Jingga Maheswari’s footsteps pounded across the eleventh-grade corridor in a fast, uneven rhythm. Her breathing came in short, hurried bursts. A few strands of her ponytail, damp from the drizzling mist, clung to her temples. Damn it. The words kept replaying in her head like a broken record. How had Niskala Adhiyaksa Bumi managed to turn her peaceful morning into a heart-pounding carousel ride?
Jingga shoved open the door to Class XI-A a little too hard, making the hinges squeal. The classroom, which had been buzzing with morning chatter, fell silent for two seconds. Every eye turned to Jingga.
“Jingga! Oh my God, why are you so wet? Where’s your umbrella?”
Fanya, a bob-haired girl with a caramel-colored headband, immediately sprang from her seat. She was Jingga’s loudest best friend, with a gossip radar that beat the school Wi-Fi’s signal speed. Behind Fanya, Amara approached more calmly, carrying a dry tissue from her bag.
“Here, wipe your face first. You’re all crumpled up, like wrapping paper from a fried snack,” Amara said, handing over the tissue with an understanding smile.
Jingga accepted it, then dropped into her seat in the second row by the window, her favorite spot. “That delinquent gang stole my umbrella,” Jingga grumbled as she wiped the remaining water from her forehead.
Fanya’s eyes immediately widened with comic delight. She lightly slapped both hands on Jingga’s desk, acting as if she’d just discovered a treasure trove of information.
“Oh my God! So the gossip from the kids coming through the gate was true? You shared an umbrella with Niskala? The ridiculously hot leader of Guntur Pajajaran?!”
“Fanya, can you lower your voice?” Jingga hissed, glaring and pointing at several students in the corner who had started listening in. “He didn’t share an umbrella with me. He barged under mine! That guy seriously has no manners. A true delinquent!”
Amara sat in the empty chair in front of Jingga’s desk and turned to face her friend. Her usually calm expression had grown slightly serious.
“But Jingga, you have to be careful. Niskala isn’t just some ordinary bad boy. Last week, the seniors in the next class said his gang got into a fight with kids from the school across town near Suryakencana over a dispute about their hangout territory. His reputation with the teachers is already a red flag.”
“I know, Ra. That’s why I ran earlier,” Jingga replied as she anxiously straightened the Math textbooks on her desk. “I don’t want my name dragged through the mud just because I’m associated with a troublemaker like him. My life was peaceful before he showed up.”
Fanya propped her chin in both hands, gazing dreamily at the classroom ceiling. “But, Jingga... if you really think about it, Niskala is kind of cool. Yesterday afternoon, I saw him hanging out with the Guntur Pajajaran crew in front of Lawang Salapan. He was on his big black bike, laughing while handing out leftover food to the stray cats by the roadside. Delinquent looks, but a Hello Kitty heart, you know?”
“That’s called image management, Fanya!” Jingga cut in quickly, unwilling to admit that Fanya’s story had slightly shaken her negative opinion of Niskala. “Guys like him only know how to cause trouble on the streets, participate in illegal street racing, and give their parents headaches. Whatever. I never want to run into him again!”
“Who don’t you want to run into, Jingga?” A deep, authoritative baritone cut into their conversation from the classroom door. Jingga, Fanya, and Amara all turned at once. Reno stood there. The student council president of Pajajaran High School looked absolutely perfect that morning. His spotless white uniform was smooth and wrinkle-free, his dress shoes gleamed, and the scent of expensive masculine cologne reached them as he walked toward Jingga’s desk. A bright red armband bearing the words “Student Council President” circled his left arm.
“Oh, Big Bro Reno. Morning,” Fanya greeted him, instantly straightening her posture, somewhat intimidated by the student council president’s authority.
Reno ignored Fanya’s greeting, his eyes focused solely on Jingga. He placed a plastic folder containing student council activity reports in the corner of Jingga’s desk.
“Jingga, I saw what happened at the front gate earlier. You’re okay, right? Niskala didn’t do anything to you, did he?” Reno asked in a concerned tone, though Amara caught a possessive glint in his eyes.
Jingga shook her head slowly, feeling a little uncomfortable with Reno’s excessive concern. “I’m fine, Big Bro. It was just a small misunderstanding out front.”
Reno let out a long breath, then adjusted his thin-framed glasses. “Good. But as student council president, I need to remind you of something, Jingga. You’re an exemplary student, and the provincial scholarship selection is coming up soon. Don’t let your academic reputation get ruined because you’re constantly seen with delinquents like Niskala and his crew.”
Reno deliberately paused, his eyes staring sharply out the classroom window toward the school field, where the Guntur Pajajaran crew usually parked their bikes. “People like Niskala have no future. They’re nothing but street trash whose only jobs are burning gasoline and damaging Bogor’s public facilities. So I’m asking you to keep a safe distance from him.”
Jingga only nodded stiffly. On one hand, she agreed with Reno about protecting her reputation. But on the other, for some reason, a part of her felt uncomfortable hearing him call Niskala “street trash” in such a contemptuous tone.
“Well, I’m heading back to the student council room. Remember what I said, Jingga,” Reno said, giving Jingga’s shoulder a brief pat before turning and walking out of the classroom with firm, purposeful strides.
The moment Reno disappeared behind the door, Fanya let out a soft snort. “Ugh, Big Bro Reno always says things that make sense, but why does his tone give me the creeps? He sounds like he’s trying to run someone else’s life.”
Amara said nothing, but her eyes studied Jingga with open suspicion. Meanwhile, Jingga looked back at her phone, which had given a brief buzz inside her bag. A message notification had come in from an unsaved number—the same number as yesterday afternoon. Jingga opened it hesitantly.
“Your pink umbrella smells like strawberries, Jingga. I’m keeping it for now so you’ll have to come find me in the back cafeteria at lunchtime. Don’t be late for lunch, Bookworm. I don’t like seeing my rainbow all weak.”
Jingga instinctively squeezed her phone again, her face suddenly burning. Damn it, Jingga thought. That guy really knew how to wreck her concentration without even showing his face in the classroom. But before Jingga could reply or delete the message, she noticed something beneath her desk drawer. A small folded piece of light-blue paper was tucked between her notebooks.
Jingga pulled it out, her brow furrowing. When she unfolded it, messy handwriting in black ink immediately greeted her eyes:
“Be careful around people whose clothes are too neat, Jingga. Sometimes a clean uniform is only there to hide dirty intentions. Oh, and by the way... Saskia was looking for you in the lower corridor earlier. If she tries anything, say my name three times and I’ll come running with an army.”
Jingga choked. She stared at the note as her heart suddenly began pounding. How did Niskala know Reno had just visited her? And who was Saskia? Why had that girl’s name appeared again as a hidden threat in this little note? Curiosity and anxiety suddenly fought for space in Jingga’s chest, blurring the roar of the rain that still faithfully soaked the earth outside in Bogor.