The days leading to the peak celebration blurred for Laras. Every "Independence Discount" banner, every patriotic song blaring from the neighborhood PA system, felt like discordant noise. All the small auctions she'd witnessed—voices, professions, rights, history, loyalty—had piled into a suffocating lump in her chest.
That morning, August 17th, Balikpapan's air felt unnaturally hot. The school field was packed with rows of students in crisp white uniforms. Mr. Hartono, the principal, stood solemnly on the podium as if presiding over a sacred ritual. For him, this ceremony was the main stage, where the school's reputation was on the line.
Everything proceeded according to script until the climactic moment. The flag-raising team marched crisply, three top students radiating concentration. The strains of "Indonesia Raya" began, and the entire field turned its gaze to the flagpole.
The Red and White started its ascent. Slowly, majestically, stirring a faint residue of reverence in Laras's heart. But just as the flag reached a third of the way up, a sharp, startling crack! echoed. The halyard snapped.
The national anthem played on, but the flag stopped. It slumped limply, helpless, half-raised and half-fallen—a symbol of shameful defeat in the midst of a victory ceremony. An awkward, heavy silence fell, thick with embarrassment.
The ceremony leader, a usually confident twelfth-grader, stood rigid, his face tense. With a slightly trembling voice, he delivered the closing report. "Report! The flag-raising ceremony commemorating the Anniversary of the Republic of Indonesia's Independence has concluded. Report ends!"
The whole field waited for the podium's response. Mr. Hartono leaned into the microphone, and only one command, cold and piercing, emerged: "Dismissed!"
The leader then gave the final command to the ranks. "Fall out!" Students, frozen in awkward silence moments before, began shuffling nervously, whispering to each other.
As he descended the podium, his face crimson, Mr. Hartono's eyes immediately locked onto the three pale, rigid members of the flag-raising team; one was already starting to sob. He approached Bu Ratih, their supervising teacher. "Take them to the counseling room! I don't want to see their faces today!" he ordered, voice strained with suppressed fury, before striding away.
Among the teachers, Laras could see worried faces. Mrs. Dian shot her an anxious look. Mr. Hartono then summoned Pak Anwar, the student affairs teacher, jerking his chin towards the twelfth-grade lines. Pak Anwar nodded obediently and began cutting through the crowd of students.
Laras's heart began to pound as she realized Pak Anwar was heading straight for her row. Speculative whispers rippled around her. "Who's getting it now?" "Probably that tenth-grader caught smoking yesterday."
But Pak Anwar stopped directly in front of Laras's row. A brief, anticipatory silence hung over them before he called out in his characteristically flat tone.
"Larasati Putri."
Instantly, all whispering ceased. The entire field, merely curious moments before, turned towards her in unison. Hundreds of eyes became inescapable interrogation spotlights. The classmate beside her unconsciously took half a step back, as if afraid of being struck by lightning. Even Rina, in another row, stared with her mouth slightly agape, a mix of shock and worry on her face.
Pak Anwar continued, oblivious to the silent drama unfolding. "You are summoned to the principal's office. Now."
As she walked, her mind raced. It has to be about the speech contest, she thought bitterly.
Inside the cold, air-conditioned room, Mr. Hartono sat in his imposing chair. After a pause that felt eternal, he took a long breath, the anger in his eyes slowly receding, replaced by a colder, calculating glint.
"Sit, Laras," he said, his voice suddenly calm. Behind him, a faded Pancasila Moral Education poster bore silent witness. "Pak Anwar informs me you declined to participate in the 'Nationalism in the Digital Era' speech contest," he continued. "May I ask why? What's your reason? I see you have potential."
The question, delivered with feigned concern, gave Laras a sliver of hope. She tried to explain. "It's not about declining, Sir. I read the proposal and the speech theme. It felt... dishonest. I can't give a speech about superficial pride while I see so many things needing fixing around us. Even within this school..."
Mr. Hartono listened intently, nodding occasionally. Then, he offered a thin smile. "Ah, so it's about idealism," he said. "I appreciate your honesty. But the world doesn't work that way, Laras."
He leaned forward. "That contest isn't just about trophies. The provincial champion gets a special recommendation for your top-choice state university—admission without an entrance exam. I know you're aiming for that program. Think of this as a small 'investment' in your future. Your parents would be proud."
Laras fell silent. She pictured her mother's proud smile, the slight easing of the family's financial burden. But then, images flashed in her mind: Bu Dian's weary face, the slumped flag, Pak Said's cynical laugh. If she accepted this, she became one of them. She became a bidder in the auction of her own integrity.
Laras took a deep breath. "I understand, Sir. But—"
"But what?" Mr. Hartono cut in swiftly, his tone turning icy again. "There is no 'but'. Think carefully. Opportunities like this don't come twice." He stood up. "I don't need your answer now. You may go."
Laras wasn't given another chance to speak. She nodded stiffly, turned, and walked out of the room feeling hollow. There was no victory here. Only burning frustration and unspoken words, festering like poison in her chest.