Two years is enough time to turn a habit into an addiction.
Thomas was now in the final semester of fifth grade. On paper, he remained the same Thomas: a student with average grades, not particularly smart, not handsome, and certainly not a sports star. Without Dimas, Thomas was merely an extra, barely visible in the noisy chaos of his class.
However, he realized that people loved to laugh. And if he could be the director orchestrating that laughter with Dimas as the victim, he was no longer an extra. He became the main character, even if only for the five minutes of recess. Mischief was his stage, and Dimas was his mandatory prop.
That afternoon, the sun seared the skin, but the screams of hundreds of students on the sidelines were far hotter. The Classmeet—the post-exam inter-class competition—had reached its peak. Futsal Final: Class 5-A versus Class 5-B.
Thomas stood in defense, his breath ragged, sweat dripping into his stinging eyes. Beside him was Arya, his loyal deputy in every mission of mischief. Meanwhile, far behind, standing under the crossbar with trembling knees and oversized gloves, was Dimas, who actually didn't want to play, but a shortage of players forced him onto the team.
Thomas wasn't the team captain, but he was the loudest. At home, he was always dictated to, so here he tried to mimic his father's authoritarian style to cover his insecurities.
The score was tied 2-2. One minute remained.
"Oy, focus!" Thomas shouted at his friends, gasping for air. "Don't lose! It's embarrassing!"
A sudden counter-attack occurred. The opposing striker, an agile kid from Class 5-B, managed to trick Arya. Thomas sprinted to chase him, his heart pounding not from the exertion, but from the fear of defeat. For Thomas, losing meant being useless.
The striker broke free. It was just him against Dimas.
"Forward, Dimas! Close the space! Use your brain!" screamed Thomas in desperation.
Dimas was confused. He stepped forward, then back again. In that hesitation, the ball slid rapidly into the left corner. Dimas was late to dive. He fell face-first, hugging nothing but wind.
The goal net shuddered.
PRIIITTT! The long whistle blew.
"GOALLL!!!!" The cheers of the opposing supporters exploded, drowning the field.
Thomas's world crumbled. He stood frozen, staring at the scoreboard that had betrayed him. His jaw hardened. Shame spread hot across his neck. He hated this feeling. The same feeling of "defeat" he felt when scolding by his father at the dinner table. He needed a release. Immediately.
His eyes glared sharply at Dimas, who was still bowing on the ground, rubbing his grazed knees.
"Sorry... sorry guys..." Dimas squeaked as their team gathered with dejected faces. "I was confused earlier..."
"Sorry doesn't make us win, Dim!" Thomas snapped sharply. He didn't hit him, but his words were intentionally aimed to be heard by everyone. "Because of you daydreaming, all our running around was for nothing."
The opposing team cheered with joy, celebrating their victory right in front of their faces. Thomas felt small. He couldn't let people see him as a loser. He had to divert attention. He had to make the audience laugh with him, not at him.
As the team walked off the field, Thomas positioned himself right behind Dimas. He noticed the loose elastic of Dimas's sports shorts. An evil idea flashed—a survival instinct he had honed over two years.
One move, thought Thomas. And I'll be a winner again.
"Ouch!" Thomas cried out feignedly.
He deliberately stomped his own foot into the ground, his body lurching forward. His right hand quickly and firmly gripped the waistband of Dimas's shorts.
SRETT!
Thomas fell to his knees, and with him, Dimas's dark blue sports shorts slid down to his ankles.
Silence for half a second.
Then, the field exploded.
Not because of a goal, but because of the yellow underwear with a duck pattern that was now clearly exposed under the blazing sun.
"BWAHAHAHAHAH!"
The laughter of hundreds of students echoed. Fingers pointed. Dimas's face turned bright red, as red as a ripe tomato. The boy froze, shocked, before hurriedly pulling up his pants with trembling hands, his eyes welling up with tears.
"Oops! Sorrrry!" Thomas exclaimed as he stood up, brushing off his knees as if he were the victim of an accident. He looked at Arya and winked. "Damn rock! The rock was huge, I tripped. Sorry, Dim! I swear it was an accident!"
It was Oscar-worthy acting. Everyone knew it was a lie, but everyone chose to believe it because it was funny.
"Ye-yeah... it's okay, Thom," answered Dimas with a trembling voice. He forced a bitter smile, trying to look cool to avoid being bullied worse. "Just... a little embarrassing."
His friends' laughter was still raucous. Thomas smiled with satisfaction. The stinging pain of defeat evaporated. No one was talking about the opponent's goal anymore. Everyone was talking about Dimas's duck pants. Once again, Thomas had managed to control the narrative. He was safe.
***
The atmosphere in Class 5-A was still rowdy when they returned for recess. Chelsea, the wise class president, tried to calm the situation.
"Enough, guys. Second place is great," she said while handing out mineral water. "Stop blaming each other. Let's just focus on tomorrow's competition."
Arya was still grumbling, "But still, if Dimas was more focused, it would have been a different story."
"Yeah, that's true," chimed in several other kids, still cornering Dimas.
Dimas just sat quietly at his desk, looking down at his water bottle, accepting his fate as the scapegoat.
Chelsea shook her head firmly. "Enough. No need to discuss it anymore. Let's just take it as a lesson. Besides, we're moving up to sixth grade soon. Next year we'll be the seniors of this elementary school. We'll form a more solid team for revenge next year. Okay?"
"Agreed!" shouted Arya enthusiastically. "Next year we'll slaughter them!"
Hearing the words "next year," Dimas's hand, which was about to drink, stopped. He placed the bottle back on the table slowly. His face changed. There was a moment of hesitation, but then it was replaced by a look of resignation.
Suddenly, he stood up. His chair screeched against the ceramic floor, a piercing sound that made the whole class turn their heads.
"Friends," said Dimas. His voice was hoarse, cutting through Arya's enthusiasm about next year's plans.
"What is it now, Dim? Want to show off your duck pants again for next year's strategy?" quipped Thomas from the back row, provoking laughter from some of the boys. Thomas felt on top of the world, ready to launch his next insult.
However, Dimas didn't give his usual awkward smile. He took a deep breath, as if gathering the last scraps of courage he had.
"I... I can't join the revenge next year."
Thomas's laughter stopped. His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Next semester, in sixth grade... I won't be here anymore," Dimas answered quietly but clearly. "I'm moving schools. My father is being transferred out of town. So, this Classmeet is my last with you guys."
Silence seized the room. Chelsea covered her mouth in shock. The plans for next year she had just spoken evaporated into thin air.
"Huh? Why so sudden, Dim? We only have one year left to graduate together," asked Chelsea with concern.
"Yeah, Dim. Aw... it'll be quiet," added another friend.
Although he was often the laughingstock, Dimas was part of the class ecosystem. His departure created a tangible hole. There was a genuine sense of loss from his friends.
But for Thomas, that announcement wasn't just farewell news. It was a threat.
Thomas's heart pounded hard, this time with an unpleasant rhythm. He stared at Dimas standing at the front of the class. That chubby, awkward, and submissive kid was leaving.
Thomas forced a laugh, a laugh that sounded discordant to his own ears. He tried to regain control.
"Wow, if you move, who's going to be the class clown, Dim?" Thomas shouted loudly, his eyes glancing at his friends, seeking approval. "Who's going to entertain us if you're not here?"
A few kids laughed, but their voices were awkward and not as loud as usual. The joke didn't land smoothly.
Dimas looked at Thomas. For the first time, Dimas's gaze wasn't one of fear or submission. It was a look of exhaustion. The look of someone who was done with all this drama.
"Sorry, Thom," Dimas said softly, smiling thinly. "Maybe later you'll have to find a new hobby other than pranking me."
That sentence hit Thomas harder than any futsal ball. It wasn't a counter-insult, but a fact that stripped Thomas naked in front of everyone.
Thomas fell silent. He leaned back in his chair, pretending to be relaxed by folding his arms across his chest, but his brain spun in panic.
He's leaving, thought Thomas.
If Dimas left, who would be his target? Who would be the canvas for his jokes? If there was no "stupid" and "clumsy" Dimas, then what would Thomas look like?
Thomas looked around the class. Arya was too dominant to be bullied. Chelsea was too smart and liked by the teachers. None of the other friends looked weak.
A cold fear crept up Thomas's spine. All this time he shone brightly because Dimas was the dark shadow behind him. He looked smart because Dimas looked stupid. He looked strong because Dimas looked weak.
Without Dimas, Thomas was just an ordinary kid ranked 20th. Without Dimas, Thomas had to stand on his own two feet.
And Thomas was terrified to realize that his own feet might not be strong enough to support an ego built on the validation of others.
Don't go, Thomas's inner voice screamed, a plea that was selfish and sick. I need you so I don't look pathetic.
***
The next day, the school atmosphere turned busy. If yesterday was about muscles and sweat on the field, today was about dust and broomsticks. The Class Cleanliness Competition was the closing agenda of the Classmeet before the long holiday.
In Class 5-A, Chelsea stood in front of the whiteboard like a project foreman, holding the task distribution list. Her voice rang out over the noise of her friends fighting over brooms.
"Listen up!" Chelsea shouted while banging the teacher's desk with a whiteboard eraser. Chalk dust puffed up. "Don't just work carelessly! We have to win this competition to make up for yesterday's futsal. Kevin, Budi, you guys move the desks outside. Siti, Rina, handle the glass windows until they shine!"
Chelsea's eyes then swept the room, looking for three boys relaxing in the back corner.
"Thomas! Arya! Dimas!" Chelsea pointed firmly. "You three are the tall boys, your job is to clean the upper parts. There, the frames of the hero photos and the paintings on the top wall, the dust is really thick. Use stacked tables if you need to!"
"Yes, Boss!" Arya answered carelessly.
Thomas rose from his seat. His eyes glanced at Dimas, who looked listless. Since the announcement of his move yesterday, Dimas had become quieter than usual.
For Thomas, this was the last chance. The Grand Finale. Tomorrow or the day after, Dimas would be gone. Thomas had to create one "farewell" moment that everyone would remember. An ultimate joke that would cement his position as the class king, even after the clown was gone.
"Come on, Dim. Don't be lazy just because you're moving," Thomas sneered as he walked toward a stack of tables and chairs in the corner of the classroom.
Thomas, Arya, and Dimas began stacking a "tower" to climb. Thomas quickly took command. His eyes caught an old wooden table in the corner that was rarely used. One of the table legs was cracked and wobbly, usually wedged with paper to keep it balanced.
A thin smile carved itself onto Thomas's lips. He pulled the table to the center.
"Use this one, it's taller," said Thomas.
He stacked a plastic chair on top of the wobbly table. To make it look sturdy, Thomas stood beside it, holding the broken table leg with his own body weight. That way, the table looked stable—as long as Thomas held it.
"Arya, get a wet cloth from the bucket out front," Thomas ordered. Arya obeyed and left.
Now it was just the two of them.
"Come on up, Dim," ordered Thomas.
Dimas looked at the stack hesitantly. "It's really high, Thom. Is it wobbly?"
"It's safe. I'm holding it at the bottom," Thomas answered reassuringly. Suddenly, Thomas grabbed his calf and winced. "Ouch! My leg cramped because of futsal yesterday. I can't climb. You do it, this is your final service to the class, right?"
Hearing the words "final service," Dimas's defenses crumbled. The boy nodded resignedly. He wanted to leave a good impression before going.
Carefully, Dimas began to climb. His foot stepped onto the table, then up to the plastic chair. His chubby body made the chair creak softly. Arya returned carrying the cloth and handed it to Dimas, who was now at a height of almost two meters.
"Be careful, Dim," said Arya, standing on the left side to keep watch.
Thomas stood on the right side, his hands and thigh still pressing against the broken table leg, keeping it upright. Thomas's heart pounded hard. Adrenaline flooded his brain. This was going to be hilarious. Dimas would be startled, wobble a bit, maybe slip and fall in a silly way, and everyone would laugh.
Dimas tiptoed, his hands reaching out to clean the frame of General Sudirman's photo.
"A little more, Dim... a bit to the right," directed Thomas, his eyes fixed on the table leg.
As Dimas stretched his body to the max to reach the farthest corner, his balance relied entirely on one point.
Now, thought Thomas.
Thomas took one step back. He released the pressure on the table leg.
CRACK.
The sound of snapping wood rang out loudly, followed by a sudden loss of balance.
"WAAAAA!"
Dimas didn't have time to hold on. The table tilted instantly. Dimas's body was flung from the height, flying without control, and landed hard on the ceramic floor.
BRAK!!!
The sound of the impact was so loud, far louder than Thomas had imagined. It wasn't the sound of someone slipping; it was the sound of bone meeting concrete. Dimas fell in a sitting position, his lower back hitting the floor first.
Silence for one second. Time seemed to stop. All activity in Class 5-A died instantly. Chelsea dropped the broom from her hand.
At first, like a trained reflex, some kids started to laugh awkwardly, thinking this was another stupid stunt. Thomas, too, had opened his mouth, ready to launch his loudest victory laugh.
But the laugh died in his throat.
"AAAAARGHHH!!! IT HURTS!!!! MOMMMMM!!!"
Dimas screamed. It wasn't the cry of a whining child. It was a howl of pure, terrifying pain. Dimas's face went pale instantly, his eyes wide, enduring excruciating pain in his tailbone and back. He tried to move, but his body was stiff.
"Hurrrtttsss! My baaaccckk!" he screamed again, tears flooding his face.
Panic exploded.
"Oh my God! Dimas!" Chelsea ran over. "Don't move him! Don't touch him!"
Arya backed away, his face pale as a ghost. "It wasn't me! The—the table broke by itself!"
Thomas froze where he stood. The smile on his face had vanished, replaced by a cold horror. He saw Dimas writhing in pain on the floor, his face—usually so comical—now distorted by suffering.
This is wrong, Thomas thought in panic. It shouldn't be like this. It was just supposed to be a funny fall.
Their homeroom teacher, Mr. Budi, ran in with a tense face. "Move! Everyone move!"
Mr. Budi knelt beside Dimas, checked his condition quickly, then immediately carried the boy out to the infirmary, and not long after, a car took him to the hospital.
That day, the cleanliness competition did not continue. Class 5-A was blanketed in a gripping silence.
***
The next day, the chair in the middle row was empty.
Dimas's desk was clean; the drawer had been cleared out. No pencil case, no water bottle.
Mr. Budi entered the classroom with a serious face just after the bell rang.
"Children," Mr. Budi said softly. "I've received news from the doctor. Thankfully, the injury isn't serious. Just a mild muscle injury and some bruising from the impact."
A collective sigh of relief was heard from the whole class. The terrifying image of broken bones that had haunted them yesterday slowly faded.
"However," continued Mr. Budi, "the doctor still advised Dimas to get total rest at home for a few days. And since his parents are moving the day after tomorrow, Dimas has decided not to return to school. So, the incident yesterday marked Dimas's last day with us."
The atmosphere in the class turned somber.
"Oh... that's really sad," whispered Chelsea to her seatmate. "It was his last day, and he ended up hurt."
"Yeah, so we didn't even get to say a proper goodbye," added another.
Guilt and sympathy hung in the air. They didn't feel the incident was a massive tragedy, but it was enough to make them feel uneasy about such a sour farewell.
When recess arrived, Thomas sat at his desk. He felt an immense sense of relief. See, he thought, it wasn't bad. I'm safe.
Seeing his friends still glumly discussing Dimas, Thomas felt the need to change the mood. He didn't like this sadness. He wanted the atmosphere to be fluid again, "cool" again—a place where he could be the center of attention once more.
Thomas stood up, then walked casually toward the group of friends with a wide grin.
"Geez, why are you guys so gloom and doom?" Thomas said loudly, trying to break the ice. "Dimas is fine. Besides, did you guys realize? Yesterday when Dimas fell, the vibration was huge. It was like a local earthquake! Haha! Luckily the floor didn't crack!"
Thomas laughed. He waited for the chorus of laughter that usually greeted his jokes. He hoped his friends would chime in, "Yeah, seriously, that sound was crazy!"
However, all he got was an awkward silence.
No one laughed. But no one scolded him either. They just looked at Thomas with flat expressions, as if Thomas had just told a very bad joke at a funeral.
"What is wrong with you, Thom," commented Chelsea, frowning. She wasn't angry, just too tired to deal with him. "Don't be like that. It's pitiful, you know? That was his last day. It's not funny."
"Yeah, Thom. That's cringe," another friend remarked in passing.
Arya, who usually laughed the loudest, just shrugged his shoulders lightly this time. "Forget it, Thom. Let's go to the canteen."
The crowd dispersed naturally. They didn't hate Thomas; they were just... not interested.
Thomas's chest felt tight. This hurt more than being scolded. If he were scolded, he was still being paid attention to. But this? He was deemed insignificant. His joke was treated like a passing breeze.
At that moment, Thomas realized. Without Dimas as a tangible object of suffering, his jokes lost their power. His friends' sympathy for Dimas's departure was far greater than their desire to laugh at Thomas's antics.
The stage he had built upon Dimas's suffering had collapsed, not because the audience was angry, but because the audience had left. Thomas now stood alone under a spotlight that had already gone dark.
Thomas slowly sat back down in his seat at the back. He stared at Dimas's empty chair. No more clown. No more laughter. And without that laughter, Thomas once again felt the piercing cold, the feeling of being small that he had tried so hard to cover up.
For the rest of the semester, until the sixth-grade graduation bell rang, Thomas became a ghost again.
The persona of "Thomas the Prank King" was forced into dormancy. He buried his antagonistic side deep down, not because he repented, but because he realized that without a victim, he had no power. He returned to being the boy who sat quietly in the corner, blending into the wall, transparent.
The vacuum at school was soon filled by the terror at home. Lacking "entertainment" at school, Thomas had no choice but to surrender to the routine dictated by his father.
Every night, Thomas studied under duress. He wasn't a genius like Budi, the neighborhood chief's son, and he was never the class champion. But fear made him diligent. He memorized textbooks only to avoid his father's shouting, copying math formulas until his eyes stung just to look busy.
The hard work driven by fear finally yielded results, though not extraordinary ones.
Graduation announcement day arrived. Thomas graduated with decent grades. His name was listed among the students accepted into a state Junior High School that was considered quite good in his city. Not the number one favorite school filled with genius kids, but a decent, standard school.
His father stared at the acceptance letter without emotion. His face showed no overflowing joy. For Father, getting into a public school was merely the minimum standard, not an achievement worth celebrating.
"Good," Father commented briefly while folding the letter back up, his tone flat as if Thomas had just finished sweeping the yard. "At least you got into a public school. That's how it should be. Don't embarrass me."
That was it. No celebration. No proud hug.
Thomas watched his father's back as he walked away. He had managed to get into a good enough school, but his heart felt completely empty. He realized that no matter how hard he tried on the academic path, he would never shine "bright enough" to make his father applaud.
Thomas stood in the doorway, staring at his new white-and-blue uniform hanging stiffly in the wardrobe. The fabric still smelled like the store—clean and unstained.
He touched the fabric of the uniform gently. He didn't know what awaited him at the new school.
His mind drifted back to his father's reaction earlier. In this house, being "good" and "obedient" were just conditions to stay safe from anger. It gave him peace, but it didn't make him feel alive. It felt cold and lonely.
His heart still had a hole in it. A hole that was once filled by the laughter of his friends, by their eyes focused on him, and by the delicious feeling of being the center of the world. Now, that hole gaped open again, leaving a stinging emptiness.
In the silence of his room, Thomas was just a boy standing alone. He looked calm, obedient, and harmless.
But deep within the recesses of his soul, something wasn't dead. That something was sleeping, curled up in the dark, and starving. Not hungry for food, but starving for acknowledgment.
Thomas wasn't plotting an evil plan. He didn't even know what to do. He only knew one thing: he missed the feeling of being "seen." He missed the applause. He missed being considered real, more than just a name on a report card.
And that white-and-blue uniform, secretly, held a silent hope that maybe there, he wouldn't need to be transparent anymore.