I don’t bother to check the rest of my reflection; I know what I’ll see: an athletic figure, too short with sharp, angular lines. The lack of curves doesn’t bother me; I’m not interested in the kind of attention Jenne attracts with her sultry looks and voluptuous figure but the height, I long for. Perhaps if I were taller, I wouldn’t seem so fragile and everyone would stop treating me like some sliver-thin glassware.
I slip one of my favorite crochet dresses, a cream colored creation I managed to procure during one of my regular flea-market prowls, over my leotard. I turn from the mirror, sling my tog-bag over one shoulder and let my eyes skim over the rest of my bedroom as I head for the door. The chair is still strewn with yesterday’s clothing, the bed is unmade and the desk in the corner is covered with bits of acid-free scrapbook-paper and cropped photo edges that have spilled over my MacBook and onto the floor.
There are three copies of the same edition of Seventeen magazines on the rug beside my bed, with dog-ears marking the pages on which my short story submission has been published.
Mom will freak if she sees this mess, I think. I shrug and pull the door firmly shut behind me.
My mother is waiting in the kitchen and she frowns when she sees my leotard.
‘I don’t think you should be going to dance, baby. You’re not -’
‘I’m fine and I’m going,’ I reply firmly.
For a moment she stares at me and I think she’s about to argue, but then she lets her shoulders drop with a sigh.
‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’
I start to shake my head but that bowling ball is still in there, rattling from side to side, so I say: ‘Fine.’
I grab an apple from the glass fruit-bowl on the counter, rub its smooth skin against the leg of my tights and head toward the inter-leading door to the garage. It’s just a short ride, I tell myself, but I know that time moves much slower anywhere my mother and I occupy the same space.
‘How’s the practice going?’ mom asked as she slips into the driver’s seat beside me and shifts the Merc into gear. Her tone is guarded and I keep my response short, already knowing what she’s leading up to.
‘Fine.’
‘You’ve spent a lot of hours practicing, is it really necessary?’
I feel my blood pressure spike, but I keep my tone even.
‘It’s an important competition, mom.’
‘But -’
‘Don’t go there,’ I say in a rigid voice. ‘I know you think it’s a waste of time.’ I turn my face away toward the window, and add tiredly, mostly to myself: ‘I just wish you could support me.’
‘I do support you!’ Mom responds.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I snort, glaring back at her, ‘just as long as I don’t expect to make a career out of dancing, right?’
‘I’m just being realistic, baby. Dancers in this country don’t -’
‘- make a lot of money. Yeah, I know the speech, mom. Maybe it isn’t always about money.’
‘I just -’
‘- want what’s best for me. Yeah, I’ve heard that too.’
‘I -’
‘Just leave it, okay?’
I yank my ponytail over my shoulder, slump down further into my seat and watch the electric gates slide closed behind us in the rearview mirror. This ‘short’ ride already feels like an eternity. A wave of despair and anger washes over me. Why must it always come down to this?
I love dancing with a passion rivaled only by my creative writing. Mother, however, has denounced both my interests as a ‘passing phase’, and she uses every opportunity to tell me how there ‘is no financial stability in the arts’, how ‘few artists make it’, or how ‘many of them turn to drugs and become anorexic’… The excuses are as creative as they are endless, but they all come down to one thing: she just doesn’t believe in me.
My mother is silent for a moment and then she wisely changes the topic:
‘What are you doing today?’
‘Oh yeah, can you drop me at the square after practice? Jenne invited me to movies.’
‘Oh,’ mom says, sounding disappointed, ‘You know, it’s not too late for me to arrange a party.’
‘I already said I didn’t want one,’ I say, feeling my irritation spike again.
‘But it’s your last…’ her voice trails off and she exhales a little, frustrated sigh, pulls the car to a stop in front of the school hall and turns toward me. ‘I really think you should have one.’
I frown, puzzled and annoyed at her insistence.
‘Well I’m not having one and that’s the end of it.’ I slide out of the car and slam the door before she can respond. She looks at me through the window pane with a wounded expression, revs the engine and takes off from the curb, tires squealing in protest.
Chapter 3
Longing
Tastes like: Dark chocolate, melting on your tongue
Smells like: A warm winter stew when you’re fasting
Sounds like: The howl of a wolf on the night of a full moon
Feels like: The rasp of silk against your skin
Looks like: A child’s nose pressed against the baker’s window
‘Hi.’
I turn away from watching the Merc’s tail lights disappear around the corner, to see Luke, standing behind me. With his sandy brown hair curling in moist circles across his forehead and his fine-boned cheeks framing a pair of hazel green eyes, he looks incredibly young and fragile, even with the visible strings of muscle cording his arms and legs.
‘Was that your mom?’ he asks in his usual laid back drawl that always seems to melt my bad moods.
‘Yip.’
‘She seems pissed. Something wrong?’
‘Yeah, apparently I’ve sinned because I don’t want to have a birthday party,’ I say, shaking my head and turning toward the school hall.
Luke steps into stride beside me.
‘Okayyyy...’ he says, tossing his head unconsciously to the side to flick an errant lock out of his eye and shooting me a look of confusion. He waits a beat for me to elaborate and when I don’t, merely shrugs. It’s one of the things I like most about him – he doesn’t push and prod, he knows I’ll talk when I’m good and ready.
‘Speaking of your birthday,’ he says, ‘I know you wanted to keep it low key, so I was thinking I could take you out for a bite to eat after practice?’
His voice holds a note of uncertain eagerness that belies the casual tone and sends guilt coursing through me. I worry my bottom lip with my teeth and purposely look away from him. We’ve been friends since second grade at St Stithians and dance partners almost as long. Luke is funny, talented, handsome, caring – everything a girl could want. He’s never verbally admitted it, but I know that somewhere between seventh grade and present, his feelings for me have progressed beyond friendship. Trouble is – mine haven’t.
It would be so easy to love Luke, but no matter how hard I try – and I have tried – there’s something missing. I can’t name it; it’s the spark in the air between two people, the tingle of two hands colliding for the first time; whatever that elusive quality, I know I want it – and with Luke, it just isn’t there.
‘Thanks,’ I say, twisting my ponytail into a knot at the nape of my neck, pretending not to see the hope in his eyes, ‘but Jenne’s already booked me for movies.’
‘Oh.’
His disappointment is tangible but I know I’m doing the right thing. Better not to encourage his attentions when I can’t return his feelings.
Once inside, I put aside my musings and we fall into the comfortable routine of warm up stretches and the unique combination of dance steps that we’ve choreographed from a combination of ballet, hip-hop and Latin American ball-room. We’re like two halves of the same whole, each an extension of the other and any prior tension or awkwardness has melted away. This is what I need to protect, this feeling of security we share. It’s why I need to prevent Luke from admitting his true feelings to me. Even though I know how
he feels, saying it out loud would change things irrevocably.
By the end of the session, my headache is gone but every muscle in my body burns in a satisfying way.
‘You’re good, you know,’ Luke says, bending down to retrieve two towels from the floor. He throws one at me and proceeds to wipe his own brow with the other. ‘Even on your off days…you really should be in the School of the arts -’
‘You know my mother won’t allow me to register.’
I lean my back against the wall and slide into a sitting position on the wooden floor. ‘I just wish she would stop being so negative.’
Luke threads the damp towel around the back of his neck and turns to me with a sober expression.
‘Shay-kie,’ he says, and I flick the towel at him to show my distaste at his use of my childhood nickname. For some reason, it’s common practice amongst South African children to take each friends name, shorten it and add ‘kie’ onto the end. I know this practice stems from the ‘tjie’ (pronounced ‘chi’ or ‘ki) suffix tacked onto Afrikaans words to indicate that something is either very small or very young. I resent the implication.
Luke snickers, jumps back out of reach and schools his expression back to seriousness.
‘She thinks she’s doing what’s best for you.’
‘But surely I know what’s best for me?’ I demand, ‘I’m seventeen for goodness sake. Why does she still treat me like a child?’
‘Sixteen,’ he corrects.
I cluck my tongue and he grins back; he offers me a hand and pulls me up from the floor.
‘Look, she just doesn’t realize how good you are.’
‘Yeah, cause she’s never bothered to come watch me.’
Luke puts one hand on my shoulder and spins me around.
‘Stop it,’ he admonishes. ‘Just stick with the plan.’
‘But what if I can’t persuade her to come to the competition? What if -’
‘Uh-uh,’ he interrupts, shaking his head and wagging a finger in my face. ‘You need to stay positive if this is going to work, and it will work. If your mother will just come to the competition and see you dance, I know she’ll change her mind about the School of arts.’
Luke gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and chucks me lightly under the chin before moving off toward his Polo, parked on the curb.
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘But tomorrow is my birthday!’ I protest.
He turns around, does a little backward walk for a few steps and flashes me one of his impish grins.
‘Yes and you need to keep those ageing muscles in shape, Ms Greene!’
I stick my tongue out at him but when I turn toward my mother’s waiting car, for the first time today, I am smiling.
‘What about this one?’
Jenne pulls a pale pink silk blouse from the sale rack and holds it up for my inspection.
‘I thought we were looking for a gift for your mom?’ I say.
She pulls a face at me and tosses her mass of brunette curls back with a flick of the head.
‘Yes, I know but don’t you think this would be perfect for Venice?’
‘Rub it in why don’t you?’ I tease, and immediately feel contrite when Jenne bites her bottom lip.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I really wish you were coming too – you know that.’
‘I know,’ I sigh and rifle through the sale items. I pull a lime green blouse in the same style from the rack and hold it out to her. ‘I think the green would look better on you. It compliments your skin-tone.’
‘I knew there was a reason I brought you.’ Jenne smiles, takes the silky blouse from my hand and heads toward the cashiers. While she stands in the queue to pay, I take my time, meandering through the racks and aisles, trying to quell the wave of self pity that has engulfed me since Jenne mentioned the Europe trip.
We’d planned the itinerary together last year but my parents had refused to let me travel without them. In hindsight, what else should I have expected? My folks have always been over protective – I’m used to not being allowed to attend parties and it was no surprise when mom said no to the post matric weekend celebration to Magaliesburg, and Melissa van der Westhuizen’s eighteenth birthday party at Montecasino - but somehow, I’d been stupid enough to think they would calm down a little once I matriculated. Instead, things had gotten worse.
Mom had started insisting on coming into the doctor’s examination room with me, and had even refused, for the first time in seven years, to allow me to spend New Year’s with Jenne at her dad’s house on the Vaal River. When my mother had started talking about visiting my Nan in England, after refusing me since age seven, I knew things had gotten out of control.
Even now, my mother was probably lurking somewhere in the mall. She’d mumbled something about buying handkerchiefs for my father and followed me into the mall. Handkerchiefs?
I glance suspiciously behind me, certain that any second now, she’s going to pop out from behind a clothes rack. I shake my head and join Jenne at the store exit.
‘How’d practice go by the way?’ she asks, flinging the shopping bag over one shoulder and slipping her arm through mine as we turn in the direction of the entertainment court.
‘Good, thanks…well, sort of…’
‘What do you mean, ‘sort of’?’
I hesitate, bite the inside of my lip and admit: ‘Well, it’s just that I think Luke is becoming a little too, um… fond of me.’
Jenne lets out a loud laugh that causes a couple of teenage boys passing by to glance in our direction. Their eyes glaze over me and linger on Jenne’s curvy frame. She was blessed with a combination of the best genes from both of her parents: her father’s generous mouth, her mother’s curves and a combination of his ebony and her ivory skin that resulted in Jenne’s coffee-cream hue. Her beauty, combined with her outgoing personality, ensures that wherever she goes, Jenne is the centre of attention, which suits me perfectly, since it means that I’m not.
‘Took you long enough to figure out!’ she teases, oblivious, as usual, of the attention she has attracted. ‘What’s wrong, don’t you like him?’
‘Don’t start!’ I glare at her. ‘You know I don’t think of him that way.’
‘Oooh - what about that for my mom?’ Jenne asks. It takes my brain a moment to register the topic change, but I turn to examine the beautiful beaded necklace in the display window that she’s pointing at. It is bright and loud, perfect for Jenne’s eccentric, arts-and-crafts mother.
‘She’d love it.’
Jenne opens the boutique door and a little bell rings somewhere inside to herald her entrance. She glances questioningly at me, but when I shake my head, she lets the door swing closed between us. I stand in front of the display window, watching the Saturday crowd milling in and out of the stores.
A group of kids catches my attention as they stop at the top of the escalators and shout across the wide aisle to a young girl exiting The Body Shop. She turns at the sound of her name, grins widely and makes her way across to the group. The girls kiss cheeks and exclaim over the contents of her brown paper shopping bag, while the boys punch each other playfully on the upper arms, trying to show off for their female companions. I smile, marveling at the rainbow mix of skin colors, eclectic dialogue and chaotic accents that jumble together into something so uniquely South African.
‘I hope she likes it,’ Jenne says, interrupting my eaves-dropping. She falls into step beside me, a brightly wrapped box in hand.
‘She will.’
We walk a few steps in companionable silence and then Jenne turns to me, her lips pursed.
‘What?’ I prompt.
‘I got my Rhodes enrollment pack today.’
I feel a quick stab of jealousy that is immediately replaced with remorse when she bites the side of her lip.
‘Oh my friend, that’s great!’ I force a smile I’m far from feeling and drape my arm across her shoulders.
‘You’re not upset?’
&nbs
p; ‘Of course not! I’m happy for you,’ I lie, and then admit: ‘I just wish we could go together.’
‘Me too,’ Jenne agrees, looking almost as disappointed as I feel. ‘Are they still insisting on WITS University?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply miserably. ‘Mom says I must study law and Dad says Accounts. They’re not even keen on my Bachelor in English literature suggestion.’
Jenne puts a comforting arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze.
‘Cheer up! Just one more year to legal freedom.’
‘Be realistic, Jen,’ I complain, ‘I’ll probably be at home for at least another three years and you know the rules.’
We both say in unison: ‘My roof, my rules…’
She gives me a sympathetic smile and shakes her head, to clear the depressing cobwebs.
‘Well, for tonight, we’re not going to think about that.’ She gives me a mischievous grin. ‘You know, I’ve heard the saying ‘sweet sixteen and never been kissed,’ but don’t you think seventeen is pushing it?’
‘Very funny…’
‘We still have a few hours before your birthday and I know just the person -’
‘Don’t even start!’ I warn, feigning light-heartedness. I link my arm through hers again as we turn toward the popcorn stand.
Chapter 4
Confusion
Tastes like: Lemon and chocolate
Smells like: Carnations, delivered anonymously on Valentine’s Day
Sounds like: The beat of silence that follows an astounding revelation
Feels like: Your first step back onto dry land after a week-long cruise
Looks like: The sun shining in the middle of a storm
No… please no…
I tried to crawl forward but something or someone kept pulling me back.
‘No!’ I croaked, pushing wildly against them but my throat was too dry, burning from the smoke and the sound that escaped was barely a rasp.
Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) Page 2
