A Detour

Our footfalls were almost echoing as Anastasia and I went out of the classroom. Taking a left turn instead of right, she brought us to the stairs on the left-hand side of the building. The other one was at the centre, and it was the one that anyone would take if they were to head out of the premises. This one, on the other hand, was more commonly used as a kind of connector between the different buildings. I followed her lead and quickly adjusted my pace until we were walking side by side.

"So, how is it coming along?" I asked.

"The script?"

"That, and the people you've got to be involved with. Are they any help?"

"'Help?'" Anastasia asked as if unable to believe I was even thinking about putting that word in my question. "I would've already been grateful if they just can stop getting in my way, let alone helping."

She was referring to the upperclassmen from the English Club, which had been assigned to help her with the speech contest she'd be sent to.

"None of their advices helped polish my script," continued her. "They thought they did. But they just didn't. Turned in my first draft earlier this week only to receive an overblown response about minor errors here and there, without them ever actually touching on the actual substances. And it's only gotten worse overtime—today has so far been the worst, in fact. The club president, that tall weirdo with glasses, had the guts to ask me out this Sunday for an 'intensive rehearsal'. I get chills just by thinking about it. Good God. Did he even use that little brain of his? It's as if he didn't know there was a clear line between giving a helping hand and just being a shameless pervert." She smoothed down her skirt, looked down upon the floor we were walking on, and gave herself a pause as though attempting to simmer down. Her face turned noticeably red, especially on the cheeks.

"So it's actually that bad with them," I said. "You sure you're alright?"

"Don't worry. It's not like they actually have any power over me. Their role is no more than a consultative one, after all. I'll just keep on doing what I think would be the best for me."

I had for at least three times offered my help, but Anastasia always insisted to do everything on her own. "I relied on you too much last year," she would say. "This time, you help me with the power of prayers."

"Anyway," I said. "How did you know I was still in the classroom?"

Tilting her head just a little, she looked at me for a second before throwing her glance back to whatever was there at the end of the empty corridor. "I bumped into Rania—that's her name, right? The one whose hijab is rather big? Told me you were probably having a hard time doing the chores all alone. I couldn't remember ever having talked to her, you know, so having her approached me to say such a thing was more than enough to catch me off guard. Hence I failed to give her a proper response. Besides, I was taking a walk around the corridors with only my script in mind. Once it sank in, though, the thought of you sweeping the floor, wiping the windows, and getting your hands all wet while wringing the mop, all with that pathetic face of yours, popped and lingered in my head like they wouldn't ever fall off." Her hand was covering her mouth as she giggled.

"And you came in just when I'd finally wrapped things up. You might as well stop calling yourself a friend from now on."

"At least I did offer my help!"

I first met her around a year ago. It was an especially hot September day with almost no gust of wind to alleviate the harsh sun-heat. After an announcement that mentioned "Pramudya Semesta" was heard through the classroom speaker, I straight up made my way to the staffroom, in which I found no one but Ms. Santi, one of our English teachers. Barely twenty-five years of age, she was also the youngest that we had. My suspicion that she was the one behind it all did only strengthen as she welcomed me with a smile. Her desk couldn't have been further away from the varnished mahogany door that emitted this distinct creak when I pushed it open. I smiled back and gave her a little nod.

"I'm sorry for calling you here in the middle of your class. But this really can't wait until the break," said Ms. Santi.

"Not at all, ma'am."

"Alright, then, I'll just get right into it. You have been chosen—or should I say I have chosen you—to represent our school in this English speech contest. It'd take place in December, and since it's only a district-level one, I think it's going to be a perfect first step for you. If last year's case is to repeat, then there'll be no more than twenty other schools to join in, and having read that essay of yours from last week, I'm pretty confident you can crush the competition. Of course, a good script is still only half of a good speech, but you can definitely rely on me on making you a great orator. That is if you don't turn my offer down. So what do you think?"

I was just about to open my mouth when the squeaking sound of the door diverted me from one surprise to another. The smile of Ms. Santi indicated that unlike me, she'd been expecting that sound to appear for the second time.

"Ah, did I mention that you won't be sent there alone?" she said, and to the door opener, "Please come in, sweetheart."

That was my first encounter with Anastasia. More than a year had passed yet I can still manage to picture the scene without losing any of its details: the smell of paper pervading the room, the cold temperature contrasting that of the classroom, her nervous-looking face, her hair so sleek it reflected the light of the ceiling lamps, everything. But although I did take Ms. Santi's offer, I didn't make it to D-day. The news of my mother's passing reached me just two days before the competition took place. Having to see her all the way to Surabaya, along with the fact that I was her only child, left me with no choice but to abandon the speech altogether. Anastasia ended up going alone and got herself the first place.

The grey paving blocks which replaced the white tiles of the corridors marked the end of the detour we'd been taking. Except for the cafeteria and the one corridor that housed the staffroom, which was being used for the teachers' meeting, we pretty much had roamed every nook and cranny of the premises—the third- and first-year's classrooms, the basketball field, the laboratories, the kitchen, the almost-abandoned garden, and even the toilet, where we stopped by only for me to wash off the citrus reek I had on my hands. Barely ten minutes ago I was hoping the sun could just somehow sink itself quicker than usual so that the moment I got home it was already dark and I could get a longer night's sleep to retrieve the energy that had been sapped almost completely by all the chores I had done. But walking with Anastasia—and Anastasia's presence on its own—was such a bliss it felt as if my exhaustion had been perfectly patched up that if for some reason the sun would go back to square one and it's suddenly morning again, I would be the only one in here who wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep during the classes we had to repeat.

"I... kind of wish we could spend a little bit more time together," I said. As innocent as it sounded in this day and age, it was the most brazen flirt I'd ever thrown at her.

"Oh, don't worry, Pram, we shall meet again sometime today."

"What? How so?"

"Just kidding."

"Have practicing everyday made you lose your common sense?" I said, to which Anastasia replied with a chuckle and a fist on my left arm. Pushing my luck, I continued, "I'm serious, though, hasn't it been a while since we hit the cafeteria? I can't even tell now whether you are super busy or simply trying to avoid me. So, when is it? Tomorrow? The day after that? Sometime next week? After the speech contest?"

"I'll take the last one," the chuckle that had just disappeared a moment ago had now come back in a more intense form. I ended up laughing myself. "Anyway, Pramudya," she called me the second she stopped walking and there had been some comfortable distance separating the two of us. "Today. We'll meet again before sunset."

Just then, a puff of wind came and swimmed through us; a wind so intense it split Anastasia's hair into countless fractions and whirled each of them in no particular direction. Far behind her, also fluttering wildly, was the red and white flag at the top of the pole. But while the wind did make both look mesmerising, it did so in a completely different way to one another. Waving in the wind like that, the national flag looked twice as gallant, twice as threatening that it seemed as if the piece of cloth itself could've taken on any armed forces of any nation without earning a single wound at the end of the battle.

In Anastasia's case, however, the wind did only make her look weaker than usual. Her pale face inspired pity, her slender legs seemed frail, her small torso appeared more fragile than a wine glass—it was as though she would've fallen off and broken into pieces if the wind had been even the tiniest bit stronger than it was. Her trying to use her hand to shield her face, while so beautiful, was also a sight so painful to witness. At that moment, I somehow felt the urge to walk toward her and hold her tight in my arms. Of course, the thought didn't turn into an action.

Fixing up the mess with her hands, Anastasia looked at me with an embarrassed face, to which I replied with nothing but a little smile. Then, without giving me a chance to respond, she turned around and started walking back towards the school buildings.

Shaken by the rather robust wind, the kersen tree next to me had started to pour a share of its leaves and flowers. As abundant as they might be, these little greens and yellows and whites were no match for the bushes blooming in my heart. As if had been tamed by her being around, these bushes, now totally unfettered, were growing crazily out of control, their branches and twigs tangling up more and more knottily at the same rate as Anastasia was becoming smaller in the distance. And when she had taken that only turn needed to conceal herself behind the concrete walls, effectively ending the view I wished would forever be there, these ever-growing shrubs couldn't help but implode, littering the bottommost floor of my soul with their leaves, petals, and prickles.