Tuesday, August 12th. The ceiling fan in Classroom XII Social Studies 2 whirred reluctantly, its grimy blades churning the hot air more than cooling it. Outside the window, the concrete field glared under the scorching sun, echoing with shouts from other classes having PE. Mrs. Dian, Laras's favorite history teacher, was explaining Prince Diponegoro's guerilla tactics, but her calm voice struggled against the outside noise. Laras tried to focus, taking notes, but her mind kept drifting back to the announcement pinned on the bulletin board that morning.
The recess bell shattered her thoughts. The stuffy classroom instantly erupted into chaos as everyone spilled into the corridor. In the crowded canteen, Laras found Rina already at a corner table, slurping a bowl of siomay.
"Told you Rian would win," Rina said between bites, her face bright. "His campaign team was quick off the mark. Yesterday they sent me 20k phone credit. Sweet deal, right? An unexpected windfall."
Laras stirred her iced tea, the clinking ice the only sound for a moment. She set down her spoon, looking Rina straight in the eye. "Rin," she asked quietly but pointedly, "but isn't that basically like... bribing?"
Rina laughed, a crisp sound that treated Laras's question like the day's funniest joke. "Ah, Laras, you're so serious! It's just twenty thousand credit, not billions like those politicians on TV. Think of it as promo costs! Totally normal."
Rina turned back to her siomay, ending the conversation. Laras fell silent, feeling like she'd just spoken a foreign language. Her attempt at discussion had crashed against a solid wall of pragmatism. She'd lost. Not the argument, but the battle to find a kindred spirit.
Seeking quiet, she left the canteen and walked down the corridor towards the library. Her steps halted near the staff room. Inside, she saw Mrs. Dian, looking slightly frustrated, wrestling with an ancient projector. Its yellowed casing and tangled cords resembled kite string. A technological corpse.
Laras hesitated, then stepped forward. "Excuse me, Ma'am. Need a hand?" she offered.
Mrs. Dian turned, surprised, then offered a weary smile. A smile Laras knew well – one that never quite reached her eyes. "Oh, Laras. It's this cable, being difficult."
Laras crouched down, took a power cord, and tried jamming it tighter into the socket. For a hopeful moment, the projector's orange light blinked, and the screen flickered to life – displaying a faded brand logo – before dying completely with a final, decisive thunk.
Laras froze, still crouched. Her heart sank. To her, it all became a painful symbol. Mrs. Dian's brilliant dedication and knowledge shared in class seemed worthless, mocked by a decrepit projector that just gave up. All that devotion felt auctioned off so cheaply.
"It's alright, dear. Thank you anyway," Mrs. Dian's voice pulled Laras back. She patted Laras's shoulder gently, gazing at the projector with a strange look. "It was just time for this one to retire... the projector."
In that tired smile, Laras understood. It wasn't just the projector forced to work until obsolete. An educator's dignity was also on the line daily, by a system that gave them just enough to "get by."
Just as she was about to move on, a shrill announcement from the school PA system cut through the air, calling all students to gather on the assembly field. An impromptu meeting.
Under the now skin-burning sun, Mr. Hartono, the Principal, stood at the podium. "Students!" his voice boomed. "To celebrate the 80th Independence Day and uphold our school's reputation and accreditation, the school mandates each class to participate in 17 different competitions at the sub-district level!"
After listing competitions that mostly sounded absurd, he reached the climax. "Therefore, there will be a participation fee of fifty thousand rupiah per student for contingent uniforms, competition props, and refreshments. This is the embodiment of our fighting spirit and patriotism!"
Laras couldn't hold back. "Fifty thousand... that wouldn't even cover my unpaid worksheets," she muttered to herself.
"Sshh! Are you crazy? They'll hear!" the friend beside her jabbed her ribs hard, eyes darting nervously towards the teacher line. Laras instantly clammed up, feeling the sting in her ribs and her heart. Her smallest protest had been extinguished by someone else's fear.
When the final bell finally rang, Laras felt utterly drained. She shuffled towards the gate, weaving through laughing, chatting students. Suddenly, a scene near the security post stopped her dead. A group of tenth-graders were huddled together, and one of them – a skinny boy – stood on a mound of dirt, waving a piece of black cloth with overflowing enthusiasm. On it, a white skull wearing a straw hat grinned defiantly. A Jolly Roger flag.
"This is the flag of true freedom!" yelled one of them. "Way more spirit than that assembly, I swear!"
Laras stood transfixed. Today, she'd tried to challenge her friend's logic and failed. She'd tried to help her teacher and failed. She'd tried to voice her protest and failed. All her efforts under the shadow of the Red and White felt futile, crushed by walls of pragmatism, decay, and fear.
And now, before her, a pirate symbol from Japanese comics was being waved with pure joy and genuine rebellious spirit. As if the soul of freedom she'd been searching for within the school had instead found its form outside the gates, under a flag of pure rebellion.