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Becoming Fifi - 26
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 20:58:02 +0000 UTCApril 14th,
Dear Journal,
What’s new? Well, let’s begin with my more pliable feet. It would seem that after hours of massaging them, my wish has been granted, albeit with a twist. I can now coax my feet into shoes with heels a tad bit lower - we're still talking over five inches here – so still in the territory of what most women would consider stilts. Ah, the irony of my life; While I can slip into these "lower" heels, a few minutes of actually attempting to move in them is akin to walking on a bed of heated coals. It seems that while most women suffer the pain of walking in high heels, I'm cursed in the opposite manner.
Lately, I've found myself reaching out to my sister, Ani, almost every day. We've fallen into a comforting routine of daily chats. The distance, combined with the weight of my secrets, makes our conversations bittersweet. I can't tell her about Fifi or the convoluted web I've found myself entangled in. Instead, my life in Jakarta, when relayed to her, takes on a slightly altered hue.
The wedding boutique transforms seamlessly into an English cram school, where instead of dresses and complaining customers, I deal with lesson planning and difficult students. And Annisa, dear Journal, becomes my girlfriend in these tales. This little fabrication gives me an excuse to express my frustrations and seek Ani's advice without raising undue suspicion. "She's a bit bossy today," or "We had a disagreement about an outfit" are the kind of lines I feed her. Ani, bless her heart, always listens intently, offering words of wisdom, sometimes even berating me for not being understanding enough.
It's both comforting and heartbreaking. Comforting because her voice, so warm and familiar, anchors me during these turbulent times. But it's also heartbreaking because the lies pile up, creating a barrier that wasn't there before. Every laugh, every shared joke, every piece of advice feels like another brick in the wall of deception I'm building between us.
Yet, amidst this tumult of emotions, Ani remains the lighthouse guiding me through the storm. Even if she doesn't know the real tempest I'm navigating.
Speaking of navigating, my days have found a new and unexpected compass: Kartika. With Fatri's wedding preparations escalating at a frenzied pace, I've found myself gravitating towards her bubbly and light-hearted presence. Kartika, with her quirky smile and playful eyes, offers a welcome escape from the whirlwind of satin, lace, and nuptial chatter that’s incessantly swirling around me.
Our bond, if I dare call it that, is fascinatingly simple. You see, the delightful dance of languages between us serves as an advantage. The language barrier ensures our conversations are light, brief, and peppered with humour. It's a mutual understanding: we communicate with a funny quip here, a raised eyebrow there, or even a shared laugh at something we spot. The tranquillity of not having to constantly switch between English and French, and not having to navigate deep conversations, is liberating in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
But like anything, there's always a downside. Take today, for example, where Kartika’s fun-loving nature edged into embarrassment. Well… maybe not for a normal girl. But when you’re a boy in a dress, desperately trying not to draw attention to yourself, it’s another story entirely. Her total lack of filter and disregard for public perception drew every eye in the vicinity.
Picture this, Journal: this evening, we’re in the back of the car on the way to dinner. Kartika and Annisa are chatting, sneaking glances at me, giggling in that way that makes your stomach twist. Next thing I know, the car is pulling into an underground parking lot. Kartika turns to me and says a single word, “Come.” I asked Annisa what was going on, and she just shrugged, giggled, and said, “Kartika thinks you look too boring for a fashionista.”
My thinned eyebrows shot up in confusion, but before I could respond, Kartika had already rounded the car and opened the door. She leaned in, gently took my arm, and guided me out into the sticky, humid air. My seven-inch platform pumps struck the concrete with a loud, attention-grabbing click as I stumbled to find my balance. Then, before I had a chance to protest, her arm was looped through mine, and she was marching me toward the shopping mall.
Less than a minute later, we were inside an accessory store. I stood there, torn between resistance and resignation, as Kartika—grinning with infectious energy—draped me in a cascade of bangles and bracelets, even strapping on a cheap-looking watch for good measure. Then she slid a headband into my wig, sweeping the strands that had hung past my face behind my ears -revealing the clip-on hoop earrings. Finally, she placed a large white purse into my hand, stepped back, tilted her head, and asked with mock seriousness, “You like?”
I just stood there, frozen, unsure how to respond. My short, zigzag-patterned dress felt suddenly too tight. My patent pumps wobbled under me. My makeup—a carefully applied mask—felt thick and heavy under the store lights. And the wig… well, the wig was cooking my scalp. It’s that exact moment I chose to sketch today.
(See image 26)
Then, just as I caught a bearded man staring at me, Kartika suddenly burst out laughing—apparently, the whole thing had been one of her strange little jokes. She returned all the items to the shelves, and we happily tottered back to the car, her pleased with having poked fun at me, and me just glad to be out of there. Annisa, who had been absent when I carefully slid into the back seat, reappeared a few minutes later, having run an errand—and suddenly, the detour made a bit more sense.
That’s Kartika for you. Unpredictable to the core. You never quite know what you’re going to get. Yes, she sometimes embarrasses me. And our time spent together is often filled with confusion. But underneath it all, there’s kindness. She includes people in her fun—whether they want to be included or not.
We made it to the restaurant shortly after, and aside from a few admiring glances from the waiter at my pantyhosed thighs—which I quickly covered with a serviette—the evening went surprisingly well. I ate delicious food, and for once, didn’t feel so self-conscious that I couldn’t relax. It almost felt like I was just… one of the sisters.
I just wish my real sister, Ani, had been there too. I miss her more every day.
