Page 8 of The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties

The noise jerks me awake and I leap up, my body flinging itself into motion before my mind can catch up. My mouth, too, works on its own accord, shouting before I even realize what the words are. “Nathan. Nathan! Wake up.”

Crash! Honk!

It hits me then. We’re in the volcanic belt. Indonesia has—uh, I don’t know what’s the exact number, all I know is that it’s alot.A lot of volcanoes. One of them must have erupted, triggering an earthquake. “Earthquake!” I blurt out. “Nathan!” I grab his arm and shake it.

“Mrrfgl?” He blinks slowly awake just as another deafening crash judders through the house. How in the world can this man sleep through all that noise? “Whassat?”

“Earthquake!”

“What?” He jumps up, fully awake now, and looks around, blinking owlishly.

I’m already running toward the makeup table in the far corner of the room, my hands clasped over my head in case the ceiling caves in. “Take cover!” I yelp as another crash thunders through the room.

Nathan frowns. Instead of running after me and hiding under the table, he gazes up at the chandelier, because of course there’s a chandelier in every bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I hiss. “Take cover.”

“It’s not moving.”

“What?”

“The chandelier. Look, the crystals aren’t swaying. It’s not an earthquake, Meddy.”

I glance up at the chandelier, and sure enough, it’s completely still. “Wha?” I rub at my eyes. “Then what’s all the commotion about?”

Nathan opens the curtains and peers out of the windows. He unlocks one and slides it open, and immediately, noise spills into the room. Cymbal crashes, trumpet blares, and other whistling, hooting sounds made from instruments I don’t recognize.

“What the hell?” I clamber out from my hiding spot and join Nathan at the window. And gape at the scene unfolding below.

There is a—there are no other words for it—cavalcade of sleek black cars, each one equipped with flashing blue lights, like cops, and each one with people hanging out the windows, playing some musical instruments with gusto. I count at least ten cars in the procession, snaking up the driveway like a black dragon. A black dragon of explosive music.

“Is this a regular part of Chinese New Year here?”

I shake my head. “Well, at least I don’t think so.” I search my mind for memories of the last Chinese New Year I spent in Jakarta. Nope, definitely no cavalcades then.

As we watch, the sunroof of the first car slides open and a man emerges from it. From this distance, I can barely make out his face, but I do spot a mustache and slicked-back hair. The man lifts his hands dramatically, and the noise is immediately silenced. And I do mean immediately; even the trumpet stops mid-blow. Wow. Despite myself, I’m impressed. Whoever this guy is, it’s clear he commands respect. He lifts a loudspeaker to his mouth, straightens up, and begins speaking.

“Enjelin Chan.” His voice, magnified by the loudspeaker, booms across the courtyard. It’s a deep, rich voice, brimming with confidence. A shiver runs down my spine.

“That’s Second Aunt,” I whisper. Why am I whispering? “He’s calling for Second Aunt.”

Just as I say that, the window next to me slides open and Second Aunt peers out, her hair still in rollers. When she spies the man, she squawks and jerks back inside her room. A moment later, Ma leans out the window and waves at the man. “Hallo! Please wait a second,” she says in Indonesian, “Enjelin is just making herself presentable.”

“Enjelin,” the man says into the loudspeaker, “please, you are exquisite just the way you are.”

I press the knuckles of my right hand into my lips to keep from laughing. This is... this is delightful. Apparently, this guy has come here to court Second Aunt.

“Oh, Abi, you always know the perfect thing to say,” Ma calls out.

Abi? That sounds familiar. I narrow my eyes as I scour mymemories for a mention of his name. When the memory does resurface, it hits me like a tank filled with rifle-touting men. Because Abi is the freaking mafia lord that my mom and aunts had told me about back when we were in Oxford. Abraham Lincoln Irawan, the guy who was infatuated with Second Aunt when they were teens and joined the mafia to impress her. Oh my god. Why in the world is Abi, a literal gangster, here in our front yard? I look at the procession of black cars again, and this time, they stop being impressive and are instead terrifying. Of course he has a cavalcade with him. They’ve probably got guns and all sorts of weapons inside each vehicle.

“Are you okay?” Nathan places a hand on my back and rubs gently. “You look so pale.”

“That’s ah—that guy is a mafia lord.”

Nathan frowns. “Uh. What?”

“Yeah, exactly.” I don’t have time to explain before Second Aunt pops her head out the window again, this time sans hair curlers.

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