That morning, Thomas's world changed color.
Usually, he was woken by the scratching sound of his Mother's scrubbing brush against the concrete basin on the front terrace, but today was different. His eyes opened right as the roar of Dad's motorcycle faded into the distance, leaving behind the smell of exhaust fumes that snuck in through the ventilation gaps. Thomas immediately sat bolt upright on his thin mattress. His heart was pounding hard—a flutter that wasn't usually present without fear.
Beside him, on the same mattress, Eben was still snoring softly. His brother was curled up hugging a bolster pillow whose stuffing had clumped together, covering half his face with a grimy blanket.
Today I am no longer a little boy who can only hide in the corner of the room, Thomas thought. He stared at the red-and-white uniform hanging behind the door of his plywood room. The uniform looked gallant, like a suit of armor ready to protect him from people's dismissive stares.
Thomas bathed in a flash. The cold water from the permanent tub at the back of the house felt stinging, yet refreshing. With slightly trembling hands, he put on his white shirt. He buttoned it one by one solemnly, straightened the stiff collar, and admired himself in the cracked mirror attached to the plastic wardrobe.
The reflection in the mirror looked foreign. His hair was slicked back with water. For the first time, he felt he had a reason to hold his head high.
He stepped out of the room, passing the dimly lit living room, heading toward the kitchen. He lightened his steps, an old instinct to avoid triggering the squeak in the floor that could disturb the house's quiet. In the kitchen, he saw his Mother's back as she bent over the stove.
"Mom..." he called softly. His voice cracked, thin with nervousness. Thomas cleared his throat, trying again with a bolder volume. "Mom, look."
The woman stopped stirring the tea. She turned slowly, her hands still damp from soapy water wiping her shabby house dress. Her eyes swept over Thomas's appearance from the tips of his black shoes to his neatly arranged hair. Thomas held his breath. He imagined a smile, or perhaps a stroke on the head, or the sentence: Mom's boy is so handsome.
"Yes," Mom said flatly. Her gaze returned to the pot. "Good. Neat."
That was all. Two cold words that seemed to evaporate just like the steam from the tea. Mom shoved a plate of plain fried rice without an egg toward him. "Eat quickly. Don't be late on your first day."
Thomas sat on the wooden bench, his shoulders slumping. The rice felt dry in his throat. He tried to console himself; maybe Mom was chasing the laundry quota for Mrs. Haji that was piling up on the front terrace.
The eight-hundred-meter journey to school felt like stepping into a new world. Thomas's hand gripped his Mother's rough and cold fingers tightly. However, Mom's grip felt loose, merely ensuring Thomas wasn't left behind on the sidewalk.
The school gate was already packed with people. The air was noisy with laughter and emotional tears. Thomas stood transfixed, watching the scene around him. Near the security post, a mother knelt, gently tidying her daughter's bangs, then kissed both of the child's cheeks. "Mama's smart girl, you can do this," the woman whispered warmly.
Thomas looked up, staring at his Mother's face, which was busy checking the old watch on her wrist. He hoped his Mother would do the same—a brief hug as provision before he entered that gate.
Instead, Mom let go of his hand.
"Thomas," Mom called. "In class later, pay attention to the teacher. Don't daydream."
"Okay, Mom," Thomas answered, his voice barely audible over the noise of passing motorcycles.
"Later, wait for Eben to get out at one o'clock. Come home with him," Mom continued, her eyes already looking toward the road home. "Mom can't pick you up. Mrs. Haji's laundry must be finished this afternoon."
No hug. No kiss on the forehead. No "Good luck." Mom turned around and walked away, her tired back quickly swallowed by the crowd.
Thomas stood frozen at the gate. The courage he had gathered this morning in front of the cracked mirror suddenly leaked away. He looked down at his shoes. They were shiny black because he had scrubbed them with all his might, but he realized one thing: they were second-hand shoes with soles that were starting to wear thin.
A sense of inferiority attacked him like piercing cold air. He saw other children being dropped off in shiny cars or motorcycles, while he carried only the smell of cheap detergent from his Mother's laundry line. In his eyes, the other children looked "bright," while he felt "gray."
His eagerness to be "seen" turned into a fear of being "judged." Thomas suddenly realized that at this school, he had no protection. If at home he could hide behind plywood walls, here he felt exposed. He was afraid that if he sat in the front, people would notice him.
Thomas walked into the classroom with his shoulders slumped again. The survival instinct he learned from his Dad and Mom took over: don't stand out so you don't get scolded, don't make noise so you aren't considered a burden.
He chose the very back bench, in the corner closest to the wall. There, he felt safe from the reach of others' eyes. He watched other children laughing and showing off their pencil cases, while Thomas hid his rough hands under the desk, clutching his bag tightly. to him, becoming invisible was the only way so that no one would realize how small and fragile he was in the midst of this huge world.
Time crawled slowly until the bell for the first graders rang. Thomas walked to a concrete bench under a shady tree by the field to wait for Eben. He took out a packet of cold fritters he had bought at the canteen.
Just one bite in, a dark shadow covered his body. Three upperclassmen stood before him with sneers that made Thomas's stomach churn.
"Hey, move. This is our spot," shouted the biggest boy.
Thomas's lips trembled, but no sound came out. The habit of "staying silent so as not to cause trouble" at home paralyzed him. Before he could react, the boy's hand shoved his arm hard.
Plop. The fritter fell to the sandy ground, rolling near the upperclassman's dirty shoe.
"Oops. Didn't mean to," mocked the boy, followed by the laughter of his friends. Thomas looked down deeply, trying to hide his eyes which were starting to burn.
Suddenly, one of them tilted his head, observing Thomas's face closely. "Eh, wait... I think I know this face," he said while nudging his friend. "His face looks like that weird Eben who likes to pick up bottles, right?"
Thomas's heart felt like it stopped. Hot blood rushed to his face.
"Whoa, you're right!" shouted another, covering his nose in an exaggerated manner. "No wonder the smell is similar. Smells like trash!"
"Watch out, don't get too close, you'll catch the weirdness!"
They laughed uproariously and ran off. Thomas remained frozen. The fritter on the ground was already swarming with ants, but his hunger had evaporated, replaced by intense nausea. The confidence he had built this morning with his new uniform was now shattered into pieces.
Exactly at one o'clock, the bell rang again. From the crowd of fourth-grade students, a skinny figure ran toward him.
"Thomas! Thomas!" Eben waved his hands cheerfully.
In the past, that call was music to Thomas's ears. But today, Eben's voice sent a sting of extraordinary shame. He saw several other children turn their heads, whisper, and then chuckle while pointing at Eben.
Thomas felt deeply ashamed. Eben's presence destroyed the image he wanted to build. If he stood beside Eben, he felt very low; he was just "the weird scavenger's brother."
"Let's go home," cut Thomas sharply before Eben could get close. He walked fast, dragging his brother away from the crowd.
"How was school? Fun?" asked Eben enthusiastically, trying to match his pace. His large eyes looked at Thomas sincerely.
Thomas turned his face away. The smell of street dust from Eben's clothes seemed to confirm the upperclassmen's mockery earlier. "It was just okay," Thomas answered shortly.
Halfway home, Thomas stopped abruptly. The feeling of inferiority choked him so tightly that he felt every pair of eyes on the street was laughing at them.
"Brother," said Thomas without looking back. "Tomorrow... I'll just go home by myself."
Eben's steps halted. His smile faded slightly. "Why? Eben can take care of Thomas."
Thomas squeezed his bag strap. "Waiting for you takes a long time. I get bored having to sit still for hours waiting for you to get out. I already memorized the way. I'm brave enough to go home alone."
Eben fell silent. His eyes blinked slowly, processing Thomas's sentence. His face looked disappointed, but then he nodded slowly. "Oh... Thomas gets bored, huh? That makes sense. Thomas is smart, surely you're brave. Okay, tomorrow Thomas goes home alone."
That innocent answer made Thomas's chest feel tight with guilt, but his shame was far greater.
***
Exactly at five in the afternoon, the atmosphere of the house turned gripping. The sound of a motorcycle kickstand being slammed on the terrace signaled Dad's return. The aroma of hot metal and machine oil immediately dominated the living room, penetrating the plywood partitions.
Thomas sat at the dining table, pretending to study his textbook. In the corner of the terrace, near the sink, Eben was sorting the bottles he had found.
Dad took off his boots with a heavy thud that made the floor vibrate. His large shadow fell over Thomas's book.
"How was the first day?" asked Dad. His voice was low, an interrogation.
Thomas straightened his back, an automatic posture of alertness. "Good, Dad. Thomas paid attention to all the lessons."
"Good," muttered Dad. "Remember, your uniform and books were bought with Dad's overtime money. Don't waste a single second of your time."
Dad walked to get a drink of water, then his eyes fell on Eben's figure outside the door, preparing to sell the results of his scavenging. Dad snorted roughly. His index finger, black with oil, pointed straight at Eben.
"Listen, Thomas," said Dad firmly. "From now on, you have only one job. Study. Chase achievements."
Dad brought his face closer, his eyes staring into Thomas's small eyes. "Don't end up like Eben. His grades are all red. Dad doesn't want to have two failed children in this house."
Eben heard his name mentioned. He looked up from his pile of bottles. Instead of being angry, he nodded slightly, giving a sincere smile that was painful to watch.
"Yeah, Thomas..." Eben chimed in. "Dad is right. Thomas has to be smart. Don't be like Eben. Eben can only find bottles. Thomas has to be a boss."
Eben chuckled, an honest laugh to encourage his brother, completely unaware that he had just been made a monument of failure by his own father.
Thomas felt nauseous. He glanced toward the kitchen; his Mother was still silent with her back to them, pretending to be busy wiping dry plates. The woman seemed deaf to the words that had just killed her children's spirits.
"Okay, Dad. Thomas will study," Thomas said softly.
He said it not because he loved his books. But because he was afraid that if he wasn't useful or if he caused embarrassment, he would be considered a broken item unworthy of being in that house, exactly like how Dad looked at Eben.
That night, behind the cold plywood partition, Thomas hugged his bolster tightly. Beside him, Eben snored peacefully. His brother was the only person who sincerely hugged him, yet at the same time, Eben was the reason Thomas felt the world hated him so much.
I am alone, Thomas whispered inwardly in the dark. Truly alone.