The side gate of AB College stood like a silent giant. From the sidewalk, the middle school looked less like an ordinary school. The building consisted of only two floors, yet its over-scaled architecture gave it the height of a much taller edifice.
The buildings were imposing and solid, the middle school stood silent against the backdrop of passing vehicles on the main road.
Nazma took a deep breath, straightened her habitually slumped shoulders, and stepped inside without a backward glance at the dusty thoroughfare.
Here, standing before this gate, she felt like she finally had a chance to rewrite her story.
The main road was thick with the acrid smell of exhaust fumes.
But the moment she crossed the gate's threshold, the air changed. There was the fresh scent of manicured grass and the lingering sweetness of rain.
In the distance, groups of students in stiff uniforms laughed in front of their classrooms.
"It's incredible, Rah," Nazma whispered, her eyes wide as she took in every inch of the polished corridors.
An unfamiliar surge of confidence swelled in her chest. She found herself smiling, already imagining herself in that uniform, earning the respect of everyone around her.
She was certain she would be the next star, just like Helena. Helena was the gold standard—the girl whose success seemed effortless and whose future was always secure.
They made their way to the administration office. The white floors held such a high shine that Nazma's reflection appeared beneath her feet.
A low hum from the air conditioning filled the room. The room smelled of ozone, expensive perfume, and fresh ink.
"Welcome. How can I help you?" an administrator asked. A screen was positioned in front of her.
Nazma squared her shoulders, fighting back a sudden prickle of insecurity. "I'm here for a registration brochure, please," she said, her voice as steady as she could make it.
"Of course." The woman handed over a forest-green brochure. The paper was heavy and smooth, unlike any flyer Nazma had ever touched. "Everything you need to know about the requirements and fees is inside. We're always looking for bright minds."
Nazma accepted the paper with extreme caution, as if it were a sacred relic. To the staff, it was just another pamphlet. To Nazma, it was a golden ticket.
The euphoria began to bleed away the moment they turned back into the opening of the alley. The transition was jarring. The wide-open elegance of the middle school vanished, replaced by the suffocating grip of damp walls, and the narrow road.
Nazma instinctively tucked the brochure under her shirt, pressing it against her ribs.
She shielded it with her own body, to keep it safe from the dust.
To her left and right, the neighbors' houses. Most were guarded by high iron gates and painted in trendy colors. Nazma felt like she was walking through a canyon of concrete that was slowly closing in on her.
As they passed a crowded stall, Nazma's pace faltered. Naura was there—a girl whose house boasted a shiny black gate and a garage large enough for two cars.
"I heard someone's trying to get into that fancy school on the main road," Naura said loudly, her cynical gaze sweeping over Nazma's worn shoes. "Don't get your hopes up, Naz."
Rahma grabbed Nazma's hand, pulling her away. "Ignore her, Naz. She's not worth it," she hissed.
Finally, she reached her house. It was a skeleton of red brick that had never seen a coat of plaster. There was no fence, no paint, just the raw, coarse texture of exposed masonry.
The house looked small and "naked" among the finished homes of her neighbors.
"I'm heading home, Naz," Rahma said, gesturing to the path behind the house.
"Don't let her get to you."
Nazma just nodded. She stepped inside the silent house. In the distance, she heard the smooth purr of a car engine.
That night, the quiet was heavy. She opened the brochure under the flickering neon light. Her eyes locked onto one line: Building Fund: Rp150,000.
She slowly opened her desk drawer and pulled out a plastic piggy bank. With trembling fingers, she emptied it. No crisp bills fell out. Only a sad pile of crumpled, worn-out notes.
This was the result of months of extreme discipline—money she had clawed back from her meager lunch allowance.
To anyone else, this was pocket change—the price of a single lunch. But for Nazma, this was her lifeline for an entire month.
The door creaked open. Mak Endah walked in, looking tired and annoyed, a glass of water in her hand. When she saw the pile of small change on the desk, her face hardened.
"Saving again?" Mak Endah's voice was sharp with worry. "Naz, how many times do I have to tell you? That money is for eating! I won't have you going hungry just to stash a few coins away."
Nazma scrambled to hide the money. "I'm not hungry, Mak. It's just for a rainy day."
Mak Endah let out a long, weary sigh, looking at her stubborn daughter. "I just don't want them looking down on you. Now, put that away and go to sleep."
Once she was alone, Nazma looked back at her savings. She smoothed out the wrinkled bills. She was willing to sacrifice her daily snacks if it meant keeping her place at the school.
She didn't care if her stomach growled while her classmates filled the canteen.
She looked through the crack in the door and watched her father stare blankly. The roar of a neighbor's car echoed through the alley again.
Nazma felt impossibly small. She was carrying the weight of the fee, the hunger, and the impossible ghost of Helena all on her own.
She pressed the green brochure against her chest and closed her eyes.
"I wish I had an older brother."