“Is there a problem at home?” Letta asked quickly. She set down her spoon, worry shining in her eyes.
“Yeah, Let. Gastan’s causing trouble again,” I replied, hurriedly pulling out my wallet. I placed a fifty-thousand-rupiah bill on the table, enough to pay for our two bowls of chicken noodles and iced teas. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t take you back to campus.”
“It’s okay, Ghan. I can take an online taxi. Be careful on the way, and let me know when you get there,” she said, patting the back of my hand reassuringly.
I nodded quickly, then turned and half-ran toward Si Merah.
On the way home, my head filled with grim possibilities. Gastan was only nineteen. He was the youngest, spoiled rotten by Mom, and ever since graduating from vocational high school, he’d spent most of his time loitering with his hangout buddies at the end of the alley. But bringing home a brand-new sport bike? That made no sense. Where had he gotten the money even for the down payment?
I pushed Si Merah through the traffic on the main road, weaving between angkot and container trucks without caring about the dust stinging my eyes.
As soon as I reached the mouth of Gang Mutiara, the narrow alley in our neighborhood that was only wide enough for one car, the atmosphere felt completely different. Usually, around this time, the neighborhood moms would be chatting in front of the small grocery stall. This afternoon, the street was deserted. But I could see several pairs of eyes peeking out from behind the curtains of the neighbors’ windows.
Near the neighborhood watch post, three broad-shouldered men were standing. They wore black leather jackets, and one of them was taking deep drags from a cigarette while watching every motorcycle that passed. Their eyes immediately locked onto me as Si Merah roared past with its noisy exhaust.
I swallowed, trying to ignore their intimidating stares, and kept going until I stopped in front of my house’s peeling green gate.
A pitch-black sport bike without a license plate was parked in the cramped yard. It stood out horribly, far too luxurious and unfamiliar for our cracked, cement-tiled yard.
The front door was slightly open. Ghea grabbed my arm the moment I stepped onto the porch. My sister’s face was deathly pale, her eyes puffy.
“Ghan… thank God you came home so fast,” Ghea whispered, her voice trembling. She locked the door tightly again.
“Where’s Gastan?” I asked, my voice low but firm.
“In the back bedroom. Mom’s with Dad. He’s been coughing nonstop since he got shocked,” Ghea said, pointing toward the master bedroom.
“They’ve been waiting at the end of the alley since four this afternoon, Ghan. They banged on our gate for a while before finally waiting there.”
I hurried to the back bedroom. Gastan was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, his face pressed against them. Mom sat on the bed, rubbing Dad’s back as he struggled to breathe, clutching his chest.
“Gastan,” I called. My voice was cold.
My little brother looked up. There was overwhelming fear in his eyes, along with the last remnants of the stubborn attitude he usually put on.
“Whose bike is that outside?” I asked.
Gastan was silent. He turned his face away.
“I’m asking you, Gas! Answer me!” My voice began to rise, making Mom flinch.
“Ghan, don’t raise your voice. Your dad’s having trouble breathing,” Mom whispered, her eyes glistening with tears.
I took a deep breath, trying to rein in the anger that was about to explode. I knelt in front of Gastan and gripped his shoulders hard enough to make him look at me. “Gas, be honest with me. Do you owe money to the people outside?”
Gastan swallowed. His lips trembled before a quiet voice finally came out. “It’s not a loan for the bike, bro…”
“Then what is it?”
“I… I used Ghani’s ID card and digital pay stub to get a loan from them.”
It felt like my heartbeat stopped. “What did you say?”
“I needed money to pay off the bet from yesterday, bro. Then my friend said there was someone who could get the money released fast using the information of someone who already had a job. I… I took Ghani’s documents from the drawer of his work desk…” Gastan’s voice grew quieter, and then he began to sob.
“That bike… it belongs to one of them, and they’re holding it here until the money comes through. But the interest turned out to be huge, and they said that if it wasn’t paid in full by tomorrow, they’d take the bike and… and report Ghani to the police for allegedly committing data fraud.”
My mind suddenly went blank. My pay stub? My ID card?
Before I could process any of this mess, a loud pounding came from the front door. It wasn’t an ordinary knock, but the heavy blows of a fist against the fragile wooden door of our house.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
“Excuse me! Ghani Alamsyah! Come out!” a deep voice shouted from outside.