Juliette and her classmates were part of a experiment. One where only the best survives. What would you do if there were no rules?

I never thought of myself as special. If anything, I was painfully average. Average looks, average grades, average everything. But when you come from a so-called “branded school,” people see you differently.

It’s like i’m being labelled and blamed for a postal code that many could only dream of.

Back in my old school, I was just one more face in a sea of overachievers. But here, in junior college, I had a new label: the “branded school girl.”

And it stuck.

“You must be damn atas, right? Your school got aircon classrooms?” one of the boys teased during orientation. His friends snickered as though it was the funniest thing in the world.

Another time, when I fumbled with the vending machine, a girl behind me muttered just loud enough for others to hear, “Wah, branded school also don’t know how to press button ah?”

It wasn’t cruel, not exactly. No one fucking threatened to kill me or perform an autopsy on my body, no one pulled my hair or put a knife to my throat. But the sarcasm cut in small, sharp ways. Enough to remind me, every day, that I didn’t quite belong.

The thing about branded schools is people expect you to be confident, polished, maybe even a little arrogant. And when you aren’t, it confuses them. I didn’t feel atas.

I didn’t have a chauffeur waiting at the school gate or parents who donated to hospitals or associations. My mum was an office admin, my dad, just your typical middle management in a small company.

There is something i don’t understand. My grades, honestly, it’s not good enough for Junior college. I don’t know how i got offered a place. Talking to my classmates, i realised something peculiar as well. Their grades, were neither here nor there. Not good enough to go to the Junior college of their choice, but not that bad you have to repeat secondary school.

If i were to put it plainly, it feels as if my class, was hastily hammered together to make up for some shortfall. Perhaps to meet the KPI of some MOE officer.

All the JC classes were located in the main building except two.

The ‘extra’ classes, housed at the ancillary block. I’m in one of them.

In our class of 28, cliques formed quickly. The neighbourhood kids banded together, laughing easily in Singlish, trading stories about secondary school mischief. The sporty types trained for CCAs, always sweaty but glowing with energy. The more scholarly sat near the front, their English will make the Queen proud, and they are already thinking about scholarships overseas.

And then there was me, floating somewhere in between trying to decide the colour of my bra or what socks to wear the neat day.

“Eh branded girl, you sure can survive here anot?” another voice chimed one afternoon, when we were waiting for a lecture to start. He didn’t even sound mean, more curious than anything, but the phrase branded girl just irritates me.

I forced a laugh, because what else could I do?

Most days I told myself it was harmless. Just teasing. But sometimes, at night, I lay awake replaying the voices in my head.

Branded girl. Atas. Sure can survive anot?

Survive?

What a funny word that was. It was rather inappropriate.

Survival wasn’t something kids in Singapore worried about. It’s not as if the teachers made us hunt for our own breakfast. No kids need to slaughter livestock for their lunch. We will fucking whine the gods down to earth to smite us the moment there is no Wifi or when the connection is bad.

We don’t worry about where our next meal is going to come from, we worry if the stall don’t take e-payment, or if the connection is so bad that the payment don’t go through.

We worried about grades, scholarships, getting into NUS, and not having your upskirt pictures taken in NUS.

Survival belonged to movies, to overseas news headlines. Not to us.

At least that was what i thought.

Until a very special school trip.

The trip was announced casually during morning assembly. “JC Cohort Learning Journey,” the slide on the screen read, with cheerful photos of Pulau Ubin mangroves and nature trails. A chance to “bond as a class” and “build resilience.”

Everyone groaned in unison. Not because we didn’t want a trip, but because resilience usually meant sweaty outdoor activities, sleeping in tents, and eating packet rice under the sun.

“Confirm they make us do stupid trust fall games,” someone whispered.

“Branded girl sure cannot tahan, wait daddy come and pick her up halfway through” another muttered behind me, and I felt the sting again.

I rolled my eyes, but inside I was bracing. It wasn’t just the teasing. It was the way their voices carried, like they wanted me to know I was the outsider.

The weird thing though, was that only two classes was sent to Pulau Ubin. The other classes, were to other camp locations in Singapore.

That night before the camp, I packed my bag like a zombie: extra shirt, insect repellent, water bottle. I told myself it would just be a weekend. A few days of mud and mosquitoes, then back to air-conditioned lecture halls.

Thankfully my period just passed, i can’t imagine having to change in the middle of the camp activities.

When we boarded the ferry at Changi Point, the air smelled of salt and diesel. Students laughed and jostled, the boat rocking slightly under our combined weight. Teachers fussed with attendance lists.

Aside from teachers however, i noticed several armed soldiers as well. They formed a tight cordon around my class, making sure everyone was on board.

From where i sat, i could see a steady stream of bumboats arriving from Pulau Ubin. Residents, mostly old were grumbling as they were helped off the boats.

I stood near the railing, the sea spray cool against my skin. For a moment, I almost felt free, away from the teasing, away from the labels. Just the horizon stretching out, wide and endless.

‘Look!’ Someone shouted.

I turned and saw a magnificent sight. A dozen patrol crafts and several Navy frigates surrounded Pulau Ubin like there’s some kind of exercise going on.

Our bumboat were let through the blockade and i turned around in time to see a patrol craft anchoring itself near a Navy frigate, closing off the entry point we just passed through.

I checked my phone and realised there were no signals.

My classmates, some were already pairing off, whispering plans about who to share tents with.

Others snapped selfies, their faces glowing with anticipation only to complain they can’t post it because there was no connection. Another group started dancing for a tik tok video after pulling their skirts up an inch.

I sat alone near the rear of the boat.

The one who didn’t quite belong.

I didn’t know yet that by the end of the trip, none of those labels would matter. Not branded, not neighbourhood, not scholar, not athlete.

The only thing that mattered was staying alive.

Coming soon