Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) (10 page)

Chapter
14

Nervous

Tastes like: Fizz-pop
sherbet.

Smells like: Ink from the
back of a chewed pen.

Sounds like: The rapid
tap-tap of fingernails on a desk.

Feels like: Butterflies and
somersaults in the pit of your stomach.

Looks like: Ravaged
nail-beds.

If I had any hopes of getting some separation from my
seastnan
, they are quickly dashed with
Nan’s announcement regarding my travel arrangements to college. I am sure the
dismay must be evident in my expression when she explains that Kael will be my
daily chauffeur to and from Gloucestershire College, The Royal Forest of Dean Campus.
The idea of spending any amount of time with him in the confined space of his
vehicle fills me with dread.

It’s not because I don’t like him – quite the opposite,
but he confuses me; one minute, protective and caring, the next, all
monosyllabic responses and rules. Then there is the inexplicable current flowing
between us that neither of us is brave enough to broach.

Kael arrives in Nan’s driveway, in a mud-encrusted
double-cab truck, which was probably white at some stage of its lengthy
lifespan. Aside from a brief greeting, the entire journey is made in stilted
silence. I’m too nervous about the day ahead to speak and Kael stares furiously
at the road ahead. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve his anger, but it
rolls off him, into the space between us and I try to ignore it.
  
 
 

Mom and Dad have gotten me into a bridging course that
will put me in line for an English literature course by next autumn. It’s not
the degree in English literature I had envisioned enrolling for next year at
Rhodes University but it is a step in the right direction. At least it’s not
law or accounting.

I’m not quite sure what to expect of the course
material, since the grading system in England differs somewhat from South
Africa’s education system but it’s not the course itself that worries me.
Studying is easy, a matter of hard work – making friends is another story.

I sigh and twist my pony-tail into a tight spiral that
mirrors the feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not even Kael will be a familiar
face in my class since he is a year ahead of me and according to Nan, enrolled
in a construction course. Ironic, the one place I would have welcomed his
presence, he won’t be.
 

The college building is a large brown structure with
white gutters and window frames, and a multiple story layout reminiscent of my
school back home. Kael escorts me into the building and stops at the door of
the admin office.

‘I’ll be there if you need me,’ he says.

I eye the surrounding corridors and classrooms with
skepticism.

‘But how -’

‘I’ll know,’ he says and opens the glass doors to the
office for me.

I stand for a while, staring at him, and then shove my way
past. Why does he have to be so cryptic? The construction faculty is probably
on the opposite side of campus, for all I know. How is he going to know if I’m
in trouble from that distance? Even if he does know, how will he get to me through
the maze of corridors, staircases and students, before it’s too late?
Too late
…

‘Can I help you?’

A curly-haired administrator interrupts my unpleasant
thoughts as she peers over her glasses at me from the other side of the counter.
I step forward and slide the faxed admission form from my father toward her.

‘Yes, I’m Shaylee -’

‘Oh yes, the South African girl.’

The way she says ‘South African’ makes me want to slap
her. She eyes me up and down, like she can’t believe I’m wearing Levis instead
of a grass skirt, then she hands me a wad of documents to complete. I bite my
tongue and obediently take care of the necessary paperwork. When I’m done, she
hands me a schedule, briefly explains how to get to my first class and dismisses
me to find my way through the maze of corridors that are quickly becoming
deserted.

As luck would have it, my first class is already in
session when I slip through the doors, and the only vacant seat is front and
centre, right under the bespectacled nose of a gray-blonde teacher in a
pin-striped pencil skirt.

‘So glad you could join us, Ms Greene,’ she says. ‘Take
a seat.’

My cheeks burn as I make my way toward the lonely chair.
It’s bad enough that she knows my name, but now everyone is staring.

‘I’m Mrs. Whitcomb,’ the teacher says, high heels
clicking ominously against the tiled floor as she makes her way toward me. Her
voice has a nasal quality that makes her sound bored. She stops in front of me,
slaps a large textbook onto the wooden table with a thunk, and stares down at
me over the glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose.

‘You’ve missed a large portion of the curriculum already,
Ms Greene. You’ll have to see me later about catching up. I hope you won’t be
too lost.’ She gives me a doubtful look. ‘We were just about to begin our
discussion on the use of symbolism in
Macbeth
.
I don’t suppose the
African
curriculum
includes the study of Shakespearean literature?’

‘Actually,’ I say, bristling at her tone, ‘the
South
African curriculum includes a
number of Shakespearean literature studies, Mrs. Whitcomb.
Macbeth
was our grade eleven prescribed literature study, along
with
Hamlet
and
Romeo and Juliet
in grade twelve.’

Mrs. Whitcomb takes her glasses off and looks at me.

‘Indeed,’ she says, ‘perhaps you could share some of
your views with the rest of the class?’

I groan inwardly at my folly, as everyone in the room
waits expectantly. Thank goodness
Macbeth
was one of my favorite studies; I can still remember a lot of what Mr.
Oosthuizen taught me. I sigh, twist my pony-tail over my shoulder, and launch
into a detailed analysis of Lady Macbeth’s hand washing.

‘Wow babe, now that was something.’

I look up from my class schedule to find a pixie-like
girl with brown spiky hair, standing in front of me in the corridor. She has on
black tights and a purple over-sized sweater that reaches her knees and the
hand she offers me is painted with bright purple nail-enamel.

‘I’m Michelle,’ she says, ‘You really gave it to Mrs. W.’

‘Oh…’ I say, with a crooked smile. I’ve spent most of
the past hour debating the use of symbols and metaphors in
Macbeth
with Mrs. Whitcomb. It was a grueling experience, but on
the plus side, I’m feeling quite positive about the potential of this bridging
course.

‘So she’s not like that all the time then?’ I ask,
taking Michelle’s offered hand for a brief, firm greeting.

‘No,’ she replies with an amused expression, ‘she
doesn’t usually grill the students like that. You seem to have sparked her
interest. What’s your next class?’

‘Dramatic arts.’

‘That’s my next stop too. Come on, I’ll show you.’

I nod gratefully and fall into step beside her.

‘I’m Shaylee by the way,’ I say.

‘Yes, I know,’ she replies.

‘Did they like, send a notice around about me or
something? How come everyone knows my name?’

She laughs.

‘Kind of. My mom was at the Circle meeting.’

I stop walking and stare at Michelle’s eyes – her light
green
eyes.

Chapter
15

Homesick

Tastes like: Fast food instead
of a home-cooked meal.

Smells like:
 
Starched hotel linen.

Sounds like: An empty house.

Feels like: Velcro instead
of velvet.

Looks like: The distance to
the horizon.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Michelle laughs. She tugs on my
hand until I begin moving again. ‘Where did you think the rest of us went to
school?’

I look around at the milling students, searching for the
trade-mark shortness and green eyes. There are a few, and I guess that explains
why they’re gawking at me as they pass. I should have realized there would be
Maor
at the college, but it feels strange
to be talking to one in the middle of a bustling college corridor. I’m still
trying to get used to the idea that they –
we
- exist at all.

‘So you’re…’

‘Yes.’ She winks and steps into an auditorium on our
left. I follow her inside and to the back of the class where a tall, stick-thin
girl, dressed in black from the top of her tar-black head to the tips of her
calf-length boots, is waving frantically.

‘But she’s not,’ Michelle warns under her breath and
turns to smile at the Goth-girl who looks freakishly tall beside Michelle and
I.
 

‘Hi, babes!’ Michelle says stepping in to hug the other
girl. She gestures toward me.
 
‘This is Shaylee
Greene, the new student from South Africa. Shay - you don’t mind if I call you
Shay, right - this is Kelly.’

‘I heard about you,’ Kelly says, tapping the plastic
chair beside her, ‘you’re Tanya Greene’s grand-daughter right?’

‘How did you know?’ I ask in surprise.

Both girls look at each other and laugh.

‘It’s a little hard to keep anything secret in a town
the size of Aylburton,’ Kelly says. Michelle just laughs louder. I imagine she
is thinking of the irony in Kelly’s statement.

Their laughter subsides and we take our seats in the
last row. Down in front, on the raised stage-like platform, the dramatic arts
teacher, in an eccentric bright orange shirt with white stripes, is typing
something on his laptop while the students take their seats.
 

‘I love your top, Shaylee,’ Kelly says, peering around
Michelle and gesturing at the midriff pink crochet cutout that I’ve layered
over a black fitted shirt.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘It’s so unusual – really cute. Where’d you get it?’

‘Yeah, I guess not everyone is into crochet clothing,
but I kind of have a thing for it. I got this one at Panorama flea market back
in South Africa.’

‘What’s it like then - South Africa?’ Kelly asks.

‘Sunny,’ I reply wistfully.

‘Isn’t it awful though, with racial separation and
everything?’

‘It’s not like that at all,’ I say, feeling a wave of
nostalgia wash over me. ‘Apartheid was abolished decades ago. I don’t know what
it was like except for what I was taught in school.’ I sigh at the surprised
expression on Kelly’s face. She opens her mouth to say something, but the
teacher starts clapping his hands sharply and we all turn our attention to the
lesson.

Michelle and Kelly spend the rest of the day by my side,
asking questions about South Africa and showing me around the campus
facilities, which include a magnificent two-tier library and world-class
restaurant serviced by the hotel students. At lunch, Kelly’s boyfriend, Jarred,
joins us in the canteen. He is as tall and dark as Kelly, and sports some
rather painful looking nose and lip piercings. I’m thankful they have included
me so easily in their circle but by the end of the day, I’m feeling rather
homesick. While there are many universal similarities between students, the
subtle cultural differences to home are glaring to me.

‘You should ride with us to college,’ Kelly says at the
end of the day, as we’re walking to the parking lot.

‘Thanks,’ I say, wishing I could take them up on the
offer. It’s got to be better than riding in awkward silence beside my
seastnan
, but I don’t have a choice. ‘But
I already have a ride.’

‘Pity,’ Kelly says. ‘Hey, how good are you at organizing?’
She stops at the edge of the parking lot and looks at me.

‘Oh, that’s a great idea, Kels!’ Michelle says and turns
to me to explain. ‘You should join GC Green and GC volunteer.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They’re two of the Gloucestershire college enrichment
clubs. GC Green is the environmental club and GC volunteer is the community
project club. We’ve got some fundraising events planned and we’re a little
short on hands. You interested?’

A snap-shot of my bedroom at home, paper strewn across
my desk and shoes littering the floor comes to mind. I push the thought aside.

‘Um, organizing isn’t really my strong point, but I’m
game.’
 

‘Groovy!’ Michelle hands me a card with a number and
address on it. ‘We’re having a meeting next Monday at my house, seven pm.’

I say goodbye and head across the parking lot to Kael’s
truck.

‘I see you made some friends,’ he says, opening the
passenger door for me and nodding toward Kelly and Michelle, who are getting
into an old blue Alfa on the other side of the lot.

‘Yes and they both stay in Aylburton.’

‘I know.’

I shoot him an irritated look and he shrugs.

‘Hey, it’s a small place.’

‘Too small for my liking,’ I grumble.

Kael shuts the door behind me, gets into the driver’s
seat and backs out of the parking. He seems to be in a better mood and that
just makes me more irritated.
 

‘Did you live in a big town in Africa?’ he asks.

Oh, so now I’m
good enough for conversation
?

‘It’s
South
Africa,’ I say, twisting my long hair over one shoulder and giving him a look,
‘and Johannesburg is not a town, it is a metropolitan city.’

‘
Excuse me
,’
Kael raises an eyebrow, ‘I thought it was a mining town?’

‘Yeah – only about a century ago.’

‘So there aren’t any more mines then?’

‘No, there are. Mining is still a huge part of our
economy but the mines in the centre of Joburg are more or less depleted now.
All that’s left are the mine dumps.’

‘So how big is the
city
of Johannesburg then?’ Kael asks.

I purse my lips at his emphasis of ‘city’.

‘Not really sure, a couple million people I guess.’

‘Really?’ he sounds surprised. ’Where do they all live?’

I give him an exasperated look and reply in a voice
heavy with sarcasm.

‘No, we don’t all live in huts and there are no lions
and zebras roaming the streets.’

‘I never said -’

‘Don’t they show anything on the news about Joburg here?’

‘Sometimes, it just seems to me there’s a lot of killing
and rioting -’

‘Well that’s not all there is to South Africa,’ I snap. ‘Why
don’t they ever show the sunshine, the huge shopping malls, the amazing people
and cultures or the beautiful landscapes?’ I throw my hands up. ‘We’re not as
backward as you think.’

‘Alright,’ Kael says, in a placatory tone. ‘No need to
get all worked up.’

‘It’s my home, how do you expect me to react?’

He glances at me and for a moment, there is something tender
and understanding in his eyes, but then he turns back to the road ahead and
shifts the gears down in a decisive movement.

‘Well you have a new home now,’ he says in a hard voice.

I open my mouth to retort and then shut it again. Dad
always says: ‘home is where the heart is’.

I turn to stare out of the window and whisper:

‘This will never be my home.’