So, here we go.
I'll start with memories that come to my mind most vividly, which may be in random sequence.
I wasn't the most popular kid in the school, though I was pretty bright academically.
When I was in the third grade, I fought with a boy. He hit me on my center. Not too hard, but still. My cousin - who was pretty famous - knew about this, and she told my room teacher. Unfortunately, he wasn't really happy about it. No, not the fact that a boy hit a girl, but why I was being such a cry baby. I still remember how he called us, the boy and I, to the front, and reluctantly asked the boy to apologize to me. He whispered to me, "Kamu manja amat sih."
I thought I misheard him. But he did mention the word, manja. THE HELL. I mean, come on! Your student - hello, a little girl, by the way - was being hit by another student - a boy, who must be stronger, and your reaction was like that? Lame!
Which brought me to another story when I once again heard the "manja" word was spoken to me.
When I was a fifth grader, together with my family, we went to pick my older sister in Jogja and brought her to Jakarta, to pursue her education in uni. We spent like 5 days in Jogja, and I got to know four men, who were my sister's best friends. Well, I believe one of them was her bf. So, there was a night when we had dinner at the notorious Malioboro. Oh well, back then the price was still reasonable. Now, as we were in Jogja, it seemed that trying gudeg is a must. I tried the kuah, and it was enough for me, I was never really fond of coconut milk used in a dish. As a kid, I preferred fried chicken more. While I was enjoying my own meal, one of those men told me to eat the ayam gudeg. I shooked my head quietly. And God knows why, he scoffed and grumbled, "Gitu aja mesti diambilin, manja amat sih," while scooping the chicken from its pot and put it on my plate. I was this close to cry. I mean, I DIDN'T ASK FOR IT, FOR GOD'S SAKE. But I didn't say any word and I kept eating silently while trying to swallow my tears.
I don't remember having a lot of friends back then. My gang was exclusively consist of two girlfriends, who also had their own gang. So it is safe for me to conclude that I never really had a close circle of my own.
Maybe it was still the fifth grade, when I overheard some of my classmates were planning to eat at a delicious noodle place near my house. I never, never had a chance to eat on the eatery. My mom wouldn't let me. So, when those beautiful people saw that I was listening to their plan, they were kind enough to offer me to come with them. I didn't know what was in my head that made me nod. They were paying.
At the promised day, I rode my bike to the place. They were already there, then we ordered. I ordered a plate of dry noodle (jam mian, in my native language). I sat separately from them. Don't know why. Maybe I was ashamed, maybe I felt that they didn't really mean to invite me, they were forced to, they were just being nice, and I being me, took the opportunity without thinking twice. I knew they were talking about me. They must be talking of how weird I was, sitting alone, ravenously chewing my noodle. Oh, and I couldn't use chopsticks that moment, so I used fork, and I was so blind about eating noodle, that I bit them with my lips, so I wouldn't choked by them.
I didn't remember whether I said thank you or goodbye before leaving.
All I can remember is just the super awkward situation that day at the noodle stall.
~to be continued
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