## Mortal Enemies and a Box of Dates
Alya Rahmawati had three things she absolutely couldn't stand in life.
First, being late for prayer.
Second, running out of pens during a test.
Third, hearing Faris Pratama say, “Relax.”
The third was the most dangerous because it was usually followed by disaster.
“Don’t touch that box.” Alya pointed at the stack of boxes in front of the classroom with the look of a judge who had just uncovered evidence of document forgery.
Faris, who was lifting the biggest box, stopped. “I haven’t touched it. I’m hugging it.”
“That’s worse.”
“Why?”
“Because now the box is emotionally involved too.”
Behind them, Nisa covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Rafi failed to do the same. His laughter echoed all the way down the hallway, making several students turn to look.
Faris set the box on the floor. “Ms. Salma asked me to move the bazaar supplies. You’re the one who wrote the supply list.”
“I wrote the list. I didn’t tell you to change the order.”
“There’s an order?”
“There is.” Alya pulled out her notebook. “Dates, syrup, plastic cups, tablecloths, charity donation box.”
Faris pointed at the box he had just carried. “These are dates.”
“Then you got it right.”
“If I got it right, why do you look like I just moved the Kaaba?”
Alya took a breath. She had already learned that arguing with Faris was like chasing a chicken: the harder you chased it, the less sense its direction made.
“I just want everything to go according to plan.”
“Great. Your plan worked.”
“Not yet. You’re still here.”
Rafi whispered to Nisa, “Current score: Alya one, Faris one.”
“There is no score,” Alya and Faris said at the same time.
They turned to look at each other. For a split second, they both looked equally surprised that they could agree on something.
Then Faris smiled.
Alya immediately raised her index finger. “Don’t take this as the beginning of a friendship.”
“Relax. I have standards too.”
Before their argument could turn into another competition, Ms. Salma appeared from the stairwell carrying a green folder.
“Good. You’ve already started working together.”
“We’re resolving a logistical conflict,” Alya said.
“We’re figuring out who’s more stubborn,” Faris said.
Ms. Salma smiled like someone who had just found two free volunteers. “In that case, you two are perfect to serve as co-chairs of the Ramadan charity bazaar.”
Alya froze.
Faris pointed at himself. “Me?”
“Not you,” Alya quickly answered. “I mean, who would be cruel enough to do that to the other students?”
“Precisely because you’re both stubborn,” Ms. Salma said. “This bazaar is to fund improvements to the school mosque library. We have limited time and money. I need people who don’t give up easily.”
Alya looked at Faris.
Faris looked at Alya.
They both looked like two people who had just been told they had to share one umbrella in a downpour.
“Ms. Salma,” Faris said carefully, “is there no other option?”
“There is. You can refuse.”
Alya almost sighed in relief.
“Then I’ll hand it over to the class next door,” Ms. Salma continued, “and write your names down as the people who backed out of their responsibility.”
Alya snatched the folder. “We accept.”
Faris stared at her in disbelief. “We?”
“Do you want our names on the bulletin board as cowards?”
“I’d rather be called a coward than sit at the same table as you.”
“Then sit under the table.”
Nisa and Rafi burst out laughing again. Ms. Salma handed them the task assignments, then left before either of them could come up with an excuse to reverse the decision.
Alya read the sheet.
Co-chairs: Alya Rahmawati and Faris Pratama.
First meeting: after Asr prayer, in the classroom.
Tasks: develop the bazaar concept, find donations, organize the booths, prepare a report.
At the very bottom, Ms. Salma had written a single sentence in red ink:
Don’t turn the bazaar into a battlefield.
Faris read over Alya’s shoulder. “I feel like she knows us a little too well.”
“She’s just being cautious.”
“In that case, I have a suggestion.”
“What?”
“We split the work. You handle the neat, boring stuff. I’ll handle the exciting stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Promotion with a loudspeaker.”
“No.”
“A magic show.”
“No.”
“An auction for the principal’s chair.”
Alya closed her eyes. “Do you want this bazaar to help the library or get us transferred?”
Faris smiled lazily. “See? We’ve been coworkers for five minutes, and you’re already worried about my future.”
“I’m worried about the school’s future.”
“Close enough.”
Alya was about to reply, but Faris suddenly picked up the box he had set down earlier. He lifted it with both hands, then headed toward the storage room.
“Faris.”
“Yeah?”
“The path is that way.” Alya pointed in the opposite direction.
Faris stopped. “I know.”
“The storage room is on the left.”
“I know that too.”
“You’re walking to the right.”
“I’m testing whether you’re paying attention.”
Alya gave him a flat stare. “And the test results?”
“Satisfactory.”
He turned around and walked left, this time actually heading toward the storage room. Alya watched him for two seconds, then snorted.
“He’s annoying,” she said.
“True,” Nisa replied.
“Talks too much,” Alya added.
“True.”
“Can’t follow simple instructions.”
“True.”
Alya opened her notebook and wrote the title of their first meeting: Strategy for Controlling Faris Pratama.
Nisa leaned over to look. “Wasn’t the meeting supposed to be about the bazaar?”
“Faris is the biggest problem in the bazaar.”
From the end of the hallway, Faris’s voice rang out. “I heard that!”
Alya closed her notebook.
And for the first time since they had become enemies, she realized something deeply irritating.
Faris always knew exactly when to answer.
Even more irritatingly, his answers were sometimes funny.