Jakarta, 1987
It’s the morning after a very long night. Four sisters, still asleep, are scattered throughout the elevated penthouse living room. The space is immaculate except for its recent guests. Tall ceilings with strange acoustics. Soft light pooling on marble floors. Through the windows— it's grey and bright but blocked by thick, ancient foliage and low-lying clouds. It could be early morning or late afternoon, one of those light qualities that is prolonged and stagnant and warps your sense of the passing of time. It comes in softly through off-white cross-hatched curtains, half drawn. The girls are in a deep sleep, all wearing yesterday’s clothes, feet and shins stained with dirt from a secret moped ride.
Everyone’s a little sweaty. It’s muggy out and they forgot to turn the AC on when they stumbled home. The Boys tucked them in and made sure they were safe. But we’ll get back to them later. Each girl has a Walkman tape player and headphones next to them. Some have the headphones still on their ears, or around their neck, some took them off / threw them to the side. The room smells like morning breath and fruit from a welcome basket that’s starting to turn from the heat. A couple fruit flies try to find their way around the room.
The oldest (17, will be 18 in the fall) and the second (16, but people always think she’s the oldest) sister are sticking to a white leather couch. The youngest (12) is in a heap of floral bedding she dragged from the guest room and made a nest on the tile floor. The third (14) is curled up in an uninviting, modern arm chair lined with brass. Maybe that’s why she wakes up first.
The Third tries to sneak out of her makeshift bed without waking anyone. She’s late to do her exercises. Third has been on a recent near-militant fitness kick, but has always been pretty athletic. Manic discipline, focused hyper-control. She walks off to get her sweatbands and put on her trainers, then to the kitchen to get a bottled water from the fridge, then comes back to the balcony. She hits play on her walkman, which has been clipped to the waistband of her spandex shorts this whole time. She keeps the sliding glass door open. Third’s music is heard faintly through her headphones. It's fast, charged, with angsty synth. She stretches her hamstrings, flails her arms, shakes her oily Flock of Seagulls mop, and starts her morning ritual.
The Youngest, always afraid of missing out, sleeps like a dolphin, which she is very proud of. Dolphins sleep with one half of their brain off while the other stays up and active, so they’re always doing stuff. They don’t have to stop. Did you know that? The Youngest does. She heard Third getting out of her sticky, creaky chair-bed and watched her as she walked to the guest room and turned on a yellow-orange light and rummaged through her things and walked out without turning the light off (which they always get in trouble over back home). Sometimes she would mimic Third’s movements from afar. But this morning she was far too sleepy.
Youngest stirs from her floor nest, climbs over her sisters still dead asleep on the couch, right between the two of them, and presses play on her Walkman. She stares at Third, chin resting on her folded forearms using the back of the couch to support her little head and mess of knotted hair, a limp ponytail that used to be high once.
The Oldest and Second groan and swat Youngest for trampling them while they’re trying to get some rest. The Oldest rolls over to reveal a seafoam face mask she had applied the night before. She takes care of herself. She needs more beauty rest. Youngest knows this but gets Oldest’s Walkman off the floor and delicately slides the headphones over Oldest’s ears. She hits play. Oldest pulls her blanket over her head and shrinks into a ball to block out the world. Wake up, Youngest whispers. Oldest mumbles, Not yet, then compresses further into her invisible walnut on the couch.
The Second, not having moved, asks Youngest in a hoarse, milky morning voice, if she’s been awake for long, if she’s hungry. Youngest says yes to both. Youngest burrows next to Second and swaps their Walkmen, stealing her older sister’s music. Second tells Youngest she’s listening too loud. She turns it down. Youngest says how Second’s song makes her feel like doing this (she wiggles around / makes a goofy dance move while still laying down). Second barely has her eyes open, but laughs at Youngest trying to express herself. Second asks what that smell is. Youngest points at the fruit basket. Second says let’s fix that. She gets up to fix it. She brings the basket to the balcony. Second + Youngest, both listening to their music, try and salvage still-edible chunks of dragonfruit, mango, banana, guava, and a horrifically pungent durian carcass that began splitting open from the heat.
Third is really breaking a sweat, almost done with her jazzercise reps, trying not to break focus despite that godawful stench. Second asks Youngest, What was that move you were doing Earlier? That floor wiggle? Youngest wiggles again alongside Third, tormenting her with a chunk of stinky durian. Second tries to learn Youngest’s moves while using her stretchy headband to block the smell. Oldest can’t sleep with all the movement, everyone's heavy feet. Plus the smell of that heinous durian is creeping into her nostrils. She goes to the balcony. Groggy, but still pissed, she asks in a shout that still sounds like a whisper, What is that SMELL?! What are you doing?