When the Ground Is Hard

by Malla Nunn

  “We stayed home, but guess what?” Her brown eyes bug out. She’s got big news.

  “What?” I say, and spoon up some potatoes. The cuts on my hands sting, but I ignore the pain and act as if this morning’s punishment didn’t happen.

  “Daddy says that this coming Christmas, he’s going to take us to Mozambique for sure. I’ll get to see the ocean and play on the sand, and Daddy says we might even take a boat to an island.”

  “You should definitely come to Maputo,” Sandi Cardoza says before I get a chance to answer Natalie. “We have a big house there, right on the beach, and sometimes we see dolphins in the water. You three should stay over during the holidays. There’s room for everyone, and my father likes visitors.”

  Delia and Natalie and Peaches ooh and aah at being invited to stay in rich Mr. Cardoza’s house, where the sand outside the door glitters with gold, and dolphins play in the waves.

  “I’ll have to get a new bathing suit,” Peaches squeaks. “Maybe a bikini.”

  “If your daddy lets you,” Delia says, and they all laugh at the joke, which is mildly funny but not that funny. I smile to let them know that I, too, am amused. And though Sandi left me out of the invitation list, I push on.

  “Right on the beach?” I ask in the breathy voice that Mother uses when she talks to Father on the telephone. “You can smell the ocean?”

  “We’re like this far from the water . . .” Sandi reaches her arm across the table to indicate the distance between her father’s big house and the much-dreamed-of Indian Ocean. “You can hear the waves day and night.”

  More oohs and aahs from the others, and I spoon the potatoes into my mouth. If my mouth is full, then I can’t point out how ridiculous Sandi’s calculations are. No house is that close to the water unless it is a houseboat. Next, she’ll say that the dolphins eat from her hand. I chew, and force the food down my throat and into my stomach. I have to be honey. I have to smile and stay sweet, even though I hate Sandi and her rich Portuguese father.

  We almost went to Mozambique once. It was all planned, the dates on the calendar circled in red by Mother, who fussed over which clothes to pack and which hat would protect her skin from the sun but leave the bounce in her hair. Seven days to go, she’d say, and then, Just six days, and that’s where the countdown stopped. He canceled. His other son—older, whiter, and smarter than us—broke his leg playing rugby, and he had to stay at home. “I want to take you to the ocean,” he said via the long-distance line. “But I can’t. I’m so sorry . . .”

  We sat in the backyard with our feet in buckets of water and pretended it was the ocean. Mother wore a pink hat.

  “What will we eat?” Peaches asks. “The same as in Swaziland?”

  “Better,” Sandi says. “Prawn curry, grilled fish, and peri-peri chicken. Ice cream on a stick, and roasted cashews. As much as you want.”

  Delia makes an mmm sound, Peaches rolls her eyes with delight, and Natalie licks her lips at the dizzying variety of food available in Mozambique. No amount of my canned meat or condensed milk can compete with the vision of plenty that Sandi has painted for them.

  7

  Copycat

  Later, we cluster outside of Scripture, our last class of the day. It’s windy, and the girls bunch their skirt hems into their fists to stop them from blowing up. The boys hang back and pray that one of the girls will lose her grip.

  Blown leaves scatter across the lawns, and Lazy-Eye Matthew reaches for the hem of Lottie’s skirt. Matthew can’t keep his grubby hands to himself or keep his dirty mouth shut around girls.

  Lottie does what I’d do, if only I had the guts. She smacks Matthew’s hand down and grabs him by the ear. “Pig,” she says, and twists. Matthew’s good eye rolls in the socket, and she twists harder. We laugh. He should have known better.

  Miss December, our mixed-race geography teacher, is taking the path across the lawn to the senior classrooms. Miss December is in her early twenties, with a long, slender neck dotted with freckles, and huge brown eyes. All the boys are in love with her. She pretends not to notice, but I think the attention pleases her. Gordon Number One, the best of the Gordons, walks behind her with a stack of her textbooks in his arms. And behind him comes Darnell, who has calmed down since being pulled from his father’s tractor in tears. Darnell copies Gordon’s confident stride and thrown-back shoulders, and I blink in surprise. Darnell is an excellent mimic. He has Gordon’s body movements down just right.

  The other girls are too mesmerized by Gordon to pay any attention to Darnell’s uncanny impersonation, because, good gracious, you should see how Gordon’s muscles strain against his cotton shirt. If he flexes any more, those buttons will pop.

  “Quick sticks.” I turn around and poke Lottie a sharp one in the back. “Miss December’s on the way.”

  Lottie gives Lazy-Eye Matthew a final slap across the head. He rubs his sore ear, and from the stupid grin on his face, you’d imagine that Lottie gave him a kiss. I think that Matthew always enjoys the touch of a girl’s hand, no matter how rough. We quickly form lines and pretend that we are all good friends. The fight between Lottie and Matthew never happened.

  When there are no adults around, we divide into different groups: some high and others low, depending on who our parents are and how popular we may or may not be. When there’s a teacher around, it is us against them: children against adults, students against teachers.

  “Agghh,” Claire Naidoo groans. “I wish Gordon Number One carried my books to class.”

  The girls giggle, and the boys sneer. Gordon Number One gets too much attention. When he’s around, the other boys are invisible, and it’s a good thing that Gordon is in his final year. Next year, a new “best boy” will take his place, and, who knows, it might be one of them.

  “Dream away,” Lazy-Eye Matthew says to Claire Naidoo. “He’d rather unzip my pants than pull down your panties! You’ve got the wrong equipment.”

  There are boys who prefer boys, but the idea that Gordon Number One is one of them shocks me. What a waste. And it’s wrong. The Bible says so.

  “Sour grapes,” Lottie snorts at Matthew. “When Gordon Number One jumps out the window at night, it’s not you he goes to see.”

  I suck in a breath. How does Lottie know where Gordon Number One goes after lights-out? She snuck out of our room to buy the slime medicine for my shoulder, but maybe she did other things at the same time. Delia raises an eyebrow and throws me a smug look that says, I told you that Lottie was a rough-necked slut like her mother, and you didn’t believe me!

  I blush for Lottie, who doesn’t understand the right way to behave. Mother taught me the proper rules to follow. Keep yourself tidy, and if you can’t keep yourself tidy, keep what you do secret. Don’t talk about creeping around after dark in front of a whole class of boys . . . That’s the same as giving out invitations. The rules are different for boys, but still, Lottie has to learn to be more careful with her words.

  Miss December stops at the head of the line, and Gordon Number One takes her books into the classroom. Darnell strides after Gordon, still caught up in his copycat game. Lottie grabs Darnell by the shoulders and spins him around to face a classroom on the opposite side of the lawn.

  “You have Health and Hygiene with Mrs. Brown, remember?” she says. “If you’re late, there’ll be trouble, so go quick.”

  Darnell hesitates, and for a moment I’m scared that he’ll scream, No, no, no, the way he did outside of chapel. Not that I’d blame him for screaming. Mrs. Brown, the white American missionary who teaches Health and Hygiene, smells of talcum powder and sweat, and ends each lesson with the same piece of advice: Don’t forget to wash down there, boys and girls.

  Lottie gives Darnell a soft push in the right direction.

  “Okay, Lo-Lo.” Darnell throws her a sullen look and drags his feet toward Health and Hygiene. Lo-Lo. He has a pet name for Lotti
e? It makes sense when I realize that Lottie is the only person I know who treats him like a normal person instead of a bad-luck charm.

  Darnell gets close to the classroom, and then he turns and sprints into the trees. He doesn’t look back. Not once.

  “Oh well.” Lottie laughs. “He almost made it.”

  I smile despite myself. Lottie accepts Darnell with all his faults—no pursed lips or judgment. I wonder if that’s because she’s been judged so many times herself. Miss December claps her hands, and we file into class and take our seats. I sit in the back row. Sandi Cardoza sits in the front, in the seat that used to be mine.

  A flash of movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Darnell Parns hanging upside down from a tree branch. His fingertips tickle the long grass, and the sound of his laughter comes in through the window. Darnell might be bad at math and hopeless at reading, but right now, he’s the happiest student at Keziah.

  8

  Ignorant

  Electric lights go out at eight sharp, and we light candles for the free hour we have until bedtime. Girls visit different rooms in the flickering glow. They gossip and try on each other’s clothes and shoes. The naughty girls smoke cigarettes and dabble with lipstick and eye shadow, both of which are forbidden at Keziah. They share news of the day: how Mr. Newman “accidentally” touched their shoulder in class, the moment that one of the senior boys looked across the lawn and licked his lips at them, the math test that was either too hard for some or too easy for others.

  No one visits Dead Lorraine’s room. Any shadow on the walls could be her ghost coming back to steal the breath from your mouth or suck the blood from your veins. I’d laugh at the girls’ stupid fears, but what Lottie said about there being no spirits has got my mind ticking.

  I think that Lottie is wrong. Her father may not float through the air or kiss her goodnight, but he is present. Not as a ghost, but as a powerful memory. And maybe that’s what spirits are: just memories. I like that idea. And, when Mother is dead and gone, my memory of her will keep her alive, even when all that’s left are bones.

  I’ll still hold my breath whenever I pass a graveyard, but here in the room, I know I’m safe. Lorraine’s memory has no hold on Lottie or me. Besides, Lottie is a clenched fist held up against the world, and if Lorraine’s ghost does appear, I’d like to see her try and haunt Lottie Diamond.

  I sit on the edge of my cot and listen to the muted voices in the hall. I could go out and talk. I have news to share. Being hit by the Elephant and spilling not one tear would get me into almost any room I want. I’d show everyone the cuts on my hands, tell them how much it hurt and how hard it was to stop from crying.

  I think about it. Maybe I was wrong about losing the pretties at lunchtime. Tonight could be my last-ever chance to regain a place with them. Surely, it’s worth another try? But I stay where I am. I don’t move, not even to scratch my itchy nose. Lottie, meanwhile, leans close to the candle flame and reads a book. We’re allowed only one book a week from the novel box in Mrs. McDonald’s English class, and she’ll be finished with hers in no time if she doesn’t slow down and ration the pages. She reads the way she eats: fast and with single-minded focus.

  I open the bottom drawer of our shared dresser and take out a piece of paper and a pen. Mother expects two letters per term, mostly to let her know my test scores so she can pass them on to Father via the telephone. I place the paper on top of the dresser, where it catches the light, and I write:

  Dear Father,

  Does your house in Johannesburg have flowered carpets on the floor and cold beer in the icebox? Once, when you were in the bedroom with Mother, Rian and I looked through your wallet, which you’d left on the side table with the porcelain angels. We thought we’d find a photograph of the others but there was nothing. Just money. It was naughty and Mother would be furious if she knew what we’d done, but we were curious. What do the other children look like? Are they young or old? Tall or short? Do they have curly hair or straight? And what about your wife . . . is she beautiful like Mother only white and do you dance with her to the music on the radio?

  I want to know all these things, though Mother says to be grateful for what we have. She says it’s greedy to ask for more. What good will knowing about the others do us? We have a house, a roof that doesn’t leak, beds with mattresses and blankets . . . “Stop asking questions, Adele,” she says. “Be nice. Smile. Make sure that Daddy knows that you love him.”

  I am nice. I am grateful. I smile. Sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes you lose your friends even when you do all the right things. I can’t tell Mother what’s happened to me. I can’t tell you. That’s how things are but I wish that things were different.

  Love, your daughter,

  Adele Xx

  I sign the letter and put the corner of the paper to the candle flame. The page catches fire, and I watch it burn. Ash falls onto the dresser, and the color reminds me of the moths above the phone booth on Live Long Street. The flames heat my fingertips and I drop the burning letter onto the concrete floor. Lottie watches me. She thinks I’m crazy. She could be right. The fire burns out, and I crawl under my covers and turn my face to the green wall.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Thomas rings the lights-out bell and shines her flashlight into our room to start her nightly head count. When she’s done, she locks us into the dormitory and goes to her house to sit with her cat.

  “You think I’m stupid,” I say in the darkness. Lottie’s Surely even you can see that? comment about Darnell Parns stings more than the cuts on my hands.

  “You’re clever with books,” she says. “But you’re ignorant.”

  Now what, I ask you, does that mean?

  * * *

  • • •

  Tuesday morning is the same as Monday. The wake-up bell rings at six. We stumble from our cots in the bruised light and troop to the bathrooms at the end of the dormitory hallway. No matter how quick you are, there’s always a line for the four showers and six sinks. Plus, girls in their final year push to the front of the line, no matter what: a perk of being old enough and smart enough to sit for their graduation exams. Twelve months from now, during our final year, we’ll do the same.

  Lottie is right in front of me, but I ignore her, still stung by being called ignorant.

  We shuffle forward in our nightgowns, the concrete floor cold under our bare feet. Andrea, an older girl, leaves the bathroom with wet hair and a bar of personal soap wrapped in a washcloth. The school provides soap, but it’s the cheap kind that the natives use and it barely makes lather. Lottie moves to the front of the line.

  Delia, Peaches, and Sandi Cardoza come up and stand next to her. They will cut in, and most girls, expecting a reward, will let them.

  “Try it,” Lottie says, “and see what happens.”

  Delia scoops a butterscotch candy from her pocket and holds it out the way that a child offers a dog a bone. This is new. The pretties usually leave Lottie alone, but I think that Delia is trying to impress Sandi Cardoza with her powers of persuasion. A bold move.

  Lottie examines the bribe, and I hope that she turns it down. I hope that Delia, Peaches, and Sandi have to move to the back of the line. It would serve them right.

  “No, thanks,” Lottie asks. “I don’t like sweets.”

  Delia is annoyed by the cool way that Lottie rejects what most students, especially the poor ones, would jump at, no question. She knows that Lottie is different, but she has no idea that Lottie has built a wall around herself that butterscotch cannot breach. Not ever. An emotion stirs in my chest. It might be pride at Lottie’s stubborn refusal to accept how things are.

  Two girls leave the bathroom, and while I’d rather hang back and put space between Lottie and myself, I have to go in immediately or else risk losing my space. I follow Lottie in, and from the bathroom line, it looks like we’re together.

  * * *

&
nbsp; • • •

  We get two sinks side by side. I hang my towel on a hook, place my bar of lavender soap on the lip of the bowl, and run cold water over my washcloth. Lottie’s towel is really half of a towel. The rest of it was cut to make a threadbare washcloth and a rag to clean her shoes. Mother says that her whole childhood was hand-to-mouth and “mend and make do.” Lottie’s is the same. I doubt she owns a new piece of clothing. Or new anything.

  Lottie uses the hard-to-lather school soap, but we both follow the same rules on how to wash. There is a right way to get clean and a wrong way. First, you wash your face, careful not to get soap in your eyes. Then you scrub your neck and behind your ears to make sure that all traces of dirt are gone. Then comes your underarms and, after that, the soles of your feet and the tight wedge of flesh between your toes where a disgusting substance called toe jam likes to collect. Wipe away the soap. Last, you wash your privates. This is crucial. Imagine washing your privates and then your face. Big mistake.

  After we are finished, we rinse our washcloths and wring out the water. We pat our wet skin dry, and those of us with our own soap carefully fold the bar into our damp washcloth. Now we are ready to face the scrutiny of the Elephant and Mrs. Thomas.

  I finish drying, but Lottie has an extra step to go. She slips a pair of high-waisted underwear from under her nightie and washes it under the cold stream. The cotton is so thin it’s practically see-through even when it’s dry.

  I leave her to scrub, and walk out of the washroom alone. Delia, Peaches, and Sandi have bribed their way to the front of the line with butterscotch, and I’m glad that they have to wait while I am already finished.

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in Dead Lorraine’s room, I pull on my school uniform, underwear, socks, and shoes, and open the wardrobe. The right side of the rail is mine, and the left side is hers. On my side, there are three cotton dresses, two sweaters, three shirts, and two skirts. I finger the flared skirt of the yellow dress that Mother gave me for Christmas. Father’s name was on the card, but I know that it was Mother who picked it off the rack and paid for it with his money.