“Why hello, you’ve got quite the collection there,” I commented, and he laughed.
“The nice lady gave me as many as I wanted, it was fun playing!” he huffed, handing them both to us as we thanked him. “Here, have some!”
“Thank you.” I laughed.
“Well, it’s getting late now, so we’re gonna head home. See you around, Wynter, and remember, just because the tide changes doesn’t mean you’re drowning,” she said softly, then grabbed ahold of her brother.
And then she was gone, disappearing down the crowded pier. I glanced back, watching the sunset as my sister and her mystery lover made their way down to the beach. He carried her into the ocean, threatening to dip down, and she laughed louder than I’d ever heard, louder than she had in a long time. I hoped that someday she’d have the courage to come to me. Until then, I’d be omnipresent. I’d watch over her and make sure she didn’t walk too far.
I may not have known what had gotten into her, but she was happy, and that’s all that mattered.
13
Left My Heart In Jakarta
For as long as I can remember, I have left my heart in Jakarta and I’ve been bleeding out with this gaping wound in my chest ever since.
Jakarta mornings were my secret treasure. I’d sneak out of bed as quietly as I could, careful not to wake Cahya or Soleh in their room across the hall. I remember just how much Cahya hated sharing a room with Soleh back then—Soleh was a baby. The house felt peaceful in the early light, and I loved these moments when everything was just starting to come alive. A time before the time of he and I. Before I got swept up by the winter chillthat froze me to the bone and my heart along with it. I remember those days before we moved.
I could already smell the fried bananas Grandma would make in the kitchen, a familiar mix of sweet and smoky that seemed to drift through every corner of our home.
It was market day, and Mama had promised to take me along. It was my favorite day of the week, a chance to wear my batik dress, the one with the swirling blue and gold flowers, and feel a little older. I tiptoed into the room Soleh and Cahya shared, but it was no use—Cahya was already awake, leaning over his music book with the focus only my older brother could have at ten. His eyes flicked up when he saw me.
“Going to the market without us?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. Before I could answer, Soleh, still half-asleep, groaned from his bed.
I grinned and stuck my tongue out at him, knowing he couldn’t see me, then dashed down the hall to find Mama. She was in the kitchen, already dressed in a vibrant chitenge skirt from Zambia, where she came from, her dark curls pinned back and her smile as warm as the morning sun. Grandma was at the stove, flipping the pisang goreng with one hand, adding a pinch of cinnamon with the other. Our kitchen was like a blend of worlds—Indonesia in the spices and street food, Zambia in Mama’s dress and the small, colourful trinkets she kept on the windowsill.
“SohSoh,” Mama greeted, a nickname I haven't heard in years, with a grin that meant she was just as excited as I was. She handed me a warm pisang goreng, crispy and sweet. Just as I took a big bite, Cahya wandered in, pretending he wasn’t hoping for one too.
“Save some for me, yeah?” he said, giving me a nudge. Grandma chuckled and handed him one of his own, and he took it with a grin.
Mama gathered her bag, and soon the three of us—Cahya tagging along with his book in hand—were stepping out into the bustling street. Neighbors waved and called out greetings, “Selamat pagi!” as we passed, and Mama answered back with her Zambian accent blending beautifully into the language. She made every effort to show her children just how effortlessly two cultures can blend when love is its weaver. Cahya and I walked on either side of her, and I watched as he scribbled quick sketches of the street scenes, trying to capture the vendors with their carts piled high with bananas and mangoes, the colorful sarongs hanging in shop windows, and the little kids running barefoot in the dusty street.
When we reached the market, it was a whole world of color and sound. Vendors called out their prices, children darted between stalls, and the smell of spices and fresh fruit filled the air. Mama guided us to her favorite stalls, and each time she’d buy something, she’d hold it up for us to see, explaining how it was used in Zambian dishes or Indonesian ones. Cahya listened with half an ear, still sketching away, while I held tightly to Mama’s hand, soaking up every detail.
These were not the stories that I could craft and bend to fit my will, but the stories that had bent and crafted me.
“See, Yesoh,” Mama said as she handed me a small bag of roasted groundnuts, “we’re a little bit of both places, right here.” She gestured to the market, to the world bustling around us. And I felt it then—that this was more than just a morning, more than a market. It was a memory we were building, a little piece of home that would be with us no matter where we went.
PRESENT DAY
“First position, ladies!” Madame instructed as I did my best despite the fact that I was sleep deprived.
“Yeo, straighten your back.”
“Yes, madame,” I acknowledged, doing as she asked.
We’d been at it for hours that day, everyone seemed to be at the top of their game, which wasmything. I was always on top of things, I never had a hair out of place, I was always ranked the highest among my peers. But this just wasn’t my week, nothing was going my way.
“Second position!” she commanded, and everyone followed suit at the basics.
There were to be auditions held forThe Rite of Springnext week, which was to be a modified more digestible interpretation by Julliard.The Rite of Springwas crafted by Igor Stravinsky, originally choreographed by Vaslav Nijinsky in 1913. It tells the story of a pagan ritual where a young girl is chosen to dance herself to death as a sacrifice to bring about spring. It’s known for its bold, dissonant music and primal choreography, it had some heavy sexual undertones. Everyone knows that the ballet shocked audiences at its premiere but became a landmark in modern dance, challenging traditional ballet with its intense rhythms, grounded movements, and raw portrayal of ancient ritual.
I had worked my whole life to be able to play the lead in a ballet at Julliard. And I would have the part, even if I had to bruise my knees and crack my spine to do it.
“Are you gonna audition, Yesoh?” Jessica Anderson asked—we spoke sometimes, not nearly enough.
“Of course, there’s no other option.” I sighed, suddenly losing my balance, but Jessica pretended to drop something so no one noticed. “Thanks.”
