The scent of citrus was the only thing my nose could pick up. Originated from the mopping solution bottle, the smell had now spread not only across the floor, but also to my hands and my shirt and trousers that had earned some water splash during the troublesome process of wringing out the mop. I had always hated mopping, but the vexations of having to do it for a room to which I had no emotional attachment were beyond anything my right mind could comprehend.
I felt the need to take a look around and inspect every corner of the classroom. The aluminium-framed windows, both the frames and the panes, were now spotless. So were every single tile of the floor, the two-legged whiteboard, and the glass door, also aluminium-framed. I even had gone as far as wiping up the beaded curtains that the door had. The thing was coated in a not-so-thin layer of dust, as a result of the other days' groups' tendencies to gloss over such a trivial task.
The teacher desk was immaculate. The simple yet rigid piece of furniture had now radiated a more vivid wood colour, thanks to the furniture polish that had been sitting on the waist-high shelf for the longest time without anyone seeming to notice its presence. I had no idea when was the last time the liquid was being used by anyone, but judging from how black the cloth that I used to clean the desk turned into, it couldn't be less than a month ago. But I wasn't surprised. My classmates had a terrible sense of cleanliness, and it's something that I had long become accustomed to.
The stuff that was hanging on the wall was the last group of things that I went through. Firstly, I came up to the portrait of Tirto Adi Soerjo. My favourite article in the room, his moustache had never failed to be the best in the room with hardly any competition to take on. Accompanying Tirto were Kartini, Bung Tomo, and Mohammad Yamin. Neatly put on clear, acrylic floating frames at eye-level, these portraits granted some emotional elements to what would otherwise be four boring pieces of rectangular pilasters. And thanks to me, these national heroes' faces were now as clear as they could be.
To the left of the door, high above the upper side of the whiteboard, hung the three indispensable ornaments of every Indonesian classroom: a portrait of the President, his Vice, and the country's coat of arms. The latter, gallantly bearing the shield of Pancasila, sat in the middle and was put a little higher than the other two. They sure had some degree of dustiness, I thought, but just as the higher part of the wall around them that had grown some visible cobwebs, they were way out of my reach, so I left them just like that. Other than that, I thought I had done a pretty good job. And so I went to my desk, picked up my backpack, and once again headed to the teacher desk area, this time for the socket to pick up my phone, now fully-charged. I proceeded to take the broom, the mop, and the bucket that had been leaning against the teacher desk and put them back to where they belonged: a big cabinet at the back of the classroom, sitting right next to the waist-high shelf on which the furniture polish could be found.
"So you really are doing it alone?" said someone from the direction of the door, putting an end to the perfect silence that had been lingering on every centimetre of the room.
I looked back. That person, in a scout uniform, put on completely with the red-and-white scarf, was now looking straight into my eyes. The straight, black hair that ended just below her collarbone was dappled with a warm shaft of sunlight. The dark-brown skirt, the white legs it enclosed, the black socks that covered almost the entirety of her calves, and the black leather shoes that concluded her brilliant appearance were all dancing along graciously as she walked in my direction. A sweet smile was featuring her face all the while.
"Need a hand?" she asked.
That person was none other than Anastasia Angkasa.