Telesa - The Covenant Keeper (5 page)

At the end of his address, the school dispersed and the staff began making their way back to the staffroom.
Yes! Surely now I would get some help.

Help arrived in the form of the Principal, Mr Raymond. He hadn’t heard of me, and of course had no records of my educational existence. None of that seemed to faze him – as if he was used to total strangers showing up at his school every day, expecting to get admitted. He was a broadly built man with a smiley face and a dented nose that looked suspiciously like it had been broken several times, almost like a teddy bear that had been beat up one time too many - I thought absent mindedly as he explained my schedule. It seemed straightforward enough. They didn’t need to see any of my grades since I was from an overseas school (the assumption being, that guaranteed I could at least read and write with some degree of skill) There was no vocab or maths skills testing because there was only one level of English and math class to go to. I had to choose an option for my subjects – and that was easy since there were only eight to choose from, three of them compulsory. English, maths and Samoan language. I wasn’t too happy about the Samoan language but Mr Raymond assured me that I would be “put together with the other
palagi
kids who don’t know any Samoan and the teacher will go easy on you.” The entire exercise took all of five minutes. Mr Raymond spent more time reciting the school rules to me. Some of them were routine – no alcohol, drugs, smoking or profanity. Others had me raising a mental eyebrow. Things like – no iPods, no makeup, no jewellery, no strange hairstyles and only yellow jandals allowed. What the color of one’s jandals had to do with one’s learning I had no idea but again the mantra
breathe, smile, nod, agree, you are a visitor here.
Once done, Mr Raymond summoned a passing student, a tall skinny boy with velvet black hair, to take me to my first-period class.

My tour guide regarded me with frank interest. Mr Raymond introduced him as Simon – from my new form class – but as soon as we were out of the Principal’s range, ‘he’ hastened to set the introduction straight, with an airy wave of his hand.

“What-everrr! I’m Si-mone.” He said the name like how I imagined a French supermodel would pronounce it. “You’re in our form class and Ms Sivani is our form teacher. Come on, she hates latecomers.”

I quickly realized that Simone was what my uncle termed a ‘
fa’afafine
.
’
On our shopping trip to town for my school uniforms, we had stopped to buy bread and the cashier had been a man in a tight red tank top and floral mini skirt. Pink fingernails and expertly applied makeup had completed the ensemble. I guess I hadn’t expected full drag queen attire in a Samoan dairy on a Saturday morning. Reading my mind, Uncle Tuala had waited until we were back in the car and then gave me a one-word explanation.

“
Fa’afafine.
”

“A fa’a – what?” I had asked, completely befuddled.

“You know – a boy who wants to be a girl? A boy who acts like a girl?
Fa’afafine
translated loosely means umm, like a girl, in the ways of a girl.”

Aunty Matile put a stop to the conversation in her usual abrupt manner.

“In Samoa we have three different genders if you will – men and women and
fa’afafine
. It’s tradition. Don’t stare. Don’t be rude. They don’t like it.”

Fa’afafine
– another new concept to put on my list of things to understand. Very conscious of Aunty Matile’s directive about not staring and not being rude, I walked beside my tour guide with my head down, hesitant about what to say. However, Simone didn’t seem too fussed about Ms Sivani’s abhorrence for latecomers as he strutted along the corridor with all the studied ease of a runway model, stopping often to greet people..

“Daahling, how was your weekend? No way! Was he there? Ohmigosh, you’re kidding, I hate you! Tell me all about it at lunch. Oh, girlfriend wait up, how was Friday night? I heard about the V-Bar hmm, you wicked girl! I know, I was busy at home with our
fa’alavelave
and doing all the chores, going crazy I couldn’t get out. See you later! Yoohoo daaahling! ”

Like the Queen of England acknowledging her humble courtiers, I thought ungenerously, with a mental groan as I realized there was no way I would avoid a late entrance to class on my first day. Indeed, I had a sneaking suspicion that my tour guide welcomed a late entrance – the more dramatic the better. I studied Simone out of the corner of my eye as he preened next to me. Almost as tall as me, skinny, beautiful liquid black eyes (was that a hint of forbidden eye liner?), glossy hair combed in an Elvis style bouffant and carrying a shiny red handbag on one perfectly bent arm. (Don’t ask me how he fit any text books in that tiny thing.) Noticing my scrutiny, he stopped mid-wave to look me up and down, one hand on his hip, Kate Moss style.

“So where you from?”

“D.C. - I mean, the States. My mom was Samoan, but this is my first time here.”

“Oh, I see. What did you do?”

“Huh? What do you mean, what did I do? What did I do where?” I was confused.

“You know, how did you screw up? You U.S. Samoan kids get sent here all the time when your
aiga
, your family, can’t handle you over there. We get lots of juvenile delinquents here, so what did you do?” Simone seemed bored with my inability to answer his question.

“I didn’t do anything. I mean, I’m just here for three months, summer vacation, visiting my mom’s family and they thought I would enjoy a Samoan school.”

Simone raised an eyebrow in disbelief and pursed his perfect lips. (I’m sure that was lip liner – no boy could have such a perfectly defined cupids bow.) He sniffed and waved his hand airily.

“Fine. Don’t tell me the truth. I can handle it. Now, come on. We’re late.”

I stumbled along after him with a pained half smile, hoping I hadn’t just made enemy number one at my new school.
Great, maybe I should have invented a litany of felonies and misdemeanours just to make him happy
.

We came to an abrupt halt outside a particularly shabby classroom. Through missing window panes I could see the teacher at the board, who stopped her reading of the novel in her hands to confront our late entrance. She was a petite woman wearing a rich purple and gold sari draped gracefully around her slender frame.

“Simon, you are late. Do you have a late pass?” Her tone left no room for argument. Simone, however, was clearly unimpressed.

“Ms Sivani, the Principal asked me to bring this newcomer to our class. She’s transferred here from the States. Her name is Leila.”

The room was crammed full with students, orange and yellow sardines in a can. Over thirty curious faces peered at me in all my newcomer glory, looking even more unpolished and unglamorous beside supermodel Simone. I gave Ms Sivani a perfunctory polite smile and resumed staring out the window, wondering where on earth I would find a spare desk to sit at in this mob. His duty complete, Simone abandoned me to my fate, sauntering to find his seat beside another suspiciously beautiful boy.

“Oh. I see. Welcome to our class, Leila is it? We were just starting our reading of Macbeth ,we had better find you a seat.”

A broadly built boy with a ducktail haircut, leapt to his feet, a huge smile on his face.

“She can have my desk Ms Sivan. I’m happy to go looking for more furniture.” His tone was hopeful and I was suspicious that the search for furniture in this school would not be an easy or speedy errand. Ms Sivani must have harboured similar suspicions because she shook her head and pointed to her desk at the front.

“That’s very kind of you Maleko. But I wouldn’t dream of making you miss our reading of Macbeth this morning. You can sit at my desk and at first break you can acquire some extra furniture for our new student.”

Maleko scowled with disappointment, the hopes of a chance to escape from English class dashed. Great, another potential enemy I thought, taking the seat he vacated. Ms Sivani handed me a tattered copy of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and resumed her reading.

Macbeth had been the topic of my final English essay three years ago in Freshman year so I was sure it wouldn’t hold any surprises, but I dutifully turned the pages so I could follow with the class. Vaguely aware that the entire class was finding the arrival of a new girl more captivating than Shakespeare’s masterpiece, I hunched my shoulders even more than usual and slunk down in my seat, aiming for invisibility. I hadn’t been the new kid twice in two years without picking up a few tips about the best way to deal with curiosity and zoo animal watchers. Be as boring and non-descript as possible and the fascination usually dies. Stare at the ground, keep to yourself, don’t speak up too much in class. Stay away from the class ‘elite’ and don’t rock any boats. I had only ever been trapped in girl’s schools but heck, I was sure a co-ed one wouldn’t be much different.

My first morning passed swiftly, the only real struggle being the oppressive heat. There were no fans in any of the rooms and while the coconut palms outside constantly rustled in a tropical breeze, little air found its way into the square blocks, crammed as they were with students. By second period my orange blouse was sticky with sweat and I felt like I had spent two hours in a sauna. It amazed me that anyone could live in this heat – let alone work or study in it. Ugh. Remembering Tuala’s gruff advice about avoiding dehydration, I kept taking furtive sips from my water bottle.

It was a relief to find that every lesson was conducted in perfect English. Several of the teachers were Indian and so I had to listen carefully to get accustomed to their accented nuances. But all the teenagers around me spoke with faultless grammar. It was a little unnerving that English in Samoa was more English than in America. A throwback maybe to the colonial days? And of course, the absence of slang and profanity made for more ‘civilized’ conversation. I had been dreading the possibility of cliques openly talking about me in rapid-fire Samoan, but thankfully, the ‘No Samoan speaking’ rule put those fears to rest.

English was followed by Math. The only surprise being how far ahead I actually was. Another cause for celebration because Math was not my strong point. I could do the day’s worksheet in my sleep so that meant one less subject I would actually have to study for. In Biology, the class was sitting a test that the teacher, Mr Matau, graciously exempted me from. Instead, I got a ragged textbook to read through at the back of the room, giving me a golden opportunity to study my classmates. Real, live Samoan teenagers. How did they stack up compared with American ones? It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that Samoan teens functioned in a classroom according to a markedly different code from those in the States. Here, the teacher’s word was law and the students addressed them with deferential respect, even the ‘naughty’ ones like the burly boy, Maleko. Students raised their hands when they had questions and nobody argued with the teacher. Another difference was their dress. Back home it had almost been a sign of one’s status to be as sloppy and dishevelled as possible. Here, there were no extreme haircuts, no makeup, and definitely no jewellery. Girls wore their hair in neat braids. All the boys except Maleko had hair cut above the collar and Mr Matau sternly reminded two of them to tuck their shirts into their
lavalava
.

The bell ringing for lunch was a huge relief, dying as I was to get out of the oppressive confines of the classroom and into the fresh air. Everyone else seemed impervious to the glory of the green and gold day, the way the wind ruffled the coconut palms overhead. Washington Girls had been stately grey and regimented cobblestones. Samoa College was a haven of color and light. I studied everything, but all while trying hard not to stare. Boys played rugby again on the expanse of field. A cluster of girls were shooting hoops on a grass court – netball – Simone explained airily at my puzzled glance. There was another sport I would have to Google, especially since there didn’t seem to be any nets involved anywhere? Other students grouped on the wooden benches lining the driveway as they ate their lunch. I had no idea where the lonesome newcomers were supposed to go but, again, Simone came to my rescue, calling to me impatiently as he walked past me,

“Well, come on Leila, what are you waiting for? Let’s go get some lunch.”

Awkwardly, I tripped after him as he continued calling out with the same graceful ease to all and sundry. At the canteen (which only seemed to sell carbs and more carbs, all drowning in generous amounts of oil), I refused a burger. Simone then proceeded to lead me to sit underneath a
tamaligi
tree beside the rugby field and subject me to the third degree.

“So, whereabouts in the States are you from? Any brothers and sisters? Do you drive? Do you smoke? Do you party? Do you wear makeup to school back home? Why are you here? How long will you be here? Are those highlights natural? Why do you bite your nails so bad? When was the last time you trimmed your hair – your split ends are shocking. Did you have a boyfriend back home? Why not? Have you had sex? Have you kissed anyone? Have you … ” it went on and on. I was painfully relieved when the bell rang for class. Not only was I not used to answering such personal questions, I was especially uncomfortable with the fact that it was a BOY asking them. Even if he was the most graceful and feminine boy I had ever seen. I sighed as I followed Simone to our next class. I had tons of questions I wanted answering but I would have to put them aside for another day.

The rest of the school day passed in a sweaty haze and I was grateful to see Uncle Tuala’s car pull up at the gate when the last bell rang. I was tired, hot and thirsty. But I was also mildly triumphant. I had done it. Survived my first day at school in Samoa. Nobody hated me – I think. I didn’t hate anybody. The work had been manageable. The people vaguely likeable. I even kind of had a ‘friend.’ A boy who was for all intents and purposes – a girl. Already this school was scoring higher than home. Yup. Fingers crossed it kept on this way. My good mood continued enough that I was even able to speak politely to Grandmother Folger when she called to check on me that night. Yes, I was fine. No, I didn’t need any money. No, there hadn’t been any trouble at school that day. Yes, I was fine. Asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, my final drifting thought was –
I’m fine
. I could almost believe that.