That afternoon, Bogor was showing its purest true self: merciless pouring rain. Water streamed from the dense gray sky, pounding the asphalt along Jalan Pajajaran and creating a constant rumble that soothed some people but annoyed others.
Under the narrow bus stop with its rusting corrugated-metal roof, Jingga Maheswari stood anxiously. She glanced at the black digital wristwatch on her left wrist. It showed exactly four in the afternoon.
Her white-and-gray school uniform was still neat, ironed so stiffly that it stood in stark contrast to several students from other schools, who were already disheveled in their soaking-wet clothes after recklessly charging through the splashing water.
Jingga hated being late. More than that, this seventeen-year-old girl hated anything that reeked of chaos. To her, life had to move along a neat straight line, like the ones in her weather almanac or diary.
But this afternoon, the straight line she had worked so hard to build seemed destined to be forced into a turn by something noisy and reckless.
From a distance, the roar of a motorcycle exhaust, loud enough to hurt her ears, cut through the patter of rain. The noise grew louder, followed by three high-displacement big bikes speeding along without caring about the puddles by the roadside.
The motorcycles screeched to a sudden stop right in front of the bus stop. Unfortunately, a splash of muddy water from the street hit the toes of Jingga's formerly spotless white shoes.
Jingga let out a sharp breath, her hands curling into fists at her sides, beside her gray skirt. She recognized the group immediately by the large yellow lightning-bolt emblems stitched across the backs of their jackets. They were members of the motorcycle gang Guntur Pajajaran, a group of teenagers the teachers had branded as a nest of troublemakers, brawlers, and street delinquents in South Bogor.
Their usual hangout spot was somewhere near Red Bridge at night, or else they went illegal street racing along the quiet roads on the outskirts of the city.
The guy at the front, riding the big black bike with the loudest exhaust, slowly lifted the visor of his black-patterned helmet. His slightly long hair looked damp with sweat and raindrops, falling messily across his forehead. The worn denim jacket he wore, with its slightly torn collar, was wet across the left shoulder. His name was Niskala Adhiyaksa Bumi—the person every safety-conscious girl at Pajajaran High School tried hardest to avoid, Jingga included. Niskala was the definition of walking trouble.
“Hey, Bookworm,” Niskala greeted her. His voice was husky and wet, its deliberately deep tone trying to compete with the roar of Bogor's rain. His sharp, eagle-like eyes fixed on Jingga with a glint of cocky amusement.
“Out here in the rain, all by yourself at the bus stop? What if the Kebun Raya gnomes kidnap you? Then I'd have to report it to the parks department. What a hassle.”
Jingga quickly turned her face the other way. She tightened her grip on her backpack straps, pretending to be busy staring at her phone screen, which was actually completely dead from having no battery left.
“None of your business,” Jingga replied curtly. She made her voice as cold as possible, hoping the delinquent would take the hint and leave.
But getting rid of Niskala was never as easy as flipping over one's palm. The eighteen-year-old only laughed, bright and effortless. His laughter sounded surprisingly light, as if the downpour around them were nothing more than the backdrop to a stage play.
Ignoring the rain that immediately soaked the plain black T-shirt beneath his denim jacket, Niskala climbed off his big bike with casual ease. He stepped up into the cramped bus stop, making several ordinary people sheltering there immediately shuffle away in fear at the sight of his delinquent looks.
Niskala walked closer, then stopped right beside Jingga. At once, the scent of masculine vanilla cologne mingled with wet earth and the faint smell of cigarette smoke, flooding Jingga's senses.
“Jingga Maheswari,” Niskala called. He spoke her full name with an oddly deliberate rhythm, as though it were a precious line from an ancient poem. “You know why rain in Bogor tends to last forever and take so long to let up?”
Jingga remained silent. She deliberately shifted one wide step to the right, moving her shoulder away so it would not brush against Niskala's damp arm.
Niskala did not give up. He shifted one step to the right as well, moving with such natural ease that he kept cutting down the safe distance between them. “Rain in Bogor lasts so long because the city's sky knows one thing, Jingga. If the rain stopped quickly and the sky cleared right away, I wouldn't have an excuse to stand near you like this for very long.”
Hearing the pickup line slip so smoothly from Niskala's lips, Jingga immediately turned her head. She stabbed him with a sharp glare, her eyes flashing with anger.
“Niskala, can you shut up? Your cheesy lines aren't funny at all, and they don't work on me. And just so we're clear, I don't like—actually, I hate—dealing with street delinquents whose only hobbies are making life difficult for other people and causing trouble on the road!”
At the heavily emphasized word delinquent, the cocky smile at the corner of Niskala's mouth did not fade in the slightest. Instead, he leaned his straight back against the bus stop's cold metal post.
He folded his arms and stared right back into Jingga's blazing eyes.
“Delinquent, huh? That's a pretty cool label for an eighteen-year-old,” Niskala said casually, as if Jingga's words had not bruised his ego at all. “But you're very wrong, Jingga. I'm not looking for trouble or a street fight this afternoon. I'm just looking for an alternative route into your head. Why? So you'll stop seeing me as a frightening storm and start seeing me as the rainbow after the rain.”
“Never going to happen, and I wouldn't be caught dead!” Jingga hissed through clenched teeth.
At that exact moment, a green angkot minibus numbered 02, bound for Sukasari, rolled slowly past the bus stop. The rear bench was completely empty. Without a second thought and without caring that the remaining drizzle was beginning to soak her uniform, Jingga sprinted through the puddles. She jumped into the angkot, leaving Niskala standing frozen beneath the shelter's roof.
Inside the angkot as it began moving through the heavy traffic, Jingga drew a deep breath and let it out in relief. She leaned back against the seat, incredibly grateful to have escaped the biggest nuisance in her life today. But the relief lasted only a few seconds.
When Jingga turned toward the angkot's rear window, blurred with condensation, her eyes widened. Niskala's big black bike was moving slowly alongside the left side of the angkot she was riding. His helmet visor was open again. With his left hand, he tapped on the angkot's window from outside with his index finger, forcibly claiming Jingga's attention.
Once Jingga stared at him in shock, Niskala flashed an enormous smile and made a phone-shaped hand gesture beside his right ear.
Jingga genuinely could not understand what went on in that guy's head. How could someone be this reckless? At the same time, a strong vibration came from inside the pocket of her backpack. She quickly rummaged through it and found a message from a completely unknown new number. It read:
“Angkot 02 isn't moving fast enough to run away from me, Jingga. See you tomorrow morning in front of our school gate. Don't forget to smile tonight, because Bogor's cloudy sky this afternoon won't be half as beautiful as the wrinkles on your forehead when you're angry.”
Jingga immediately squeezed her phone, her emotions hopelessly tangled. Overwhelming irritation mixed with a faint, strange flutter that had suddenly appeared uninvited inside her chest.
However, across the street near the Tugu Kujang traffic light, a pair of eyes watched the entire scene closely from inside a luxurious black sedan with its window cracked open. Saskia, Niskala's ex-girlfriend, stared at the back of the angkot carrying Jingga with eyes filled with deep jealousy and hatred. The first true storm in this city of rain seemed to have just begun, directly behind the back of Jingga, who had no idea what was happening.