<<<Read the previous chapter 3A
There was a time when i’m really proud of my writings.
It was my first short novel; Kirill’s Mirror. Written in English and typed it for two weeks straight using my dad’s office typewriter. I remember how happy i was at that time. A high-spirited 3rd grader old me was jubilantly jumping on the floor holding pages of papers and searching for paper clip inside drawer so that i could show it to my parent. I thought Yeay… It’s my first novel! So happy i was running to my mom and show it to her, but she wasn’t able to read it because she was on the phone. “What is that? can you show it to me later? i’m on the phone right now”. She said.
After couple hours later, i went to my mom again and show my novel that was written on paper sized A4 on her face and she said “Can’t you see i’m working here? don’t put it near here or it will ripped”. looking at my mom on the floor of her bedroom, tidying her collections of Kebayas ignoring my presence. I wish dad were in town. He’s not in town for weeks because he has to fly to Medan – Jakarta back and forth to finished his final works. I thought maybe i can come to my mom again tomorrow morning just right before i went off to school. It might be my last chance to persuade her to see my masterpiece and even so, i’d be very happy if she read it even just for one page.
And in the morning after. Right before i went in to the car I went to my mom’s bedroom and found her half sleeping in her bed. I went in there and spoke to her with nothing but a dim light illuminates from her bathroom transom pane. Gently touching her shoulder to wake her up… “Ma.. will you read my awesome novel? i made it myself you know”. I can see her opening her eyes, woke up and staring at me as if she was noticing it’s morning already from my school uniform that i wore that day. Whilst excitingly mention some of the character inside my novel, she roll out the papers harshly off my hand and put it on her bedside table covering half of the phone. “Oh my God, why do you keep on nagging me? Go to school now! I’ll read it later…” Even a third grade knows that kind of gesture.
With a small disappointment i left my mom back to sleep and say bye before i closed the door. Then, I went in the car and wait for my housemaid dragging my sister and brother; as usual, who is so troublesome to get up in the morning to go to school. With a despair caved in and a cold morning air i went to school.
With the adaptation in the new school, me as a new kid, i don’t think it’ll be that hard. Two months already and i think everything is going to be fine except that day Ms. Sisi called me right before i went inside my class. “Good morning dear” she smiled. “Starting today, you won’t be in 3A anymore. You will be in my class now, 3B”. With a little bit confusion in my mind, i don’t have other choice but to follow her to her classroom. Adapting won’t be a problem for me although lots of friends in that school said that the way i speak is somewhat different and a bit impolite. From where i come from; Medan, i called it talking straight forward. But i finally found out the reason they transferred me to 3B instead of staying at 3A. It’s because i was incapacity with 3A’s lesson’s standards. They afraid i might fail if i stayed in that class, therefore they moved me to 3B.
Hmmm, i wonder, what type of class 3B is.
By the time i went back home after school and looking at my mom almost leave with another car. With a bit of hesitation i ran to her and ask whether she had read the novel or not. But instead of responding my question, she gave me her bedroom key just in case dad came home this afternoon and want to get inside to rest. She also reminded me to stop using dad’s typewriter after she handed me the key. “That typewriter is for office work, not for something that you could always dally with. Put it back to dad’s office”. Said mom before she went to her social gathering. At first i thought, well, at least mom finally read the novel. But then, the thought of mom finally read my story went berserk like a quicksand inside my brain. I found my novel on the floor, wedged between my mom’s bedside table and the header. I’m guessing she must have drop it when she pick up the phone. It’s OK. With a low self esteem, i pick up my novel, lock back the room and wait dad to come home. Dad will appreciate my work.
‘Dad will appreciate my work’ thought was hang on in my head for only God knows how long. Just because of the hunger of compliment from my parents that i wanted to hear, I waited for hours on my front terrace. I read comic and eat snacks there and refuse to get inside the house. I believe my dad will read my novel, i bet he will appreciate my writings. Because him and i are very close. Him and me, we shared many adventures together therefore he must read my novel and he’s going to like it.
Yes! after a long waited hours, dad is finally arrived at home. I jump right off the chair welcoming my dad who is just coming back from out of town with a jolly-good dance, silly dance actually and keep on blabbering about new stuff that happened to me for these couple of weeks; trying to tell him about the novel. Of course at that time his respond was “huh? oh… oh, just put it on my bedside table ok? I’ll read it later before i went to bed…” I understand if he’s too tired from the flight, but i believe he’ll read my novel. Just wait until tomorrow.
“So, how was it? it was my first novel you know…” ask of me to dad while tying my shoelace on the doorstep, getting ready to school.
“Not bad, you typed it really well” He smiled at me. “Mom said you used the IBM typewriter, is it?” Looking at me with a contemp looks.
“Err.. yeah, like there’s any other typewriter i could use in this house” was actually giving him the look ‘so?’.
“You could use the manual, It’s in the cabinet upstairs” He handed me ‘Kirill’s Mirror’ novel that i put on his bedside table last night.
“Don’t use IBM again ok? The electricity cost bit expensive and the eraser inside that typewriter price is almost triple as the regular tip-ex you found in the bookstore”. Then he calls my brother and sister giving us signals off to school.
“But if i use the auto typer it will be easier erasing wrong words. Suppose i could use the computer, but then, mom said printer ink is way more expensive than IBM does”.
“No! don’t use computer, your mom is right.”
“As a beginner i prefer using manual than auto typer”. He bolt my lines before i finished talking to him. “Just use the manual OK?”.
Well, i won’t be too much of a surprise if dad’s bit chinchy. His childhood was tough and hard. So, since then i used manual typewriter to create short novels although i know dad never use that auto typewriter. He hide it somewhere, even he, himself didn’t use it years after years until it getting rustic.
All i can remember is that every time i wrote a novel, i always show it to my dad; Pearce and Shelley, Golden Ring, Trump and The Harp, Leather Book, It Was Beethoven and many other stories. I always put it in his bedside table at night and wished to get a compliment in the next morning. But, what do you know. I wasn’t raised to be a doll. I noticed all short novels that i gave him has no turn-print. As if it were never been read not even once. And he never even ask or curious about the character inside the story. Every time i spoke about new characters in my up coming novel, all he can do is hums.
In a fine night, when the entire family went to 5 star hotel to eat diner. I ask a lot of questions to him about characters inside my stories. And It strikes me to the very soul that dad was actually never read the novel, not even once. Not even the first one; Kirill’s Mirror. And he’s very rude that night, telling me to quit dreaming and writing.
“What the hell are you doing with those kind of fantasy? there is no such thing as that”.
“You should stop reading all those useless comics, it has no relevant to your study”.
“Stop dreaming or hallucinating with all those pointless fantasy and stop watching movies too. That’s not real”.
“Stop making fake stories, you spend too much time wasting time and money, And that typewriter ink is not cheap!”.
After that dinner i went numb. I never read comic again, I gave all my collections to my cousins. I Never even had the spirit to dream or to write after that night.
Read the next chapter, 3C >>>