I remember when she said, “He’s pretty annoying, isn’t he?” pointing at Ezra, the cute boy in class. It was the first days of Junior High School, and we were both fifteen with outraged teen haircut and practically strangers. Cassandra sat in front of me, with her long puffy hair almost reached her waist. Out of politeness, I grinned without saying a word, hoping she’d turn her head forward and not speak to me again. Because even I agreed Ezra was annoying, but she did not have to say that and most of all, the way she emphasised differently on ‘pretty’ and ‘annoying’ felt like just to deliberately make it a cynical and contradictory statement while she actually meant, “He’s cute,”. But I had laid eyes on him first since he walked inside the classroom with messy hair and oversized blue trousers, so when Cassandra turned around and said those things, I sensed an immediate threat and competition.
But just like the beginning of every great friendship stories, she did speak to me again, and many thousands of days later, we are now sitting at an Italian restaurants in the heart of Kemang where the customers are mostly expats, drinking red wine, and talking about Politics. If any of you wondered about Ezra, that story sunk by the second semester of Junior High when we realised we were obsessed with the same British boyband and ended up writing together a total of 1,000-page of fan fiction novel every Wednesday and Friday for the next two years at her house.
“You gotta see this,” Cass said as she handed over her phone, showing a picture of her nephew dancing with a girl at a school event, dressed as Romeo and Juliet. “He’s freaking 17 now! Did you remember when we used to drop him off at his kindergarten?”
The sound of jazzy piano on the background fit perfectly as I nodded, reminiscing the rainbow-coloured fence and mickey mouse posters placed on the window class 10 years ago.
“We’re going to be 30 in six years.”
“Fuck.”
“I know, right?” We responded the rhetorical question by drinking the remaining wine left in our glass, and I poured some more from the bottle. We were celebrating Cass’ 24th birthday and my arrival back to the City after years of wandering in the land of Harry Potter.
Well, it was all an excuse because her birthday was two months ago, and I have residing back to the city one and a half months ago, all this was just to drink away the sorrow of growing old and shitty adjustment to the traffic and manners and million other things that makes this city overwhelming and a lot to take on. But really, unsatisfactory complaints aside, what I’d like to think is, this is a remembrance of the best gift to be given to each other now isn’t Union Jack sweater nor Star Wars figurine, but time. Time and unfiltered conversations–and maybe a mixture of crappy love advice and glass(es) of wine.
Cassandra now has cut her hair bob-short, just below her ears and dyed it brick red, matched with her lipstick and crazy fury earrings. Her somewhat baggy clothes now has changed into some K-Pop style fashion with plain white t-shirt and vintage overall jeans. The way I saw it, it is as an act of rebellion, a statement, however minor it may seem, that she has been longing to show to the world, but most of all to her family, since 7th grade being the youngest amongst her siblings. That is how she said, ‘I’m an adult now, and I’m going to take control.’
Drifting away with the idea of how close 30 is and half-empty wine bottle next to our hand, she interrupted in between the comfortable silence, “You’re going to be my bridesmaid.”
I almost choked on my spaghetti, “Y-You’re getting married?”
She smiled and shook her head, “No, not anytime soon, but when I do, you’re going to have to make a speech.”
Initially, I’d like to use an excuse that most Indonesian weddings do not have a bridesmaid-speech as part of the ceremonial process, but then I know she’d dismiss it all ‘cause when she said so, she’d make it happen. So, I played with the remaining food on my plate. “But what am I going to talk about?”
She drank more of her wine, “You have two years to figure it out. But you’re an amazing writer anyway, so I’m sure you won’t have a problem with that.”
Fuck.
Unlike the 1,000 pages of fan fiction, then I had not yet awaken the angry self-critic, and now, it has been louder than before. Feeling unqualified of love and all that, I went quiet for a while, constructing what should I say in the hypothetical wedding speech even though I am aware it is not due tomorrow or next month but in another year the soonest. The crippling thoughts of being not good with love and relationships where I tend to make a reckless and impulsive decisions, makes me nauseous and unfit to speak. But then again, in all hypothetical scenarios, maybe I should speak one thing that I may know better in the past 11 years: her.
The way I imagine it, she’d have a special event held at this fancy restaurant one day before the big day–which she’d probably finished everything a week early because she is crazy organised like that, where most of her closest friends gathered and seated on a long table with white cloth. Decorated perhaps in purple and yellow, she’d sat at the end of the table, leaning towards her future partner, squeezing his hand tight, before I stand up and speak.
I’d probably begin with a lousy jokes that none of the guests would laugh at, but regardless I carry on and tell one of the embarrassing tales I have never told before, which involved a nerdy boy in a band whom she met online.
This boy was tall and awkward, but by the fourth meeting, Cass told me she had a crush on him. I laughed. By the third month we all knew one another, this tall and awkward boy confessed he had a crush on me at McDonald’s. I laughed again, thought he was joking. I said give me time, I need to think about it.
I remembered asking Cass, in which she said she had known about it for a while but she did not want to tell me before he did, and with glassy eyes, she said she’s fine with whatever decision I make. Of course, as a sixteen years old, taking feelings lightly and being self-centred, I said yes to this boy. Not knowing, I had broke her trust. The relationship lasted shorter than a summer, in which I barely talked to Cass throughout. But what shook me was when she initiated to meet, being the bigger person she is, she said we need to talk. We were probably sixteen, not knowing what was really happening but it was then felt like, a cold war was coming. At least that was what I thought, but instead, when we met, she looked into my eyes and said, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. If anything, this makes our friendship stronger than ever. So, I’m fine, if you’re fine.”
My lips shook and my words disappeared. I probably cried then on her shoulder.
That day when I knew Cass has the kindest heart of all. And she has been since. This is the part where I close the speech with mandatory wisdom that whatever storms ahead, they would get through it together. He should know that he is marrying one of the kindest, most forgiving person I know. Then back to crappy jokes.
Returning to the present, still with the Jazzy piano on the background and loud conversation from the next table, I finished the last sip of my wine, placed it back on the table, feeling the cold dew on the side of the glass. And said, “Okay, sure.”
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