Livora Gracely

Anna had been told the rules were simple.
This was the first warning.

She stood beneath a red-and-white flag with six other contestants.

In front of each face hung one kerupuk.

White.

Round.

Innocent.

Suspended from a piece of string.

Anna examined hers.

“So I just eat it?”

The woman beside her nodded.

“No hands.”

Anna laughed.

The mothers watching from the roadside laughed too.

For entirely different reasons.

Someone shouted the signal.

Anna lunged.

The kerupuk moved left.

She followed.

It moved right.

She followed again.

Apparently, the kerupuk had entered the competition too.

Around her came crunching, cheering, and the unmistakable sound of dignity being reconsidered.

Anna tried another approach.

She waited.

The kerupuk swung toward her.

She opened her mouth.

It changed direction.

One of the mothers in kebaya nearly fell off her chair laughing.

Anna narrowed her eyes.

This had become personal.

She leaned forward and caught one edge between her teeth.

CRUNCH.

Victory!

Approximately three percent of it disappeared.

The remaining ninety-seven percent began spinning.

Anna spun with it.

The crowd roared.

Someone shouted advice in Indonesian.

Anna understood none of it, but the hand gestures suggested either bite from the side or attack a small helicopter.

She tried both.

The little Indonesian flag painted on her cheek was still perfect.

Everything else was deteriorating.

Her hair had escaped.

Her eyes were watering from laughter.

Kerupuk crumbs decorated her blouse.

Behind her, the mothers had stopped pretending to be spectators and become a committee of unsolicited coaches.

“Left!”

“Now!”

“Bite!”

Anna lunged.

Missed.

The kerupuk swung backward, paused, then returned and tapped her gently on the nose.

The mothers exploded.

Anna stared at it.

“You did not just do that.”

The kerupuk offered no apology.

On the next swing, she caught a large piece.

CRUNCH.

Everyone cheered.

Anna chewed triumphantly.

Then she noticed the woman beside her.

Her string was empty.

She had already finished.

Anna blinked.

“When?”

The winner smiled.

“While you were arguing with yours.”

Ten minutes later, Anna had lost the competition.

She had also acquired seventeen photographs, three new aunties, a second kerupuk for the road, and an invitation to return next August.

Before leaving, she looked at the surviving half of her opponent dangling from the string.

She pointed at it.

“Next year.”

A breeze moved the kerupuk slightly.

Anna stepped back.

She wasn’t falling for that again.