Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) (2 page)

Chapter
2

Irritation

Tastes like: Strawberry flavored
pops in a box marked ‘chocolate.’
 

Smells like: Burnt
mieliepap.

Sounds like: Chalk
squealing against a blackboard.

Feels like: A popcorn seed
stuck between your teeth.

Looks like: A five cent
misbalance on a balance sheet.

‘Morning honey!’

My mother’s voice is too loud and bright for so early on
a Saturday morning.
 
She looks up from
her cereal bowl as I drag myself into the kitchen, still groggy from the little
sleep I’ve managed to get and clad in my mismatched tank top and tweetie-bird shorts.

‘Morning,’ I mumble, barely glancing at the older
version of myself.

We look so much alike, from the sleek, midnight-black
hair, to the exact deep, emerald shade of our eyes. Only the length of our hair
differs: her’s is cut into a soft, layered page that feathers around her chin,
while mine hangs long and pin-straight to midway down my back. And that is
where all similarity ends.

Well…if I am honest, I must admit there are some lesser personality
traits we share; I mean, I have to have gotten my stubbornness, impatience and
sometimes overly emotional tendencies from someone in my genetic pool - and it isn’t
from my father.

‘So baby, what have you got planned for your last day of
sweet sixteen?’

I make a face at my mother, grab a clean bowl from the
dish-rack and spill some corn-flakes into it.

‘It’s just another day mom, no biggie.’

‘It’s not just another day,’ she replies, rolling her
eyes dramatically, ‘it’s the last day my baby will be sixteen!’

‘I’m not your baby mom, and seventeen is hardly a
special birth -’

‘Of course it is, love! Every birthday is special and
you will
always
be my baby.’

‘Whatever…’ I sigh, slumping onto the stool opposite her
and spooning a mouthful of cereal from my bowl. It tastes like cardboard but I
chew diligently and swallow, then I push the flakes from side to side with my
spoon.

‘So?’ Mom prompts, tilting her own bowl to scrape the
last few flakes of hi-fibre bran from the bottom.

‘I’m not in the mood, mom,’ I say. With a last, listless
swirl of my spoon, I push the bowl away.

My mother’s hand freezes mid-way to her mouth and her
head comes up, at once taking in the uneaten bowl of corn-flakes, the bruising
beneath my eyes and drooping posture, then she is beside me, pressing cool
hands to my forehead.

‘What’s wrong, baby? Are you feeling ill?’

I brush her hands irritably away, shake my head, and
immediately regret the action. It feels like there is something loose inside my
skull, and the more I move, the more it rattles around in there.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

‘Maybe you’re coming down with something?’

‘I said I’m fine!’ I snap.

Mom takes a startled step backwards and examines me
critically, a frown of concern marring her perfectly made-up face. I just know
that any second now, she is going to reach for the cordless telephone on the counter
to dial Dr. Theron’s. For some reason, she’s become obsessed with my health
over the past few weeks. Every hint of a sniffle has her dragging me off to the
doctor. When I see her glance at the phone, I stand abruptly, nearly toppling
my bar-stool and head for the passageway.

‘I’m not going to the doctor, mom,’ I say firmly. ‘I have
to get ready for dance.’

When I reach my bedroom at the end of the passage, I kick
the door closed behind me and collapse, face down on the bed with a groan. My
head is throbbing, my stomach roiling and all I want to do is curl up into a
ball and sleep for days, so when my cell-phone begins to vibrate, I curse, and without
even opening my eyes, grope along the edge of the night-stand for the offensive
item.

‘What?’ I grumble into the receiver.

‘Hey. Oh, sorry, were you sleeping?’

My eyes fly open and I roll over onto my back,
irritation dissipating slightly at the sound of my best friend’s voice.

‘No, I’m up. Just didn’t sleep very well.’

‘Another one of those dreams?’ Jenne asks.

‘Uhuh.’

‘I’m starting to worry, Shay.’

‘You’re telling me… but what can I do? It’s not like I
can control my dreams, Jen.’

There is a slight pause and as usual, I know what she is
thinking before the words are out of her mouth.

‘Maybe you should tell -’

‘Don’t even think about it.’ I warn, ‘I’m not telling my
parents, next thing they’ll have me over at your dad’s surgery for blood tests
and who knows what else.’

‘But -’

‘No way.’

Jenne sighs.

‘I know you’re right but we have to do something. It just
isn’t normal and it seems to be getting much worse. You’ve been very grouchy
lately, you know.’

‘I know,’ I say, grimacing into the phone, ‘I’ll try one
of those sleeping pills your dad gave me tonight, maybe that’ll help.’

‘I hope so…’ she says dubiously. ‘Anyway, wanna come
with me to the square this morning? I need to get a birthday pressie for my mom
and I could use your help.’

‘Sorry Jen, but I have rehearsals with Luke.’

‘Oh yeah, I forgot, you two have that dance competition
coming up, hey? What time do you finish? I could pick you up from practice? We
could catch a movie?’

‘That’d be great…wait,’ I say, suddenly apprehensive, ‘you’re
not trying to con me into some surprise party thing -’

‘Relax,’ Jenne laughs, ‘I haven’t forgotten last year’s
surprise party fiasco, so I won’t be throwing any more surprises your way for a
long time. It’ll just be us two, I promise.’

‘Ok…’ I say, and then I grimace and add: ‘on second
thought, I’d better meet you at the square. You know how my mom feels about me
driving with a newly licensed driver…’

‘But I’ve had my license two months already!’ Jenne
complains.

I direct a rueful smile toward the ceiling, wishing for
the millionth time that I too, was old enough to drive myself. There are benefits
to starting school early and matriculating before my friends, but this is
definitely one of the drawbacks.
 

‘Yeah - maybe she’ll let me drive with you in like another
five years or so…’

‘Jeepers! That’s a bit extreme don’t you think?’

‘Hey, I just live here, remember? I don’t make the
rules.’

Jenne sighs on the other end of the line and agrees to
meet me at the food court entrance. We say goodbye, I drop the phone on the
unmade bed beside me, and force my body through the morning routine. After I’ve
donned my usual black leotard and tights, I pause before the full-length mirror
to examine the dark bruises beneath my eyes. They’re a lighter shade already, but
I apply the thin layer of foundation I have on hand for days like these.

I don’t bother to check the rest of my reflection; I know
what I’ll see: an athletic figure, too short with sharp, angular lines. The
lack of curves doesn’t bother me; I’m not interested in the kind of attention Jenne
attracts with her sultry looks and voluptuous figure but the height, I long for.
Perhaps if I were taller, I wouldn’t seem so fragile and everyone would stop treating
me like some sliver-thin glassware.

I slip one of my favorite crochet dresses, a cream colored
creation I managed to procure during one of my regular flea-market prowls, over
my leotard. I turn from the mirror, sling my tog-bag over one shoulder and let
my eyes skim over the rest of my bedroom as I head for the door. The chair is
still strewn with yesterday’s clothing, the bed is unmade and the desk in the
corner is covered with bits of acid-free scrapbook-paper and cropped photo edges
that have spilled over my MacBook and onto the floor.
 

There are three copies of the same edition of
Seventeen
magazines on the rug beside my
bed, with dog-ears marking the pages on which my short story submission has
been published.
 

Mom will freak if
she sees this mess
, I think. I shrug and pull the
door firmly shut behind me.
  

My mother is waiting in the kitchen and she frowns when
she sees my leotard.
 

‘I don’t think you should be going to dance, baby.
You’re not -’

‘I’m fine and I’m going,’ I reply firmly.

For a moment she stares at me and I think she’s about to
argue, but then she lets her shoulders drop with a sigh.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift.’

I start to shake my head but that bowling ball is still
in there, rattling from side to side, so I say: ‘Fine.’

I grab an apple from the glass fruit-bowl on the counter,
rub its smooth skin against the leg of my tights and head toward the
inter-leading door to the garage.
It’s
just a short ride
, I tell myself, but I know that time moves much slower
anywhere my mother and I occupy the same space.

‘How’s the practice going?’ mom asked as she slips into
the driver’s seat beside me and shifts the Merc into gear. Her tone is guarded
and I keep my response short, already knowing what she’s leading up to.

‘Fine.’

‘You’ve spent a lot of hours practicing, is it really
necessary?’

I feel my blood pressure spike, but I keep my tone even.

‘It’s an important competition, mom.’

‘But -’

‘Don’t go there,’ I say in a rigid voice. ‘I know you
think it’s a waste of time.’ I turn my face away toward the window, and add tiredly,
mostly to myself: ‘I just wish you could support me.’

‘I do support you!’ Mom responds.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I snort, glaring back at her, ‘just as
long as I don’t expect to make a career out of dancing, right?’

‘I’m just being realistic, baby. Dancers in this country
don’t -’

‘- make a lot of money. Yeah, I know the speech, mom.
Maybe it isn’t always about money.’

‘I just -’

‘- want what’s best for me. Yeah, I’ve heard that too.’

‘I -’

‘Just leave it, okay?’

I yank my ponytail over my shoulder, slump down further
into my seat and watch the electric gates slide closed behind us in the
rearview mirror. This ‘short’ ride already feels like an eternity. A wave of
despair and anger washes over me. Why must it always come down to this?

I love dancing with a passion rivaled only by my
creative writing. Mother, however, has denounced both my interests as a
‘passing phase’, and she uses every opportunity to tell me how there ‘is no
financial stability in the arts’, how ‘few artists make it’, or how ‘many of
them turn to drugs and become anorexic’… The excuses are as creative as they
are endless, but they all come down to one thing: she just doesn’t believe in
me.

My mother is silent for a moment and then she wisely
changes the topic:

‘What are you doing today?’

‘Oh yeah, can you drop me at the square after practice?
Jenne invited me to movies.’

‘Oh,’ mom says, sounding disappointed, ‘You know, it’s
not too late for me to arrange a party.’

‘I already said I didn’t want one,’ I say, feeling my
irritation spike again.

‘But it’s your last…’ her voice trails off and she
exhales a little, frustrated sigh, pulls the car to a stop in front of the
school hall and turns toward me. ‘I really think you should have one.’

I frown, puzzled and annoyed at her insistence.

‘Well I’m not having one and that’s the end of it.’ I slide
out of the car and slam the door before she can respond. She looks at me
through the window pane with a wounded expression, revs the engine and takes
off from the curb, tires squealing in protest.

Chapter
3

Longing

Tastes like: Dark chocolate,
melting on your tongue

Smells like: A warm winter
stew when you’re fasting

Sounds like: The howl of a
wolf on the night of a full moon

Feels like: The rasp of
silk against your skin

Looks like: A child’s nose
pressed against the baker’s window

‘Hi.’

I turn away from watching the Merc’s tail lights
disappear around the corner, to see Luke, standing behind me. With his sandy
brown hair curling in moist circles across his forehead and his fine-boned cheeks
framing a pair of hazel green eyes, he looks incredibly young and fragile, even
with the visible strings of muscle cording his arms and legs.