Coffee, Lies and My Student's Dad

Chapter 19: The Sun-Drenched Wind

The neighbor’s rooster didn't just crow; it assaulted my eardrums. It was a sharp, jagged sound, devoid of a snooze button, tearing through the thin walls of the rental house with a rhythmic, rural violence.

My eyes snapped open, heavy and gritty.

Instead of the high, vaulted ceilings of Brawijaya with their intricate gypsum moldings, I was greeted by a low, flat expanse of white paint marred by brownish water stains. They formed an abstract map of my new poverty—a geography of neglect that leaked every time the Jakarta clouds grew heavy.

I tried to shift my weight, and my spine immediately screamed in protest.

"Damn..."

My neck was a pillar of rusted iron. This ancient sofa, with foam that had long ago surrendered to the laws of gravity, was not designed for human anatomy. It was a graveyard for springs and lost hopes.

I blinked, trying to gather the scattered fragments of my soul.

In the corner, a standing fan whirred with a rhythmic creak-creak, its blades wobbling as it blew thin, lukewarm dust instead of coolness. There was no expensive lavender aromatherapy here. No mist from a designer diffuser. Only the lingering, salty scent of last night’s instant noodles and the damp, heavy air of a house with zero ventilation.

My gaze drifted to the corner of the room. My black carry-on suitcase stood there, silent and stoic.

The ache in my back was visceral, but strangely, my chest felt lighter than it had in years. There was no pounding on the door demanding my presence. No shrill voice from my mother correcting my posture or my waking hour.

I was broke, I was sore, but I was free.

"Wake up, Princess! The bathroom is all yours!"

Saskia emerged from the narrow hallway. A towel was wrapped around her head like a precarious turban, her face looking remarkably fresh despite the faint dark circles under her eyes.

I sat up, stretching muscles that felt like they were made of dry kindling.

"What time is it, Kia?"

"Ten to six. Get in there before the water runs out. My pump gets moody in the mornings."

I grabbed my towel and a small toiletry bag from the suitcase, dragging my leaden feet toward the bathroom.

The floor was wet and slick, the blue ceramic tiles mapped with blackened grout that had seen better decades. In the corner sat a large plastic tub and a bright orange plastic water dipper.

No rainfall shower. No marble vanity. No precision temperature control.

I swallowed hard, staring at the water. In Brawijaya, hot water was a human right. Here, it was a distant memory.

I gripped the orange scoop, dipping it into the tub.

SPLASH.

"Hah!"

The air left my lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. A thousand needles of ice seemed to pierce my pores simultaneously. The cold was brutal, a physical shock that sent my teeth into an immediate, frantic chatter.

I scrubbed my skin with lightning speed, my breath coming in shallow, shivering bursts.

"This was your choice, Elara," I whispered to the blurred reflection in the small, water-spotted mirror.

"Don't be soft. Don't you dare cry."

• • •

Fifteen minutes later, the humidity of the house had already begun to reclaim my skin.

I stood in front of the creaky fan, trying to coax my hair into something resembling professional order. The real crisis emerged when I unzipped the suitcase.

My white work shirt was a disaster. Deep, chaotic wrinkles were etched into the fabric—the result of my frantic, amateur packing at two in the morning. It looked like I’d slept in it and then had an elephant sit on it.

"Kia, do you have an iron?" I asked, my voice bordering on panic.

Saskia, who was currently shoving a piece of plain white bread into her mouth, glanced over.

"I do. But the cord was chewed through by a rogue rat last week. Haven't had time to buy a new one."

I held the shirt up, despair clawing at my throat.

"Then what am I supposed to wear? I can't go to school looking like I slept in a laundry hamper."

Saskia set her bread down, snapping her fingers.

"Relax. Time for a boarding house life-hack."

She sprinted to her room and returned with a hairdryer and a spray bottle filled with water.

"Hang the shirt. Spray the wrinkles lightly. Then blast it with the hot air while pulling the fabric taut. It’s not a steam press, but it’ll hide the shame."

I looked at her skeptically, but I had no other choice.

For ten minutes, we performed a frantic rescue operation on the cotton. The result wasn't perfect, but at least I didn't look like I had just crawled out of the wreckage.

Problem number two: The skirt. I had forgotten to pack my black pencil skirt. All I had were jeans.

"Take mine," Saskia offered, tossing a black pencil skirt from her closet.

"It’ll be a bit tight on the hips, but it’ll fit."

I pulled it on. It was more than 'a bit' tight. I had to hold my breath and pray to every deity of zippers as I eased the metal teeth upward.

"Perfect!" Saskia chirped, giving me a thumbs-up.

"Now let's move. The Battle Hopper is waiting."

• • •

The narrow front porch smelled of damp concrete and the neighbor’s frying garlic.

Saskia rolled out her old automatic scooter. The body was a mosaic of indie stickers, the left mirror hung limp like a broken wing, and the seat was decorated with the artistic scratch marks of a neighborhood cat.

"Here’s your helmet."

She handed me a black half-face helmet. The foam was thin and compressed.

I took it, my nose wrinkling instinctively. It smelled of stale sunlight, road dust, and fermented sweat. It was the scent of the working class, and it was currently being pressed against my scalp.

"Put it on, La. Unless you want to pay a bribe to the traffic cops," Saskia urged, already straddling the bike.

I took a deep breath—or rather, I held it—and shoved the helmet on. My freshly dried hair was instantly flattened against my skull.

BZZZT... VROOM!

The starter was a harsh, metallic grind, followed by a vibration that traveled from the soles of my feet to the base of my skull.

"Climb on, My Lady! Hold on tight!"

I sat on the pillion, wrapping my arms around Saskia’s waist. My heart hammered. The last time I had been on a motorcycle was during university, and even then, it was a rare adventure.

The bike lurched out of the narrow alleyway, immediately swallowed by the predatory flow of Jakarta’s morning traffic.

Lenteng Agung was a sea of iron and exhaust.

The morning wind hit my face without mercy. It wasn't the filtered, chilled air of a car; it was a wind that carried road grit and the thick, black soot of a passing bus.

My eyes stung.

A sleek black sedan glided past us on the right. Its windows were tinted dark, a silent capsule of jazz and climate-controlled peace. The driver was likely sipping a latte, insulated from the hellscape outside.

Yesterday, I was inside that capsule. Looking out with a vague, distant pity for the bikers sweltering in the sun.

Today, I was the one breathing the diesel residue. I was the one feeling the sun begin to bake the back of my neck.

The irony tasted like copper on my tongue.

"Hot, isn't it, La?!" Saskia shouted over the roar of the engines.

"A little!" I yelled back.

"Welcome to the real world! Enjoy the solar-flavored wind!"

I let out a dry, jagged laugh. I pulled my jacket tighter, a futile shield against the city’s grime.

We hit a red light at the The Pertanian intersection.

The bike stopped, wedged between two other scooters. The heat from the exhaust pipe next to me blasted against my calf without an invitation.

Sweat began to trickle down my spine, making my work shirt feel like a wet, disgusting second skin.

A man on the bike next to us turned his head. He scanned me from the helmet down to my feet. His gaze lingered on my shoes.

My Salvatore Ferragamo pumps.

I had forgotten to change them. The shoes, worth two months of a teacher’s salary, looked absurd and pathetic resting on the scratched footrests of a beat-up scooter.

I felt exposed. Like an alien who had crash-landed on the wrong planet.

Saskia noticed my tension and patted my knee.

"Ignore them. Just pretend we’re in an urban survival fashion show."

The light turned green. Saskia gunned the engine, and we dove back into the chaos.

• • •

7:10 AM. The school parking lot.

Saskia parked the bike in the furthest corner, away from the main entrance.

I hopped off, my legs trembling slightly. It felt like I had just stepped off a marathon roller coaster without a harness.

I pulled the helmet off.

"Good grief..." I muttered, running a hand through my hair. It was flat, oily, and a complete disaster. My bangs, usually perfectly arched, were stuck to my forehead like wet stickers.

"Good morning, Ms. Saskia, Ms. Elara."

The voice made me snap my head around.

Ms. Darmi, a senior teacher known for her razor-sharp tongue, was stepping out of her shiny LCGC. Her eyes widened, scanning my appearance from the dusty helmet to the designer shoes.

"Since when does Ms. Elara ride a motorcycle? Where is your car?" she asked, her voice dripping with a sweetness that felt like a concealed blade.

My face burned. My pride took a direct hit.

I lifted my chin, forcing the most confident smile I could muster, even as my knees felt like water.

"I felt like a change of pace, Ma'am. It’s much faster in traffic, and it feels more... grounded," I replied diplomatically.

Ms. Darmi just nodded, a small, mocking smirk playing on her lips before she turned and marched into the building.

"Arrogant old bat," Saskia grumbled, locking the handlebars.

"Come on, La. To the restroom. Emergency touch-up."

• • •

Inside the teacher’s restroom, the air smelled of lemon bleach and old pipes.

I leaned against the stall door, closing my eyes for a second. My hands were shaking as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

The screen lit up.

Empty.

No messages from my mother. No missed calls from my father. It was as if my departure last night hadn't registered at all. The pain of being ignored was somehow sharper than the pain of being screamed at.

But then, a notification popped up. A profile picture of a black-and-white coffee cup.

My fingers trembled as I opened it.

Dio:

Hope your first day as a free woman is a good one. Don't forget to eat breakfast, Teacher. You’ve got this.

Short. Concise.

I read the words over and over.

The ache in my back, the stickiness of my skin, and the hollow sting in my heart seemed to lighten. A warmth spread through my chest, patching up the small fractures in my resolve.

"Thank you, Dio," I whispered.

I tucked the phone away, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the stall.

• • •

Classroom 1A. 7:30 AM.

"Good morning, everyone!" I announced, my voice projecting an energy I didn't truly have. My stomach was starting to growl, empty of everything but water.

"Morning, Ms. Elaaa!"

I stood at the front, organizing my markers. My eyes instinctively scanned the room, looking for one specific small face that usually greeted me with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Middle row. Third desk.

Empty.

Lyra wasn't there.

My brow furrowed. It was rare for Dio to be late. And if she were sick, he usually messaged early—especially after sending that encouraging text.

Anxiety began to gnaw at my thoughts. Had something happened on the road? Was she ill?

The absence of that little girl made my fragile confidence feel even thinner. Without realizing it, I had made Lyra and her father the anchors of my emotional world.

Knock, knock, knock.

A soft tap came from the classroom door.

My heart leaped. It had to be Lyra, running late!

I turned quickly, a smile ready.

"Come in, Lyra—"

The smile died instantly.

It wasn't Lyra. It wasn't Dio.

The school security guard stood in the doorway. His face was pale, his cap twisted nervously in his hands.

"Forgive the interruption, Ms. Elara..." he said, his voice hesitant.

"What is it, Sir?"

"There is a phone call for you in the office. They say it is very urgent."

The guard swallowed hard, his eyes filled with a pity that made my blood run cold. He looked like a man delivering a death notice.

"The man on the phone... he says he is your family’s lawyer. His tone was... not pleasant, Ma'am. He said it’s about the seizure of assets."

The blood drained from my face.

The classroom began to tilt. The marker in my hand slipped, clattering onto the floor.

Lawyers? Asset seizure?

They weren't giving me time to breathe. The dawn raid had begun, and they were aiming straight for the heart of my survival.