere before here, which will lead to another question have I ever been anywhere before?
she
in the soft pajama weaved of 40% polyester 60% cotton, which has always strengthened her sleepiness
watched
her mom in the red and white uniform that she refused to donate or give it to her friend whose kid would be attending the school next year
she
told her mom about she was questioned about why she left earlier the day while hanging out with people she met at a social event
saying
it’s a good school.
her thumber
wandered above the red button on her screen while telling her mom that the internet was weirdly slow and it would be better to find another time to catch up.
About the Writer:
Sarah(Qiuqi) Bovold is a nonfiction writer originally from Beijing, China. Her essays can be found in Thimble, Words&Whispers, Rabid Oak, and elsewhere. Sarah serves as the Social Media Coordinator for Great Lakes Review. She loves writing, traveling, good food, and milk tea.
Image: Melancholy (O:JA&L proprietary digital image created in-house). 2024.
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