Coconut (6 page)

“Leave me alone, Tshepo. I have to get ready.”

“So you are going to go tonight to this – what is it? Dinner? And naturally, being the cultivated sweetheart you are, politely listen to them talk about their music, their boyfriends and their holidays abroad? Oh and maybe, out of courtesy, they’ll drop in a ‘You’re looking great, Fifi’ before getting back to the agenda of who’s hosting who at Crystal Bay this Christmas.”

“Kristen Bay.”

“Whatever, Ofilwe. What does it matter? Are you going to Kristen Bay this Christmas? Do you even know where these lovely bays are that you spend your evenings talking about? Do you not feel like a fool, taking part in conversations that have nothing to do with you? Conversations that will never have anything remotely to do with you. You are the backstage crew in the drama of their lives. If they need you, they do not know it and do not care. Open your eyes.”

“Stop it, Tshepo. These are my friends you’re talking about.”

“Friends, Ofilwe, know your name. Friends ask where you come from and are curious about what language you and yours speak. Friends get to know your family, all of them, those with and those without. Friends do not scoff at your beliefs, friends appreciate your customs, friends accept you for who you really are.”

“Get out of my room, Tshepo.”

Their faithless eyes crawl on my skin, making it itch. I scratch my neck. Perhaps if I walk over to the topical creams section, they will ease off. The pharmacist himself is tolerable, decades have a way of redeeming one. It is his spinster of a sister I detest. I know it is only a matter of time until she slithers over to offer me her unasked-for assistance. Seeing Belinda has put me in sour spirits and I am in no mood to use the accent today. I hold my breath as I walk between the security sensors, and out of the pharmacy doors, daring them to ring wildly. Who knows, maybe I do have an innate proclivity for theft.

Samantha Grey’s father wanted her back. She’d smugly spill it all as we sat in a circle on Mrs Mark’s mat, ‘sharing and caring’ during Guidance. He wanted custody and would pay any price to win her and too-fast-for-even-the-fast-girls Lucy back from bi-polar Mom and her boyfriend of the week. It was rational to pity her, but as we watched item after recently bought item slip effortlessly off cherry-gloss lips, we envied her and bargained with the gods that they should be so gracious as to let divorce rain down on our poor households, too. Mrs Mark, eyes soggy and face swollen in dismay, suggested that we give Samantha a group
drukkie.
In our arms Samantha promised that if we proved to be as cool as her friends from her previous school she would consider asking her Dad if we could spend a weekend at the dam.

I had heard of the kissing game spin-the-bottle, and thought, already wise at only twelve, that it was cowardly to allow a deodorant can (apparently it pointed better than a bottle) to determine who and when you embraced. I knew that at the right time with the right guy I would embrace all I liked without seeking the approval of any type of container. That is why when we sat in a circle on Samantha’s Dad’s polished floor watching the Axe deodorant can spin recklessly, I thanked my guardian angel that there was no right guy here and this was not the right time.

As the Axe was spun again, I knew from the way it had been mocking me with its sarcastic swirls all night that it would point at me next. It was too late to fake a sunstroke-related headache, so I silently pleaded with it to pair me up with a girl. Any girl. Anything rather than the humiliation of exposing my inexperienced lips to the expertise of those that belonged to the boys in the room. The conniving canister instead commanded that Clinton be the one I kiss. Clinton Mitchley.
The
Clinton Mitchley who was believed to have taken his first girl at the age of ten. Samantha’s Clinton. My intestines choked. I knew that the longer I sat staring at the abominable piece of aluminium, the harder it would be to do the deed. I calmly shifted my bum, still in wet board shorts, into the centre of the circle. I gently helped myself onto my knees, closed my eyes and pouted out.

“No ways! Her lips are too dark!” he protested.

Now with eyelids fastened tight (No ways! Her lips are too dark), I shifted back to my ready spot (No ways! Her lips are too dark), unsure of what to do next (No ways! Her lips are too dark), whispering the words to myself (No ways! Her lips are too dark), not believing that they were spoken words (No ways! Her lips are too dark); live words (No ways! Her lips are too dark); words that had been followed by an explosion of general laughter (No ways! Her lips are too dark).

I curse the pharmacist’s sister for making me leave the shelter of her shelves of medicine. The pathway I have chosen to take me to Mama, who I suspect is in Supermart, is the same one Belinda and her father are on and now they have seen me. I swear never to support that pharmacy again. The paved pathway is bordered by silver bars on either side. The bars are linked with cable. Long and narrow, these pathways encourage congeniality amongst the shoppers of Little Square but offer you no space to escape interaction with approaching strangers, forcing one of you to stop and step aside, smile a wooden hello, and let the other pass.

Dear Fifi:

How are you? I never see you anymore! What is going on? I miss you. Got so much to tell you! How come you never reply to my letters anymore? I’ve been sticking them under your desk like we always do. Have you not been getting them? (Maybe they’ve been falling off.) I mean it, I really do miss you. Are you cross with me over the whole late library book thing? I’ll pay the fine, Fifi; it’s really no biggy. I’m sorry, though, if that’s the issue. Remember our promise, our No Secrets Policy? That was good or bad secrets, remember? No Secrets, good or bad. SO if there is anything wrong, you are obliged, by the sacred Best Friends Book of Rules and Regulations for the sake of all Best Friends, to come, to tell me. He he
I mean it.

Gosh. I really do miss you. I’ve said that a lot, haven’t I? What is happening to us, Fi? I don’t even know you anymore. Anyway, Mrs Swart is looking at me funny. I finally understand why you hate this woman. Gosh. Why is she even dressed like that in the first place? I should be looking at her funny. She should be looking in the mirror and looking at herself funny. Maybe she doesn’t have a mirror. Who dresses like that in this day and age? Fifi, it is frightening. Fortunately for you, Fi, I cannot bring myself to defile this pretty piece of paper with a description of the ensemble she has on. How are we supposed to get an education with her prancing around the classroom like that? It is a lack of consideration, that is what it is. Pure selfishness. OK, now she is really looking at me funny so I should wrap this up. Well, I guess I kinda said all I really wanted to say. Hi and I miss you. Tried calling. You are never home these days, Old Virginia mentioned something about ‘he busy being out’. Ha ha!
But you know good Ol’ Virginia never could get anything right. I actually, at first, thought you were avoiding me, and then I came back to my senses: Best Friends for Life means best friends for life! (Right?)

Maybe we can do a sleepover this weekend. Like old times! You choose the movies. I swear to shut up this time. Last weekend at Renee’s we had hot chocolate with a dash of Amarula and cream. It is to die for, Fi! We can try make some of that too. Gosh, it’s been so long! I’m excited now. Please write back this time. You can’t pretend you didn’t get this one. I’ll put it ON your desk. Will call you tonight. Answer the phone please! (Old Virginia makes no sense.) Promise to let you play with my hair for as long as you like if you come over. I swear.

Lots of Lekker Love

Belinda

B.F.F.E

I will greet Belinda and her father just as soon as they get closer. I could still pull off escaping into another store, but I won’t because that would make them think I am ashamed, and I am not.

I told myself I was throwing out all the garbage in my life when I rejected their invitations. I told myself that this detox had been a long time coming, when I felt nothing when she began to cry. I told myself that now I would finally be happy when I took their pictures off my wall. I tried to say it day and night, hoped I’d chant it in my sleep, just until my foolish eyes stopped watering, the stubborn boulder in my throat dissolved and I began to believe that I was really ‘better off’ without them. Because I really am.

I feel sorry for Belinda. I feel sorry for me. But I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles. Things do not always work out the way they should. I think at heart she is a good person. But I am a good person too. She meant well. But we were different. And somewhere between grades three and ten that became a bad thing. It hurts hurting your friends. But she hurt me. You miss the laughs, the delirious things you’d do and the madness you shared.

But after a while it’s agony playing a role you would never dream of auditioning for. You fall ill from explaining why Mama does not shave. You run out of excuses why Daddy refuses to go fishing with the rest of the dads, and why Koko won’t help out at the tuckshop like everybody else’s grandmother does. Even if Felicity, the only other girl of African descent in your grade, and the three other brown kids in the younger years, treat you like the scum they believe they are, at least you are all the same. At least they don’t stare or question or misunderstand.

“Say ‘uh-vin’ Fifi. You bake a cake in an ‘uh-vin’, not ‘oh-vin’, ‘uh-vin’.”

“This is boring, Belinda, let’s see who can climb the highest up that tree.”

“No, Fifi! You have to learn how to speak properly.”

“I can speak properly.”

“No you can’t, Fifi. Do you want to be laughed at again? Come now. Say ‘uh-vin.’”

“Uuh-vin.”

“Good. Now say ‘b-ird.’ Not ‘b-erd’, but ‘b-ird’.

I am not used to hating. Hate sits heavy on my heart. It reeks. I can smell it rotting my insides and I taste it on my tongue.

Daddy hands over his bankcard to Mama so that she can draw out her money for the week. When Daddy decided, two or three years ago, that nursing was too demanding for his apparently overworked wife, who he believed would be better off spending her time at No. 2064 Honeysuckle Street raising their potentially wayward children, they agreed that he would give her a weekly allowance to cover her daily expenses.

February can be scorching hot in Little Valley and today it’s just that. Putting his arm around my shoulder, Daddy whispers, loud enough for Mama to hear, that I will be his eyes and make sure that our spendthrift mother does not draw out more cash than she is supposed to. Daddy winks. Mama smirks, and walks away. I do not wink back, but follow after Mama, mildly annoyed. The banking centre is on the other side of the parking lot. The heat is overwhelming and I am uncomfortable being alone with Mama.