by Malla Nunn
Lottie’s side of the rail holds one green dress, with permanent sweat stains under the arms, and a thin blue sweater. She will wear her school uniform during the week and the green dress on the weekends. The same two things, all term long. It’s fascinating how little she has.
I wander over to the set of drawers we share. The top two drawers are hers, and the bottom two are mine. Opening her drawers is a waste of time. I already know they are empty. From under her pillow, I take out a small spinning top with funny symbols painted on the sides. She holds it at night before she falls asleep, but I’ve yet to see her spin it. It’s a child’s toy, and why she keeps it is a mystery.
“It’s a dreidel,” Lottie says from the doorway, and I jump with fright. I’ve been caught red-handed, and she has every right to slap me down for breaking the cardinal rule of every academy dorm room: hands off other people’s stuff.
I drop the pillow like it’s hot and move to my side of the room, where I should have stayed in the first place. Lottie walks in, and I don’t know what to do with my hands, my face.
She drapes her wet underwear over the metal rail at the foot of her cot and picks up the pair that she left there to dry yesterday morning. I make a show of retucking the sheet corners and straightening the blankets on my cot while she dresses. Surprise room inspections by Mrs. Thomas are common, especially when she’s in one of her mean moods.
My mouth opens, and words come out without my permission. “What’s a dreidel?” I’m top of the English class, but I have never heard this word before or seen it written down on a page.
“It’s Yiddish for ‘spinning top.’ My father gave it to me. We used to play together.”
“What’s Yiddish?” I hate to ask. Asking for information makes me the dumb one.
“A Jewish language,” Lottie says without gloating. “I only know a few words.” She places her pillow back over the dreidel. “Let’s go and help the little ones,” she says, and lets me off the hook for breaking the rules. Just like that.
I don’t understand Lottie at all. She could have thrashed me for touching her stuff, but she didn’t. At Keziah, students never let a slight go unpunished. Then again, Lottie doesn’t care much for the rules. This time, I’m glad about it.
9
Hello, Jane
I crack open Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in Tuesday study hall—not for class but for myself. On the front page is a scratched-out name, which I cover with my thumb. Father brings us books from his other home in Joburg. Some books are brand-new, and others have cracked spines and notes scribbled in the margins, like the ones that Lottie lines up to collect on the first day of school. It’s stupid to compare Father’s gifts with the handouts given to the poor students, though. If the two things are the same, which they’re not, then Rian and I are third-class children too.
Stop, Adele, Mother’s voice says in my head. You have a book in your hands, girl. Stop fussing and be grateful. Be grateful! She is right.
I bend to the page and read.
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that future out-door exercise was now out of the question . . .
Soon, I’m far from the sleepy south of Swaziland. I’m in windswept England, where the twilight is raw and Jane suffers from frostbitten fingers. Winter in Swaziland is cold but never freezing. In Swaziland, we have a rainy season and a dry season, and in both seasons there are long stretches of blue sky and sunshine. English weather is alien to me, but Jane’s unhappy position inside her aunt’s house is all too familiar. Jane has a roof over her head and shoes on her feet, but she’ll never be a part of the “real” family, never be anyone’s darling. Jane is stuck in the space between things. That’s how I feel when I imagine Father and the others smiling for their family photo: their pale faces glowing with a sense of belonging. Like Jane, I am a stranger at the feast.
Another thing Jane and I have in common? Jane reads. The two of us connect across centuries and oceans through books and the escape they provide for us. While Jane hides behind a red velvet curtain with Bewick’s History of British Birds and finds herself in a landscape—“Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, / Boils round the naked, melancholy isles / Of farthest Thule”—I plant myself in the back corner of the Keziah Academy study hall and find myself in her world. I walk through “wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.” Jane and I are two girls transported into new worlds, not by airplane but by words. A strange thought. And lovely.
* * *
• • •
After study hall, Lottie and I walk to the senior dorm for a short rest before dinner. Girls walk together in the late afternoons because, in Swaziland, the twilight is short. One minute the sun is balanced on the horizon, and the next minute the world is plunged into darkness—and darkness is dangerous for girls. So we walk in pairs or larger groups to ward off whatever lurks in the shadows. No girls have been attacked or kidnapped that I know of, but that’s no reason to tempt fate.
We pass the little-girls’ dorm and draw level with the barrier of Christ-thorns that guards our window. The shadows under the Christ-thorns move, and Darnell Parns jumps out in front of us with wild hair and a swollen black eye.
“Lo-Lo,” he says, “come see.”
“What happened to your eye, Darnell? Who hurt you?”
He ignores her and grabs her hand. “New pretty thing.”
“You want to show me something?” Lottie says.
Darnell tugs her hand. “Now. Now. Now.”
Darnell’s voice gets louder on each now, and I suck in a breath. If Lottie refuses to go with him, he’ll pitch a fit for sure. He’ll scream and draw a curious crowd to the dormitory windows and onto the path, and I’d rather not be tonight’s entertainment.
“All right, calm down,” Lottie says. “I’ll come, but it has to be quick. Understand?”
“Good. Now.”
Darnell runs toward the banana field behind the little-girls’ dorm. Lottie follows Darnell, and I follow Lottie. A lone girl chasing a boy into the failing light has got to break a rule somewhere. I’m also curious about the “new pretty thing.” He might have found a diamond or a gold nugget, and I want to see for myself.
Darnell cuts right before he reaches the banana field, and Lottie and I keep up, careful of the uneven ground in the fading light. He stops just outside a grove of jackalberry trees and glances over his shoulder. He sees me, and he’s not happy.
Darnell jabs a finger into my shoulder when I get close. “Go away.”
“Mind your manners, Darnell.” Lottie pulls him back, firm but gentle. “Adele is with me. Where I go, she goes.”
I blink in surprise. Lottie has claimed me and, strangely, it feels good. Darnell glares at me through his unswollen eye and takes a straight path through the trees, guided by a map of the land that only he understands. He drops into a sudden crouch and points to a heap of dried grass and leaves. I hold in a sigh. So much for diamonds and gold. Lottie crouches next to him while I kneel. Crouching in a skirt is awkward, and I’d rather not flash my panties, even by accident.
“Show us,” Lottie says.
Darnell pulls the leaves and dried grass away to reveal a man-made nest built from twigs and dried mud. The nest is filled with different-colored bird feathers, smooth river stones, a pair of blue butterfly wings, and more that I can’t make out in the long shadows.
“Brown mamba.” Darnell holds up a see-through snakeskin. “Brown mamba.”
“Darnell loves animals,” Lottie says by way of explanation. “Even snakes.”
I nod. The mamba skin is interesting, but it’s hardly pretty or new. Dar
nell smiles and offers me the skin. A gift. He expects me to touch it and admire it. I hesitate, and Lottie nods at me to react. Darnell has offered me the first look, and to refuse him would be rude.
I hold out my hands, and Darnell drapes the mamba skin over my palms. It weighs almost nothing. He indicates with his hands that I should lift the skin to my eyes. I hesitate again. Lottie gives me a firmer nod.
I lift the skin to my eyes, and I see the late afternoon world, different and new, through the patterned scales. Smudged tree trunks rise up to the sky, and the broad leaves turn emerald in the last rays of sunset light. My heart stills, and beauty pours into me.
“Darnell.” Lottie’s voice brings me out of my daze. “Tell me who hit you. Was it Bosman or one his sons? Did you steal eggs from their chicken house again?”
Darnell takes the skin from me, and I murmur, “Thanks. That was my first time holding a brown mamba.”
“Good. Good.” Darnell tucks the skin into his treasure nest and ignores Lottie’s questions. He covers his hiding place with grass and twigs, and smiles at Lottie. It’s a smile of pure joy.
“Bye-bye, Lo-Lo. Bye-bye, Adi,” he says. “Bye-bye.”
Adi? I guess that’s Darnell’s name for me.
“Where are you going, Darnell?” Lottie asks, though it’s obvious that he’s about to run away from school.
“Purple. Yellow,” he says. “Far down and away.”
The words make no sense to me. Only Darnell understands Darnell.
“Wait.” Lottie grabs for Darnell’s arm, but he’s too fast and he runs for the river. Lottie chases him through the trees, and Darnell is halfway down to the riverbank by the time I catch up with them.
“Don’t you dare go into that water,” Lottie yells. “The crocodiles will get you.”
Darnell kicks off his shoes and plunges into the shallow end with his shoes held over his head. He walks deeper. Water laps at his knees and then his stomach, and I hope he can swim, because one wrong move and he’ll go under. Lottie and I stand on the riverbank, puffing for breath and helpless to change Darnell’s course.
“Come back, Darnell.” Lottie tries anyway. “You’ll lose your way in the dark.”
Darnell keeps walking, the river water up to his collarbones now. A long shape glides from the bank and disappears beneath the river’s surface. A strangled sound comes from the back of my throat. Crocodiles take dozens of people every year, and the changeover between day and night is their favorite hunting time. Bright eyes shine in the dying light, and I open my mouth to scream but no sound comes out.
“Crocodile!” Lottie runs to the water’s edge. “Hurry, Darnell. Hurry.”
Darnell wades to the opposite bank, and his bare feet drag against the sandy bottom. Mother says, The strength of the crocodile is in the water, and Darnell has got to move fast onto dry land or the crocodile will catch him.
“Run!” My voice comes back full-force. “Run!”
Darnell hears us and vaults out of the water. He scrambles halfway up the opposite bank and reaches safety a second before the crocodile launches onto the sand and snaps its jaws at thin air. The shiny monster begins to sink back into the river, but the fear courses through me still. I press my hands to my stomach to ease the knot there. I keep my eyes on the crocodile, but it slips under the surface and disappears.
“Thank you, Jesus.” Lottie breathes a prayer even though she keeps her eyes open during the meal blessing and refuses to join the Saturday Scripture club. She grabs my arm and hurries us a safe distance from the river and the submerged crocodile.
On the opposite bank, Darnell climbs to the top of the rise with the balance of a mountain goat.
“Bye-bye, Lo-Lo. Bye-bye, Adi,” he yells, and runs into a field of tall grass.
“Should we go after him?” I ask. Not that I’d cross the river with a crocodile in it, but it’s not right for Darnell to be out there all alone. Darkness is dangerous for boys too.
“It won’t do any good.” Lottie shades her eyes to search for Darnell in the fields across the river. She sighs. “He’s gone and gone.”
10
The Last Straw
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The call goes out from the yard behind the little-girls’ dormitory, and students run from all directions. The big-girls’ dorm empties, even though we are meant to be cleaning our rooms for Mrs. Thomas’s Wednesday afternoon inspection. Fights help to break up the monotony of school life, and they are must-see events. I push to the front of the mixed-race crowd with the other older girls. The Bartholomew twins face each other with flushed cheeks. Between them is a thick crop of grass, neatly braided and decorated with yellow thread. A grass doll. Highly prized.
“It’s mine,” the twin with the white ribbon in her hair says. “I found it yesterday.”
“You stole my yellow thread, so it’s mine,” the twin with the blue ribbon says, and they meet each other with nails and teeth. They roll in the dirt, scratch, and pull hair. White Ribbon holds Blue Ribbon down. Girls yell encouragement.
“Get her!”
“Throw her off!”
“Roll her over. Roll her over . . .”
The twins are evenly matched, and the fight continues, vicious and unrelenting. The crowd grows. The noise intensifies. We forget about the Elephant’s sharp ears and Mrs. Thomas’s sharp tongue and the rule against fighting. Blue Ribbon throws her twin off, and I step back to avoid being kicked. I collide with Lottie, who breaks through the front ranks and grabs White Ribbon by the shoulders.
“The Elephant is coming,” she says in a fierce whisper, and the crowd dissolves. Some run to the stand of wild bananas at the edge of the vacant field; others slip away to the laundry room and the rear of the dining hall. I blink and the twins are gone, the grass doll trampled by the crowd. Beatrice, one of Delia’s pets, is immobilized with fear. If she’s caught on the scene, she will be punished, and then punished again for not giving up the names of those involved in the fight—which no self-respecting student would ever do.
I grab Beatrice and hurry her into the Christ-thorns, where we press against the wall of the big-girls’ dorm. We hold our breath. The Elephant rounds the corner with her wig askew. She catnaps in the afternoons, and heaven help the person who wakes her. The closer she gets to us, the more I realize my mistake. If she glances to the right, she’ll see us stuck to the wall like the insect specimens in the science room.
“Quick.” Lottie holds her hand out of our window. “In here.”
She pulls Beatrice into Dead Lorraine’s room, and I scramble over the window ledge and slide to the floor. We crouch below the sill. The Elephant’s footsteps get louder and then softer as she moves in the direction of the abandoned fight. I bite my lip to stop from giggling. I imagine her wig jiggling as she swings her gaze right to left and sees nothing but a squashed grass doll.
“Stop,” Lottie whispers, and glares at me. “She’ll hear.”
Beatrice presses her hands to her mouth to hold in a laugh, and I do the same. Lottie rolls her eyes and zips her lips. She’s good at holding still and breathing slow. Beatrice and I are amateurs. We can barely control ourselves. We can’t stand the tension.
“Who’s there?” Matron snaps. “Come out where I can see you.”
We keep still and wait. The Elephant won’t enter the Christ-thorns. She’s too large to weave through the tall stems without getting pricked by the spikes that are meant to keep the boys away from the girls. Seconds pass, but they slow to minutes. She’s out there listening for clues to our location. I keep my hand plastered over my mouth until Matron’s footsteps fade and disappear. Then I collapse onto the floor and laugh till my sides hurt. Beatrice rolls on the floor with me, and we squeal and kick our feet in the air.
It feels good to laugh and forget about being dropped by the pretty girls. Lottie shakes her head at our hysterics but manages a litt
le smile.
If I’d known what was coming, I would have stayed on the floor and laughed a lot harder and longer.
* * *
• • •
We pass the Wednesday afternoon inspection with a “Well done, girls,” thanks to Lottie’s talent for scrubbing floors and washing windows. It’s obvious she doesn’t have a maid at home to do her cleaning. Delia told me last year that Lottie and her mother live in a hut, which is really one big room with a dug-out fireplace in the middle and two cots on either side of it. I’ve never been in a native hut. Delia also says the native huts stink of sweat and smoke, though I don’t think Delia’s been inside one either.
“Keep up the good work.” Mrs. Thomas ticks our names off her list and goes to the next room to search for dust under the cots and dirt in the corners. When she’s finished, she’ll hand out punishments to the girls who’ve failed. The top girls don’t care if they pass or fail. They get their pets to do the sweeping and scrubbing, and if Mrs. Thomas gives the top girls a punishment, they get their pets to do that as well. I miss having pets. Cleaning is hard work, even with Lottie’s help.
Lottie and I go back into our room. Late afternoon light pours through the windows, and the floor smells of pine needles. I lie on my cot and memorize three Bible verses from the book of John for Scripture class. Mother expects good grades for every subject, even Scripture. With As on my report card, she can tell Father how much I love school and how much I take after him in the brains department. I don’t know why she bothers. Rian is top of his distance education class. He has a chance at becoming an engineer, but a brown girl with a contour map and a hard hat . . . who’s ever seen that?
