“What time was he here, Ma? What did he say? Where did you say I was?”
Mom looks at me oddly.
“A while ago, Noldy. He didn’t say much, just that you’re not replying to his messages. He was hoping to find you here. Then he took his Tupperware and left. I told him you were at rehearsals. That’s where you were, not so?”
“Was he alone, Ma?”
“Of course he was.” She removes two trays of baked beskuit from the oven.
I take a small plate of the moist rusks spread with butter to my bedroom. Mom must be feeling a little better; I can see she cleaned the house this morning. Nothing is in its usual place. Even Miss Cuddles isn’t on my bed, but sitting in the old wicker chair by the window. I sit down with her and eat my rusks while she watches with her beady little eyes.
“You wouldn’t like it,” I tell her. “It doesn’t have any bamboo in it.”
I pull my old toy box closer with one foot. When I was little I kept all my toys inside, but now it holds only a few toys representing my most important growing-up phases. A Barbie doll, my collection of snow globes, a few favourite books, my box of beads, my One Direction T-shirt and scrapbook. When we moved to Potchefstroom, Mom forced me to donate bags and bags of collected junk to the Salvation Army.
“Your memories are in your head, Noldy. Keep just one item from each of the important phases and they will serve as a catalyst to ignite those memories.”
According to Mom, the handpicked items in this box work like Blitz at a braai fire. She’s right, of course. When I pick up the long-legged doll, I remember every dress my Ouma Cornelia ever knitted for her tiny body. When I sniff the 1D T-shirt, the following memory flares up: Chloë Willemse and I at the One Direction concert; thousands of screaming young girls and a few brave dads. For now, the toy box makes an ideal footrest. I kick off my school shoes, and put both my feet up on the box. I use my last soft rusk to mop up the small pool of melted butter on the plate.
I peer at Miss Cuddles again. “What does it feel like to be cute, Miss Cuddles? To know it makes no difference whether you’re bright or dumb? Because you’re cute and that’s all that matters?”
I think about Dewald and Irma Geyer. How can someone like Dewald hang out with someone like Irma? Irma probably hasn’t had a single day of hardship in her life. It’s common knowledge that the Geyers from The Golden Oven have more money than they can count. Hein told us today at rehearsals that his dad had bought him a brand-new car when he was barely seventeen. The same will probably happen for Irma. I think hardship hones a person and makes them really think about things.
Would Irma ever be able to have a conversation with Dewald about the philosophy of food? About the way turmeric colours potatoes a sunshine yellow when the spice and the vegetable are in hot water together? The same way that a real connection with another human being can change you and make you more interesting?
I pick up my cellphone. It’s only pinged once all day. It was Mom, asking:
What time will I see you this afternoon?
So, I am now officially without friends. Nostalgia makes me scroll to the On a Roll WhatsApp group. Shaun has removed me from the group, but I can still read our conversations from before Sunday’s meeting at The Dairy Devil. Before I can stop myself, I’m sobbing bitterly into Miss Cuddles’s musty fake fur.
I come up for air. Fez gazes at me with his ever-cheerful grin from my That ’70s Show poster. I hurl Miss Cuddles at Fez’s head. Why can’t things work out well for me just once? Why can’t I have the leading role in the musical and keep my friends? Find a guy who is interested in me, and not just in my love of food?
I’m still holding the phone. Perhaps I should call Dewald. Explain to him how Mrs Elgin sort of forced me to accept the role of Tracy Turnblad. Or, as Dineo said, boob-hunted me because of my bra size. I almost never phone my friends, because it’s expensive. We all prefer WhatsApping. But this is an emergency.
I tap on Dewald’s name and his face with its crooked grin appears on my screen. The phone rings a couple of times on his side. My heart is beating wildly. Then someone answers. A giggly, high-pitched girl’s voice says: “Hellooooo! Dewald can’t talk to you right now, he’s busy touching my buns!”
I hear Dewald shouting in the background: “Hey! Give me that!”
Before I can humiliate myself even further, I cut the call. So that’s the way things are. I’m sitting here talking to my stuffed panda, while Dewald Fourie is fondling Irma Geyer’s buns.
I’m surprised at what happens next. I go from heartache to anger, to I-don’t-care-any-more within seconds. To hell with the lot of them. On a Roll – bah! More like Toilet Roll. I’m in the world of arts and entertainment now. It’s lonely at the top. Ask any Hollywood star with an unlisted telephone number. If you manage to get hold of them, that is.
The biggest problem with being persona non grata at On a Roll is that I have to come up with clever plans to get my hands on Dewald’s delicious food. I really can’t bring myself to queue in front of the yellow Kombi clutching my lunch money.
A week after we’ve started rehearsing for Hairspray, I join Edwin Daniels’s group in the quad. Edwin had been asked to do the stage lighting for the play, and he’s roped Charmaine and Magriet in as his assistants. The three of them are now officially part of the technical crew.
It doesn’t take long before I realise that there is a specific ranking order within their little gang. Edwin is the unofficial leader. Strong and silent. But Charmaine is the queen bee. Magriet is her slave. When Charmaine tells a joke, Magriet collapses with laughter. When Charmaine wants something from On a Roll, Magriet rushes to collect the order.
I quickly figure out how I can get snacks from On a Roll without having to go and buy them myself. I wait for Charmaine to give Magriet her food order, and then stuff money into her hands for my order as well. Almost without exception, it’s a chocolate brownie. Or two. The blondies remind me too much of that special afternoon with Dewald in our flat, when I tasted a blondie for the first time ever and when we listened to ‘Call Me’. I will never again have another blondie.
My secret support of On a Roll doesn’t just stop there. From a distance, I manage to keep a keen eye on things. I notice, for example, that The Grump is buying himself a Banting brownie every day. Many of the other teachers are also supporting the tuck truck. That means things are looking good as far as Dewald’s school and hostel fees go. This makes me happy. I also notice that Irma Geyer fetches her Captain Curry hero roll every day, and that she hangs around the truck for the remainder of break. Stupid girl.
I suspect my new squad of friends are just decent, and put up with me simply because I’m part of the Hairspray cast. Until the day Estelle Wolmarans brushes past us during break and snaps at me: “So I see you were fat enough for the role, Hungry Noldy.”
There isn’t even time for me to feel bad about the insult, because the next moment Charmaine puts a foot out and trips Estelle. She flies through the air and lands, rather unladylike, flat on her stomach on the lawn. For a shocking moment she’s sprawled there, her blue school dress hitched up so high that we can all see her knickers. Once she’s back on her feet, Charmaine pushes right against her and says, quite calmly: “Go and eat your sour grapes somewhere else.”
My nomadic existence hasn’t prepared me for this. It is not as if I’ve ever had the same friends for longer than a couple of months. Before we reach the point of let’s-mix-our-blood-and-pledge-eternal-friendship, Mom and I are already headed for the next town. No one has ever stood up for me like this. How does one react to an unsolicited display of loyalty like that?
“Thank you, Charmaine,” I say uneasily.
“Ja-ja. Don’t make it all weird now. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time anyway.” She snorts, picks up her school bag and walks off.
One school day flows into the next and, to me, it
is a strange combination of colourful and dull, blissfully happy and deeply sad. My favourite part of the day is when we rehearse Hairspray in the school hall. I realise that my voice is actually not that bad. The dancing is altogether another matter. I was clearly born with two left feet. The other actors grasp the dance steps so much quicker than I do. Mrs Elgin suggests that I come for a few extra lessons. I eventually master the choreography, but can never really rid myself of the wooden moves.
My sad times are during breaks, when I secretly watch the hustle and bustle of the tuck truck. There I sit with my new squad, watching my concept becoming a huge success. Even though the Truckers worked so hard, we all had such good times putting together On a Roll. The knowledge that Ilana, Dineo, Shaun and Dewald are turning this venture into such a success without me almost causes me physical pain. They’ve stopped completely ignoring me when they pass me in the school corridors. In fact, they even smile at me. Perhaps they know full well that witnessing their happy vibe at breaks is enough punishment for me. Knowing I’m no longer part of it all just kills me.
Four weeks before opening night I get the fright of my life when I arrive for the afternoon rehearsal. There, in the front seats, my ex-friends are sitting in all their On a Roll glory. Dewald, Shaun, Dineo and Ilana. Mrs Elgin, Miss Heyns and The Grump are speaking to them.
“What’s going on?” I ask Charmaine.
“It has to do with the sale of food before the show and during interval. The Grump and company are explaining it all to them.”
Why do I suddenly feel nauseous? I knew this would happen.
Mrs Elgin invites the Truckers to stay a while, if they like, and watch the rehearsal. That’s all I need right now. Today is the day that I forget all my moves, I just know it.
When the On a Roll crew realises that I’m alone on stage in the first scene, doing my solo ‘Good Morning Baltimore’, they rise as one and leave the hall. I’m not at all surprised, but it hurts like hell. I struggle to sing without bursting into tears.
A minute or so into the song, just before I launch into the chorus for the second time, I notice that one of them is still there, lingering at the back of the hall. She’s partially hidden by big potted plants. It’s Dineo.
One Thursday afternoon I find Mom waiting for me outside the school. I’ve been walking home from school for a while now. The informal lift club she had with Ilana’s parents ended unceremoniously along with our friendship. I’m suddenly cold. The fact that my mother is standing at the school gate, that she even got out of the car to wait for me, can mean only one of two things: it’s either very bad news or very good news.
I walk towards her. As her facial expression comes into focus, I realise that it has to be the latter.
“Guess what?” she twinkles, her smile so wide it all but wraps around her head.
“Dad’s coming back?” I just couldn’t resist.
“Oh, Arnelia, no! Ouma Dina is coming to see Hairspray!” Mom looks as though she’s about to spontaneously combust from pure excitement. For the first time, I think about how much she must miss her mother. We haven’t seen Ouma Dina and Oupa Jack for months.
“That’s awesome, Ma,” I say, and I mean it, although I probably don’t sound very convincing.
“She’s coming on her own, because Oupa Jack has to look after their house, but she can’t wait to see you in the leading role, Noldy!”
Mom is so excited that she doesn’t say anything about me using the word ‘awesome’.
Ten days to go until Hairspray takes to the stage, and it’s time for our first dress rehearsal. Dineo has been standing at the back door, in the shadows between the pot plants, every afternoon. For the past couple of days she’s even pulled up a chair and made herself comfortable. I try to get away quickly after rehearsal every afternoon, so that I can catch up with her to chat. So far, I haven’t managed to.
I can’t wait to try on my costumes. There are a couple of flared dresses with petticoats that flounce and flutter when I twirl. My wig is enormous and gets attached to my head with Velcro strips. Luckily the shoes don’t have high heels. I’m battling with my dance steps in my tackies as it is.
Mrs Elgin sticks her head into the dressing room.
“How’s the green blouse looking, Arnelia? Do the buttons close now?” she asks. A whole lot of alterations have been made on my wardrobe so that my pair of Van Zyl family legacies could be accommodated.
“Yes, Ma’am, perfectly fine.” I study my reflection in the mirror. I don’t look half bad. The huge hairdo makes my figure appear a little slimmer. Even my calves look, well, athletic.
Hein Geyer cuts a neat Link Larkin in his blue stovepipe pants and white shirt. I see for the first time why all the girls – and Shaun – go nuts over him. He has the lithe physique of a swimmer; he isn’t bulky like a rugby player. He walks with what Ouma Dina would call ‘a swagger’ – full of self-confidence and with a lazy rhythm. With so many girls batting eyelashes at him, it’s strange that he’s never had a girlfriend, or become arrogant. But he’s not my type.
The other lead roles in the play are played mostly by matrics and Grade 11s. The mother of my character, Tracy, is a buxom woman named Elma Turnblad. The role is played by Estie de Bruin, a cheeky girl who has to wear a fat suit, like John Travolta did in the movie. She moans like a stuck pig about how hot the suit is, now that winter is turning into spring.
I walk onto the stage in full Tracy kit and make-up for the first time. My skirt is of pale-pink satin, my blouse is mint green and there’s a giant pink-and-green bow in my wig. I imagine this is what a bride feels like as she walks down the aisle to the altar.
The hall echoes with excited chatter. Mrs Elgin struts around like a mother hen. Her earrings tinkle and her beads rattle. Her hands flap like the birds in Oupa Jack’s back yard when there’s a snake in the fig tree. She tugs at someone’s dress hem, fluffs up someone else’s hairdo.
Silence descends on the hall when everyone sees me.
Mrs Elgin stands in front of me and makes a square frame with her thumb and index finger. She peers at me through this finger frame and says, “Arnelia, my darling, you look breathtaking!”
“Sexy!” Hein Geyer says.
A chorus of appreciative ‘wows’ and ‘awesomes’ bubbles up from the audience. My head swells to the size of my wig. For the first time in my life, I’m the centre of attention. I rather like the feeling.
Masking-tape crosses have been taped on the stage floor as place markers. We all take our places for the final bow. Mrs Elgin is teaching us how to handle applause and encores. As I straighten up after my second low bow, I look straight into Dineo’s eyes. She’s forgotten to shield herself behind a pot plant. We’re both startled. She dives back behind the greenery.
“Let’s do a quick run through ‘Good Morning Baltimore’ with the right shoes, Arnelia,” Mrs Elgin suggests.
The rest of the cast are allowed to hang up their costumes and go home. My director still believes that I’ll magically morph into a dancer before opening night. I very much doubt that’s going to happen.
The instrumental music starts up. In the opening scene, Tracy Turnblad wakes up in her bed, gets dressed and dances through town on her way to school, all the while belting out ‘Good Morning Baltimore’. I find it extremely difficult to do so many things at once. Singing and smiling while walking is all right, but every so often there’s a complicated turn, a skip, or a swing around a lamppost that I can’t master, even at this late stage of rehearsals.
“What are we going to do with you, Arnelia?” Mrs Elgin is in the front row, pulling her hair out. “You can’t make these sorts of mistakes when you take to the stage next Wednesday. You simply cannot!”
I’m so discouraged. It’s as if the part of my brain that ought to control my arms and legs keeps malfunctioning. What’s the point of me looking good and singing well if I scuttle
about on stage like a drunken beetle? I’ll die of embarrassment if I struggle like this during an actual performance. Is this my punishment for leaving my friends in the lurch? I can’t help thinking that it may just be the case. Karma is a bitch, as Shaun always says.
Then I have a light-bulb moment. No, scrap that. The moment has many, many light-bulbs like those around a dressing-room mirror.
Dineo. I have to convince Mrs Elgin that Dineo is the right actress for this role. I know Dineo would make an unbelievable Tracy Turnblad. She’s been watching me every afternoon for weeks now. She can sing. She sparkles. With a little alteration to the bust measurements, my costumes would fit her figure perfectly. Best of all, Dineo can dance like no one else in the school. Dineo has remarkable moves.
“Don’t worry, Ma’am, I have a plan.” I hitch up my skirt and run down the stairs at the side of the stage. I rush past an astonished Mrs Elgin directly to where Dineo is hiding in her usual spot between the pot plants. By the time she notices me, it’s too late for her to make an escape. She’s frozen, like a rabbit caught in headlights. She is probably praying I’ll pass by.
I make a beeline for her, swipe the plant leaves aside and ignore the fact that she’s completely stunned.
“What are you doing?” she gasps in shock.
I grab her arm. “Come with me.”
I march her over to the drama teacher and plant her directly in front of Mrs Elgin.
“Leave me alone! You’re insane!” Dineo struggles against my grasp, but I keep a firm hold of her arm. I know I’m doing the right thing. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
“What’s this now?” asks Mrs Elgin.
“You probably know Dineo Tshamboko, Mrs Elgin,” I say formally. “Public speaker, debating queen and dancer extraordinaire?”
Mrs Elgin looks terribly confused.
“Dineo, as you know, this is our Hairspray director, Mrs Elgin. Mrs Elgin, meet Dineo – your new Tracy. She’s going to sing and dance your show up to a whole new level.”
Confessions of a Ginger Pudding Page 10
