Surat Wasiat

"What the hell..."
"Please. Spare this poor girl from your constant cynicism, love."
"What the hell are you writing? Is that a will?"
"You can read."
"I know I can read. Wait. Oh God... I knew it. I knew it! I've been suspecting that you're a closet emo, but I never thought you'll be so stupid to even think about killing yourself."
"How many times do I have to tell you that I am not an emo. My hair is black, and I don't wear eyeliners, it's just I don't sleep enough lately and I'm wearing a pink shirt right now."
"From the looks, you don't look like it, but you do brood like one. That's why I call it a closet emo."
"The word is very degrading, honey, can't you just say depressed or something? It's not even the right term, I'm not depressed whatsoever."
"You've been ignoring me these past five days, you've been abnormally immersed in something you don't usually do, you talked in your sleep, you ate like a robot, you cringed all the time, you ran away to your grandma's and do I have to continue myself?"
"...I'm... I'm lost."
"You are depressed!"
"...I'm having a test, bubblegum."
"...For God sake. If you ever call me with that name again..."
"What name, honeybee?"
"I swear I'm gonna..."
"That's how I feel every time you call me emo."
"...Okay, fine. You got your point."
"I always have my point."
"So all this time you're acting strange because you're having a test?"
"I'm not the brightest bulb, so I've been working my butt off to pass the test and it's not even close. You've been distracting me all the time I couldn't study when you're around."
"So that time when you went to your grandma's house, it's not because you're mad at me?"
"You seriously think I'll do something that childish? If I were mad at you, I'm not gonna go to my grandma's house. I can simply kick you out."
"Do you have to be so mean?"
"I'm not mean, in fact, I'm very generous. See, I left everything I have for you in my will."
"The will! Why in the hell are you writing a will? You said you're not depressed, not an emo, as far as I know your health record is clean, so why the hell do you need a will?"
"...In case I failed the test."
"What the fuck..."
"Mom's not gonna be happy."
"...Oh dear. Are you so concerned about the test result? It's not gonna be that bad and don't smile like that, it gave me the creep."
"You know, it's really not healthy for me to be around you."
"You can't rid of me, you know that."
"I wouldn't anyway. Oh well, adios now. I'm going to my lesson course."
"I always forget that you're still in school."
"Not long."
"It's been too long."
"Anyway... Throw the will away."
"Getting rid of the evidence, hm? You're getting your confidence back?"
"Nope. I'm just thinking, that if I really fail the test, I'm just gonna take my savings and went somewhere."
"...Spoiled brat."

Doh.

"Shut the phone off."
"Dah."
"So what did he say?"
"He's unhappy, that's all I can say."
"Hmph. I bet he is. Tell me more, tell me about the details."
"I don't wanna talk about this right now."
"Yet you're calling these people. What are they to you that I am not?"
"I'm looking for some moral support here... An area which you depraved badly."
"And which you glad I'm bad at. Do you want me to go all lovey-dovey with you?"
"I shudder at the thought."
.........................
"Do you feel bad?"
"About?"
"This. About this thing."
"...I guess. It's not as bad as I thought. I'm always the one who got dumped, so this is quite a change."
"With your mentality, I'd thought you're gonna have one hell out of it."
"Surprisingly not. I'm quite composed now ain't I?"
"Stop painting please, it's not gonna work."
"...You know me too well sometimes."
"You're not in the mood. If you keep on trying to make it work, you're just gonna end up ruining it. Besides, in this situation, I thought you're gonna be more upset if your painting is ruined than having to deal with that man one more time."
"I try to have no regrets."
"When did you ever?"
"Too many times, I've lost count."
"Will you not just be still and let me hug you?"
"Say, love, do you know which part of our body is the oldest?"
"What? Your heart? Brain?"
"Close. Brain cells. Your memory. When other cells were replaced, your memory is the only thing remain the same. The oldest part, is where your first memory is. When you forget about something, that means that part of you has died and has been replaced.."
"What exactly are trying to tell me?"
"You're quite dense, are you?"
"Far from it. But you tend to lead people to get the wrong idea, so I've stopped trying to guess what you're trying to say and just make you say it bluntly."
"...I'm waiting for that part to die."
"You're not on drugs or something, aren't you?"
"Honey. I love myself too much."
"At times like this, I'm glad you're such a self-centered, egotistical prick."
"You're being redundant and I don't have a prick, sweetheart."
"A non-existent prick, then. Well, at least I don't have to worry that you'll go all out emo and try to kill yourself."
"When did I ever become an emo? I love my life. I love many things, I love you."
"So you're trying to forget it?"
"I will eventually."
"That easy, huh?"
"Human mind is really a convenient thing."
"I wouldn't say that. How would you explain our conversation then?"
"Can't you just accept the way things are?"
"I don't have a say in this."
"Good. So do shut up, love, I'm trying to paint here."
"...You're such an ass..."

Lunch

Hello again.

Okay, fine, I know I had just written an entry in like a few hours ago—but in that short time many things could happen. For starters, my mother had just called me when I was fresh out of the shower. I was still clad in towel when she announced that she was going to have a lunch out and was wandering if I’d like to come too. I obliged and she directed me to dress up and be ready when she came to pick me up. Sorting out through my wardrobe while on the phone with a friend, picking which clothes would look best to accentuate my mood—which is eerily serene for some reason that time—the rain started drizzling outside.

There was a tree in front of my house, already dead since years ago, but it was lush green with the big leafy plant of unknown origin hugging the dead-tree; its trunk was charcoal black, burnt not from fire but from death caused by my father. Lol. One day, a long time ago, my house was infested by pack of rats, those big black disgusting pests, and those critters made a nest on my lawn so my father fought back in his own weird way. Not with mouse traps or poison, but with a jug of formaldehyde. He poured that whole jug into the rat hole, killing them thoroughly and perhaps preserving the carcasses too, and in the same time killing all the plants in our lawn. For three years nothing would grow on it but rocks and pebbles. My mother decided to arrange an array of rock beds on it. But it has healed now and plants could grow.

Anyway, it was really pretty outside. I wish this rainy season could last longer, but I just heard that the worst tide has passed last Tuesday and it will come to an end in a couple of weeks, perhaps. The season was changing and the sun will appear ever more often, it will be too harsh for me to walk outside again, so I’m planning to enjoy the last seconds of the season, the airy breeze and wet scenery, the ardent green and tingling drops. A car parked outside, I put some perfume and a thin gloss on my lips before I head out.

Both of my parents were there, dressed casually as they always were, my mother was into fried duck today and my father goat curry. I said I’m going with anything. A short ride with my parents usually is flat and uneventful, although some time not. Like today, somehow the topic about grandchildren were brought up and we end up arguing of how my children would call my parents. My mother insisted that she’d like to be called Mbah, said it sounded intimate. But my father refused to be called that, said it sounded like some witch doctors and preferred Eyang instead. I picked the middle line, offered that I shall teach my future children to call my father Babah. Mother laughed so hard, the name kind of fitting to my father since he does look like a Chinese descendant a little bit. I’ve once told my father that he looks like a Hong Kong mafia if he grew his moustache a bit longer, not that I ever know how Hong Kong mafia looks likes.

The conversation grew wilder, since the grandchildren are still non existent and I’m planning not to reproduce in a short time… So we went on talking about the matters of inheritance which soon brought up a discussion about why the farming in Indonesia is only subsistent, causing a chain reaction of unstable economy in a broader view. The tendency to split up lands, dividing it equally between the children left by the parents, for example if a farmer owned a land of ten hectares and had five children, when he died, the land was divided equally amongst the children that are left. My mother argued that this is the cause of why the production was cut short and the farming no longer gives profit to the farmers. I could extend the explanation but I think it will tire some of you out. I personally thought the discussion was interesting, even argued back with my own theory that the source of problem is that we simply reproduce too much and that people with low education should be banned from having children as much as they want because they simply replicating low-skilled human resource, unable to provide good education and all.

Even when we were having lunch, we still talked about another trivial thing. For example, the simplicity of Javanese name and the odd tendencies for people nowadays to name their children with heavy names unfit to their surrounding. My father talked about the traits of most Javanese back then to know their standing and think that they need not to use such a grand name when in fact they were but commoners. How the name Bambang back then were served only for grander, more royal blood than commoners. And to see how nowadays people with charred, burnt skin and plain looks have name as delicate as Cynthia, Fairish, Nadia—basically, I think the names invented by teenlit writers are simply frivolous. How many people lose their roots even to the most principal of the matter like names. I think I’ve read it somewhere about the same matters in a more European setting of how can a commoner took the name of Alphonse and Alfred while the royals took a more common name such as George and John. The name trend displayed the wide arrange of low self esteem and how people tried to make themselves grander than life. Like a peasant unable to accept their faith as a commoner, unsatisfied, and angry of their fated lives. Like a girl with dark, dry and rough skin with ordinary face that dream for a prince on a white horse. Common, Indonesian girl, my age, that dream for some ridiculous romance and even had the guts to write it down. Brave girls indeed, they are. Some that has forgotten their roots just like I do, that took up foreign influence and forgot where they’re come from. I, myself, admire those with delicate traditional names.

Like my mother’s name, Kania, and my grandmother’s name, Ida. My sister’s name is Faradina and my cousins took up the name of Anggraito, Isa, Latifah, Annisa, Mugia, etc. My father was called Adin in personal surroundings. Even in my family there are names unfit, maybe humble in the beginning but changed gradually. Like my father’s oldest sister. Born Hartati, and when she converted into Catholic, baptized as Maria Theresia. Another cousin of mine was named Daviel and Diva. Or my mother’s sister from another father named Imelda Geraldine, but that name does fit her really well. Aunt Mia—I nicknamed her that—was indeed a beauty, a tall, dark skinned woman, really exotic. Pretty ironic. I like traditional names better; I like the unusual ones, but not the westernized names or the weird names invented by some cheesy romantic souls. Some poor mother that was once in their teenage years craved for some unrealistic romance and unable to obtain it, channeled their pitiful dreams into their children.

My father commented suddenly about my hair, said that he preferred it longer. I stood my ground and said that this new hair do suits me more than the last one. He said I looked like a sick person, more suitably, a cancer patient recovering from chemo. Ah, mostly because he thinks of this haircut as a boy cut. Lol. I laughed at him. I might be called boy-like, but I wasn’t a tomboy. I had curves more woman-like than any in my year, my short hair helped me showed off my neck which in my opinion made me look thinner. And today I was wearing a pink tee with lavender tanks under, very fitting with beige baggy pants, yellow flats, and glossy lips. I looked like a girl. I embraced my nature even more truly than ever with this short hair compared to the version before.

We suddenly talked about the dead Geodesy student from ITB. My mother was very worried and reminded me to stand up if ever I was bullied. I looked at her dumb stricken, asked if she never thought that it might be more suiting that I was the evil senior and not the victim. She brought up the subject of the past of how I was bullied and got depressed, unable to say no. Now I wonder how I’ve changed so much over the years, but how people really took me as the same person. I mean, if now I will ever be bullied in any way, I wouldn’t hesitate to talk them back. Maybe I need to restrict myself since sometime my instinct told me to say the meanest thing I’m able to spurt out. I slurred casually of how the seniors—the senior girls—might all be shorter and weaker than me. Look weaker, I mean. So why should I be afraid of them? They’re not the ones that pay for my tuition, they’re not people I look up to, they’re even probably not better than I am. They’re probably just girls with low self esteem that needs to be recognized as a powerful authority to compensate their sorry existence. I am a sorry creature myself, and I’m selfish enough not to help others of my kind to be better, to feel better about themselves.

The meal was done and we head home. I commented about an old man in the way, a tall, hard looking man with gray thick moustache and white hair. Said I’d once imagined I could have a grandfather like that, a scary looking old man, very grapy but not to me, the granddaughter. My father said jokingly, a dreary fact of how I was born to the world already without grandfathers and only a grandmother to dote on me. I said I could always dream. Told him too that I’d like a grandpa like Santa, how I planned to make my father a fat jolly grandfather to my future children if I ever had children later. My mother told me some story about her own grandfather. Aki Jarnuji, or that’s how he was called. He was feared by everyone, a martial art coach that never holds his punches towards his pupils. And the little tidbits like how he likes anchovies so much and always kept a jar full of them. My mother and Uncle Bobby used to steal some of the anchovies every time they could, risking the anger of the Terrible Aki Jarnuji.

The conversation went on. It disappeared quickly from my mind. Some bits about Chinese Falun Gong. An opposition suppressed by the communist government. Some of their followers were captured; some came out with mysterious stitches on their body, marking that some of their organs might be taken without their consent, kidneys mostly. Ah, yes, we were talking about how easy to have an organ transplant in China. How the big population supply an endless amount of fresh organs from the dead for the people rich enough to afford it.

Many more I could write down. But my sister is very persistent in the moment to have my laptop for herself. Not long ago, her friends came over and I was very distracted from my writing that I joined them instead of finishing this. So for now… I’ll put it in hiatus.

Vanity

I woke up this morning with a major headache and a parched throat. It’s already foreseen the night before, since I’ve had my share of roughened voice and inability to swallow those delicacies I love the most, so I snuggled up under my blanket and told my maid to fetch for my mother when she’s awake. I could barely lift my head. The next thing I knew was my mother lying beside me, checking up if I had a fever—I did, slightly—while my sister had just finished showering and was putting clothes on. I wanted to go to school, really, there’s a physic class which I hate the most and failed miserably and needed badly before the evaluation next week.

I skipped it. It’s only normal for me to. Mother brought up the topic I hate the most; I pretended I was dozing off so she left me on my own devices. Was it so wrong for me to keep avoiding these problems? I’m facing a big thing in front of me, entrance tests over tests over and over again, I can’t afford any failure these days so why should I let these stuff distract me all the time? Since I already have a good share of distraction anyway, including this laptop, I was doing some math problems a couple of minutes ago. Well, now, I’m not as helpless as I was before; I guess my mother’s chicken soup really rejuvenated me. She put a whole lot of pepper in it, just how I like it, and she accompanied me gorging through the breakfast banquet while she answered phone calls with a voice full of authority and rigidity. I sipped the broth; my mother’s a boss indeed. I was eating while reading through some interesting articles in the newspaper when my mother suddenly snapped about some trivial stuff.

I liked the way how big my mother look, how important she was among the pile of works and bustling agendas around her. She was very timid in nature, perhaps, I mean, she cringed when she saw horrible news on the telly, she hates violent movies and all; she likes the soft romantic stuff. She once had a range of Barbara Cartland’s books, but also in the contrary, at the same time she didn’t mind the darker and more violent books. Books. Historical, tragic, romantic books—not romance, but romantic. I think she likes epics—and wouldn’t mind the violence as long as there was this sense of grandiose in it. But she was also quick on her temper. And have I mentioned how I resemble those qualities?

I was a different individual altogether. But they say the apple won’t fell too far from the tree. And although it was my sister that my mother dotes on most of the time, I was more like her than my sister ever was. So there was this irony to realize that we were so much alike and in the same time so different as if we came from different planets. I guessed I was the more romantic here; my mother was more realistic and practical. Or is it because the age gap? That over the years that dreamy girl had gradually changed and become this principal woman—it never crossed my mind to ever asked my mother the minute details of what she has been through in the past that might have contributed on how she was shaped now. Self-precaution, I guess. I, myself, would never want anyone to pry on my business. I will tell when I want to, and it works the same way on my mother. She told me anyway, the censored version. She left out the infuriating details—perhaps in order to protect my innocence which is in fact was already non existent but my mother shan’t know about it—but she stressed on some parts really carefully. About karma, of how all the bad things will caught up and punished those who are wrong and blessed those who have been wronged. T’was a very brutal judgment, how indifferent my mother was when she delivered this knowledge to me.

You see, I live in a sheltered life created by two poor people with simple dream of having a small house on their own and a happy-cartoonish-50s-like family. Well, so far, it’s pretty much like that—with several turbulence—although it might be a bit dysfunctional in the long run since the father had a bloated ego and a selfish sense of rightness—not to mention the horrible choice of vocabulary spurted out in anger which resembles the choice of words of a lowly common thugs, the mother a constricted view of traditional values and trapped in a cycle of hell, the first daughter was a closeted emo with some issues of distorted moral views, and the second daughter had a tough outlook but a very low self-esteem in the inside. But we function normally anyway. And happy too.

Back to topic—if there was any since the beginning. It comes vividly in my mind, the conversation that night about how karma works and how it was realized among the living. It’s not only a fairy tale; stories such as how those who eat the wealth of fatherless children will be doomed in hell. There was hell on earth, with different version for each person, but it did happen. And my parents are the wronged here, so with those people had been punished accordingly, their faith were very much squared. Is it because of my infatuation with the theme of angel of providence, that these events my mother recited had fueled my imagination wild with expectation that there is providence such as that? And my mother—once the dreamer too maybe—touched by the hands of justice, became rigid and somber, no more the fragrant frilly girl, and brought out to the harsh world there is outside. Will it be the same future awaits me? That one day I too will lose all the frivolousness and become the hard-tempered woman? No more vivid imagination and wild expectations—

Floods, in whose more than crystal clarity, Innumerable virgin graces row.

—that was a line I’ve read somewhere. And the flood will be stopped by a dam someday, and I, the dried old maid.

Oh, hush! I’ve been writing nonsense! But I am vain indeed, or craved for attention perhaps, or just want to write? Who are you to judge me and who am I too care your opinion? I will babble as much as I like and some of you will like me still and some will think me an idle brainless fool. We still breathe the same air anyway, so you’re not better than I am and vice versa. The same way with my mother and I. We read the same books, eat the same food, live under the same roof, but live a very different life—past and the future. We only have the present with us. My mother, I, you, us. The question of self existent and how much we are valued on the eyes of others will forever haunt us—or me? It shouldn’t be a bother, a grown up should meddle on a more important things. Even teenagers with tons of angst should think of a more creative way on ending their lives. I meddle with this trivial stuff, with no way to forward or retreat. I’m stuck in the moment and this moment of clarity was blurred with worries and reality. The time of idleness perhaps has come to an end… Well, too bad, really, I was having a nice dream.

Adiksi

Lols. Kenapa gue suka kuis beginian ya? Low self-esteem? Yang jelas, toh hasilnya selalu sama—dan anehnya gue selalu mencoba lagi dan lagi! FYI aja, untuk intelejensi jamaknya, keahlian gue dalam body/kinestetik bahkan ga perlu dimasukin saking rendahnya. Hahaha!

Wait a sec

Kemarin gue bangun tidur jam 11 malem, itu udah alamat pasti gue akan susah tidur sampai setidaknya subuh dulu. Dan rasanya mendung di depan gue sedang amat pekat-pekatnya, adanya gue terseret-seret antara tidur dan sadar, setengah terikat sama mimpi dan setengahnya dipaksa hadapin kenyataan. Aih, aih, gue masih males menelpon orang itu—ataupun membalas sms-sms indah yang dikirim tanpa pamrih— jadi gue memutuskan untuk mengabaikan beberapa sms berbahaya itu dan langsung menanggapi pesan-pesan gak penting yang bisa mengalihkan perhatian gue.

Siapa sangka temanku sayang tiba-tiba menelpon? Put me to sleep, he said, read me poems. I obliged. That simple, I knew the routines, I knew how it works. My little darling, I always said.

“Make one for me, a poem. Afterall, I was your muse, once.”

I chuckled, relented, one poem for my little darling. He said, next time we met, he won’t be the little child anymore. I said good night, no answer from the other side and—click.

Suddenly I need a drink.

Ah, gue gak bisa minum-minum. So I opt for another one, to call my other darling. I’m single, by the way, in case someone questioned my fidelity. We were dragging the conversation as long as we could, treading on fine lines between boredom and need, I guess, I was very much depressed at the time. But how lovely she was, like an oasis for the parched traveler. Life is beautiful, as you are beautiful, my dear, I saw it, I saw it. I saw the colors and the bursts of light, I smelled the perfume. Drug me please, I need to get away.

“Uhm… Kalo gitu gue tidur ya.”

Do you expect me to beg her not to go? The light was out, the telly was buzzing on the background, my sister gently snored beside me, and my bed was calling. 2.30? Barely morn, should I get a coffee? I was still lonely, a crazy thought came, for me to call that person on the other side of the world—after all he would always be there for me. Eff, no. I went to sleep anyway, and suddenly the buzzing became too overwhelming. Too late, my body wouldn’t budge, it was already sleeping, but my mind was wide awake when a pair of arms circled around me and hugged me from behind. More like groping. I was like—eff. I could swear the thing or whatever it was, whispered something in my ear, and I couldn’t move or anything. I silently screamed and started praying vehemently—until I could move my body, literally jumped off the bed, too scared to look back what the hell that was groping me—but there was none. There was just my sister, sleeping on the other side.

And for some reason, I laughed. My heart was pounding, and I felt alive again. I tried to sleep again, this time I prayed properly, and tuck myself in for a two-hour nap before I had to wake up.

Dan hari gue turn out menjadi amat menyenangkan. Walaupun gue telat dan diceng-cengin guru—yang entah kenapa mereka bisa kenal gue?—terus tugas seni gue belum sama sekali. Matematika, sayang, kenapa hati gue tiba-tiba ringan begini hari ini? Ada yang noel pundak gue. Sasha.

”Prad, cabut agama yuk.”
”...Yuk.”

Tugas seni gue belum beres, lagian siapa yang mau dikeplak-keplak Pak Oma tanpa alasan? Serius, guru satu itu udah waktunya pensiun; antara gue gak ngerti dia lagi ngomong apa, ngerjain tugas lain bisa dikemplang tiba-tiba, tidur bisa dibentak-bentak. Gue dan Sasha ngedon lagi ke perpus, ngekorin Jemmy dan Desma—sorry Jem, Des, gue sih santai mancai, kalian tahu Sasha emang volumenya kenceng. Lol. Omong-omong Jemmy, nama lengkapnya Roy Jeremiah Pasaribu, orang Batak—kok gue berasa ini mirip ama seseorang yang temen gue kenal ya? Haha. Dan hari ini entah kenapa juga tiba-tiba segala kegiatan gue dihadiri oleh Jemmy. Gue memulai tugas kilat gue untuk seni diwarnai pertengkaran Sasha dan Jemmy—gue penengah netral aja.

“Praaaaad... Aduuuuh.... Gue salah gariiiiiiis.....”
“Jih, si Sasha, ama Mpret aja lo langsung kayak anak kecil gitu.”
“HEH! Jemmy, diem aja deh lo. Lo tuh bikin gue sakit mata aja tau.”
“Siapa yang mulai coba? Ya ga, Prad?”

“Err... Gue no-comment aja deh.”

Dan masih di kelas pun kebisingan dipimpin oleh Jemmy. Ada adu makan keripik setan—anjing2an itu keripik pedesnya bikin gue diare—antara Jemmy dan Zacky.

(Off the record, Zacky tuh anaknya jangkung dan lumayan cakep—fans berat Edward Cullen. Ya, bener, dan dia bukan gay. Pernah waktu itu si Zacky—Jeki—tiba-tiba pake gel rambut. Tumben-tumbenan, biasanya kan rambut dia bedhead begitu.

Indy: Jeki lo niru rambutnya Edward Cullen? <
Jeki : Egh, apaan sih. Biasa aja kali. *acak2 rambutnya asal, gaya cool, tp mulai sewot*
Seseorang yg lain: Emang rambutnya Edward begitu?
Jeki : Apaan sih! Nggak kali! *sewot*
Gw : *dengan tampang serius* Jek, kayaknya lo kurang banyak pake gelnya deh. Lo pake yang extra hard deh, ato apa tuh buat yang wet look gitu. Soalnya gue pernah coba, kalo yang biasa pasti hasilnya kurang bagus. Lagian Edward kan rambutnya rada kayak basah2 gitu dan lebih ngacung. *dengan sotoy, sambil memperagakan bak sales, tapi masih serius*
Jeki: *dengan muka sumringah* Iya, kan ya, Prad! Gue udah nyoba, tapi si Edward tuh rambutnya kan... bla3...

Sekelas: *Hening, menguping Jeki meracau panjang lebar mengenai Edward dan rambutnya.*)

Ga boleh minum, siapa paling cepet menang. Entahlah siapa yang menang, terakhirnya mereka kalap minum semua minuman yang bisa ditemukan di kelas. Pelajaran seni, gue kalap bersama yang lainnya pergi ke Matahari untuk nyari tukang fotokopi, Ipank ga mau dititipin, kalo mau gue pergi ama dia. Yah, payungnya kecil, gapapalah, toh kita berdua badannya ga gede-gede amat.

“PRAD! TITIP!”

Astaga. Jemmy.

“GAK! Kalo mau lo mesti ikut, Jem!”

Aduh, Ipank, mana muat, sayang, payung kecil begini buat bertiga—gue ama Ipank aja udah ngepas, sekarang ditambah si Jemmy yang gede begitu. Beneran kayak orang bego, Ipank ama Jemmy tuh minimal 180—dan Jemmy ukuran XL kali ya—itu payung sekempret. Dan jalan di depan katedral tuh sempit dan dipenuhi pedagang kaki lima dan ada jurang—aka. got mahagede—di sampingnya.

“Geser dong, Jem! Gue kan cewek!”
”Ah, yang penting kepalanya ga basah! Ini liat gue jalannya udah miring nih!”
”Oi oi oi! Ati-ati. Gue yang pegang tugasnya neh!”
”Aduh kita udah kayak orang bego.”
”Duh, di depan ada orang lewat tuh.”
”Ganti formasi, berjejer memanjang.”
”Apa sih, udah tendang aja.”
”Kejem, manuver dikit nih bisa—adoh, Jemmy, lo lebar banget sih!”
”Bego, anjing, itu selokan di sebelah kita oi! Kalo maen senggol kita yang masuk!”
“Prad, Prad, jangan ditarik gitu dong.”
”Biar kita rada cepetan, Jem.”
“WOOO WOO! Slow, Pank.”
“Eh, eh, ati-ati tuh orang gila rada...”

Tuhan, ada orang gila bersiap pipis di depan kami.

Yang jelas, kami berhasil memfotokopi tugasnya, menyelesaikannya tepat waktu dan berhasil pulang tanpa dicacah guru seni yang kecil-kecil galak juga. Ah, tapi gue suka Bu Dian. Kayaknya itu satu-satunya pelajaran refreshing gue deh, biarpun gue sampe mual-mual ngegaris karena kacamata gue belum ditambah silindris. Semua anak perempuan ada olahraga—gue? Dapet hari pertama. Mbabon bunting. Emoh saia. Dan duit gue abis, mau ke atm BCA ujan begini, males jalannya.

”Aduuuh... Cowok ada yang bisa gue tebeng ke arah BTM ga?”
”Tuh, Luki naek motor.”
”Luki, gw nebeng boleh gak?”
*Luki dengan senyum polosnya* ”Boleh, Prad, tapi sory gue ga boleh ngebonceng cewek.”

Wot de hel.

”Jah, hijab?”
”Iya hijab.”
”SI MPRET MAH COWOK KALI, LUK!”
”Kampret lo, Jem!”

Aduh, santun nian engkau Luki. Gue yang udik—atau pendosa banget karena ga pernah bergaul sama lingkup para saleh?—atau emang jarang banget ada cowok segitu ngejaganya? Toh gue berhasil menodong Jeki untuk ngebayarin gue angkot dulu sampe ke bank. Dan lagi-lagi ada Jemmy—dengan Jeki dan gue—seangkot. Oke, percepat. Tagihan gue belum muncul di pembayaran, dan gue udah ambil duit. Pergi les, ketemu anak-anak temen les lainnya di jalan, eh, dibayarin pula gue. Well, ternyata gue ga pernah sendirian-sendirian amat ya? Emang selalu ada aja yang sama gue, cuma gue sedang memasuki fase asosial yang biasanya... Mungkin ada satu dua yang selalu beredar di orbit gue seperti Sasha—dan Jemmy mungkin, mereka berantem non stop—dan beberapa orang yang amat gue sukai. Salah satunya nge-text gue, lagi-lagi sakit maag—kambuh lagi? Dulu guru les gue ada yang meninggal gara-gara maag kronis, tahu? Satu lagi mungkin sedang bergelung dalam kegelapan dan segelas kopi. Siapa lagi ya?

Wah. Banyak ternyata.

Lol.

-Sayang, u home?-

Sa-yang? Huh? Since when? Oh, wait. Gue juga sayang kok, in fact, gue juga sayang sama banyak orang.

-Lg les nie, plg jam 8-

Dia telpon. I thought, here we go again, and I was so happy I’d like to share the happiness with him. And he sounded happy.

“Dut! Lo gak bakal percaya kemaren malem gue mimpi apa!”

Gue ceritain.

“Itu gue.”
“Apa?”
“Itu gue.”
“...Wot de hel?”
*chuckle* “Kalo gue bilang gue bisa keluar dari badan gue? Gue bener-bener kangen elo kemaren, gue pengen peluk.”
”...Anjis. Gue sampe doa-doa, bego.”
”Harusnya itu anget tau!”
”Anget sih anget! Tapi gue merasa dilecehkan!” *tertawa*
”Gudut... Temenin gue sampe tidur dong malem ini...”
”Oke.”
”AH! Bisa telepon gue ga?”
”Ga bisa, say, pulsa gue sekarat.”
”Aduh aduuuuh pliiis pliiiss.... Bentaaar ajaa. 10 menit aja.”
”Ga bisa, darling.” *tertawa*
”AH! AH! Bentaran aja!”
”Ga bisa! Gue kemaren telepon dia kelamaan!”
”ARGH! Mati nih mati!!!”
”Ya udah, ya udah! Nina bobo~ O’oooh~~ Nina bobooo....”
”ACH!”

—Tut-tut-tu—

Hug me again tonight. I love you, mon frere.

Masochist

Hari ini gue pelit senyum.

“Pake abotil aja, Prad.”
”Ga mau.”
”Ih. Bentar! Sakit dikit terus sembuh!”
”Gak. Gapapa, gue masochist, gue menikmati sakitnya.”

Entah kenapa si Dio ketawa terbahak-bahak. Sementara gue, bersungut-sungut, sambil mengapit soal mencari jenius yang bisa membantu gue dalam matematika. Memegangi bibir gue yang kelewat kaku nahan senyum seharian ini.

“Ah, kalo gitu gue masoshist dong? Gue kan selalu dianiaya sama—” Bianca mulai angkat suara.
”Udah lo diem deh, Bi.” Gue dan Aldio langsung membungkam dia bersamaan.

Bianca, si bebek, si absurd, yang sekali lagi—atau selalu?—kelihatan linglung. Aih, kehidupan seringan ini di tengah kepanikan menjelang tes masuk universitas, entah kenapa rasanya berharga sekali? Dan sekali lagi Bogor hujan, seri kedua dari hujan-mendung-seminggu-penuh yang manis, cengeng, hm? Gue menganggap ini romantis. Karena rasanya semua menjadi lebih ramah untuk kehidupan, asap motor bau tengik jatuh ke tanah bercampur air, bau palem basah di depan kelas, kebanyakan anak mendekam di dalam saat istirahat, bergumul berdekatan—soal snmptn di tangan—dan gue bergelung di balik kardigan. Ini pelarian yang sia-sia. Otak, fokus ke depan, kerjakan soal, harusnya begitu. Tapi mata gue seperti berbalik ke belakang kepala, balik ke masa lalu, balik balik balik...

“Mungkin Ibu cuma gak mau nginget semuanya, mungkin Ibu neken semuanya terus tahu-tahu semuanya hilang.“
“Semuanya?“
“Yah, masa-masa SMA. Itu yang paling berat.”

Gue selalu merasa sedikit ngeri membayangkan betapa miripnya Ibu dan gue di dalem. Mungkin dari penampilan, kalian gak akan mengira kami punya hubungan darah. Ibu 155 dan gue 170, Ibu kuning langsat gue sawo burik, Ibu cantik gue… jantan? Tapi kami berdua tahu kalau kemiripan yang ada udah cukup membuktikan kami ibu dan anak. Jadi Ibu mengerti kenapa gue menghindar malam itu, Ibu ngerti kan kenapa aku gak bisa nonton rekaman itu sampai akhir?

”Tapi gimana pun, Mbak, kamu harus selalu inget sama orang-orang yang udah sayang sama kamu selama di sana. Terutama Miss Gretchen, dia udah baik banget sampe ngirimin ini semua.”

Gretchen.

Gretchen. Gretchen. Gretchen Hughes.
I like the way it rolls on my tongue. The name, Gretchen.
”Gretchen? That’s a lovely name, Mrs. Hughes.”
“And yours too, Dee-ta.”

Dia nyebut nama gue dengan cara yang mirip sama Tatyana. Well, mau gimana? Tatyana dan gue sekelas di kelas yang dia ajar. Drama. Drama, it’s easier than sports. Lol. Dan mau-maunya Gretchen memasukan gue ke dalam cast drama walaupun gue cuma anak exchange dengan aksen yang canggung.

“Geez, Lanee adores you.”

Gue tertawa. Lanee, dua tahun, mirip sekali dengan ibunya, cuma rambutnya keriting ikal, pirang, dan mata biru besar yang ekspresif. Lanee. Gretchen seneng banget ngefoto saat Lanee manjat untuk duduk di pangkuan gue, Lanee ikut tiduran sama gue, Lanee dan gue. Bukan gue mau melupakan Gretchen dan lainnya, bukan gue ingin melupakan Sheila dan yang lain. Bukan.

Just. Begone.

Lupakan. Lupakan semuanya. Satu kali gue mengucapkannya terlalu keras, biasanya gue cukup hati-hati untuk cuma berkomat-kamit dan semuanya baik-baik aja dengan begitu. Satu kali gue kelepasan dan Ibu ngedenger. Dia ngelus pelan pundak gue dan membiarkan gue dengan pikiran gue sendiri. Makasi, Bu. Ah, Ibu ngerti kan? Ibu juga pernah kan?

Jadi mari kita lupakan Gretchen untuk sementara karena rasanya gue ga kuat untuk mengingat semuanya.

Pengecut bisanya lari? Menurut lo gue harus gimana? Mengaku semuanya? Please. Satu tempat aman, tolong biarkan para ibu itu tidak terluka. Gretchen dan Ibu, mereka berdua malaikat untuk gue dan apapun akan gue lakukan untuk menjaga mereka tetap ’bahagia’ seperti sekarang. Please, apapun. Mereka Ms. Pennyfeather, Ms. Honey untuk gue dan gue Matilda-nya. Can I, in some wicked nature stored within, find a hidden power to save the little world they live in? Terutama Ibu. Ya Tuhan, hanya seorang yatim yang dulu luntang-lantung di jalan. Ini, rumah ini, kehidupan ini, dia bangun berdasarkan mimpi, apa-apa yang dulu dirampas darinya dan sekarang—sebuah keluarga kecil di rumah yang memang miliknya. Gak ada yang bisa merampas ini dari Ibu dan akan selalu begitu. Ini segala-galanya, harta baginya. Jadi kalian mengerti kan kegawatan permasalahan ini? Kekalutan untuk ngelindungin semua ini?

Eff. Gue meracau.

Oke. Gue panik. Puas? Dan gue menggigit bibir terlalu keras saat akhirnya gue cukup berani untuk ngebuka komputer dan mengirim e-mail ke Gretchen, walaupun dengan begitu berarti gue juga membuka front bagi orang ’itu’ kembali menghantui gue. Bisakah kita tutup aja bab yang lalu dan beralih ke bab berikutnya? Mari sudahi gelombang elektromagnetik dan mulai dengan relativitas dan radiasi benda hitam. Izinkan gue mengutuk dalam bahasa paling kasar.

Gue ternyata emang masochist.

Dalam artian khusus, kalian tahu, karena gue sebenarnya tahu konsekuensinya tapi masih juga gue lakukan. Kenapa? Apa gue menikmati sensasi menegangkannya sementara gue juga tercabik-cabik sekaligus? Itu masuk kategori masochist atau daredevil? Gue mengiyakan Raka saat tahu itu percuma. Gue mengejar orang itu saat gue tahu itu dosa. Dan gue mencintai orang yang salah karena gue tahu itu gak mungkin. Padahal doa Ibu gue cuma satu untuk gue mencari laki-laki yang saleh dan bisa dipercaya. Gampang? Gampang-gampang susah, eneng...

Oh, sayang, gue akan terus lari dari masalah seperti ini, percaya deh. Walaupun gue akan tersandung dan tertangkap beberapa kali, tapi selama gue bisa terus lari dari kenyataan gue akan terus melakukannya karena ini satu-satunya cara utnuk melindungi kenaifan terakhir dalam kehidupan keluarga gue yang bagus di luar dan—dan bagus di dalem. Fine, gue juga tahu perlarian begini akan menyakitkan—dan efeknya berkepanjangan—tapi toh tetep gue lakukan kan? Tinggal gue coba menikmati rasa sakitnya aja, kan?

Dulu gue pernah berpuasa karena gue memutar balik rasa lapar itu jadi berasa enak. Seperti keranjingan meditasi atau semacamnya, itu pernah menjadi pelarian gue untuk sementara. Sekarang sedikit lagi sakit gak ada bedanya. Mungkin satu saat gue bisa seperti Ibu dan semua luka akan terlupakan. Kalau semuanya berhasil gue lupakan. Sebagian besar udah hilang, lagipula.

Forgive and forget.

Itu salah, tapi gue tahu orang yang bisa bertahan hidup justru karena itu.