Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) (3 page)

‘Was that your mom?’ he asks in his usual laid back
drawl that always seems to melt my bad moods.

‘Yip.’

‘She seems pissed. Something wrong?’

‘Yeah, apparently I’ve sinned because I don’t want to
have a birthday party,’ I say, shaking my head and turning toward the school
hall.

Luke steps into stride beside me.

‘Okayyyy...’ he says, tossing his head unconsciously to
the side to flick an errant lock out of his eye and shooting me a look of
confusion. He waits a beat for me to elaborate and when I don’t, merely shrugs.
It’s one of the things I like most about him – he doesn’t push and prod, he
knows I’ll talk when I’m good and ready.

‘Speaking of your birthday,’ he says, ‘I know you wanted
to keep it low key, so I was thinking I could take you out for a bite to eat
after practice?’

His voice holds a note of uncertain eagerness that
belies the casual tone and sends guilt coursing through me. I worry my bottom
lip with my teeth and purposely look away from him. We’ve been friends since
second grade at St Stithians and dance partners almost as long. Luke is funny,
talented, handsome, caring – everything a girl could want. He’s never verbally admitted
it, but I know that somewhere between seventh grade and present, his feelings
for me have progressed beyond friendship. Trouble is – mine haven’t.

It would be so easy to love Luke, but no matter how hard
I try – and I have tried – there’s something missing. I can’t name it; it’s the
spark in the air between two people, the tingle of two hands colliding for the
first time; whatever that elusive quality, I know I want it – and with Luke, it
just isn’t there.

‘Thanks,’ I say, twisting my ponytail into a knot at the
nape of my neck, pretending not to see the hope in his eyes, ‘but Jenne’s
already booked me for movies.’

‘Oh.’

His disappointment is tangible but I know I’m doing the
right thing. Better not to encourage his attentions when I can’t return his
feelings.

Once inside, I put aside my musings and we fall into the
comfortable routine of warm up stretches and the unique combination of dance
steps that we’ve choreographed from a combination of ballet, hip-hop and Latin American
ball-room. We’re like two halves of the same whole, each an extension of the other
and any prior tension or awkwardness has melted away. This is what I need to
protect, this feeling of security we share. It’s why I need to prevent Luke
from admitting his true feelings to me. Even though I know how he feels, saying
it out loud would change things irrevocably.

By the end of the session, my headache is gone but every
muscle in my body burns in a satisfying way.

‘You’re good, you know,’ Luke says, bending down to
retrieve two towels from the floor. He throws one at me and proceeds to wipe
his own brow with the other. ‘Even on your off days…you really should be in the
School of the arts -’

‘You know my mother won’t allow me to register.’

I lean my back against the wall and slide into a sitting
position on the wooden floor. ‘I just wish she would stop being so negative.’

Luke threads the damp towel around the back of his neck
and turns to me with a sober expression.

‘Shay-kie,’ he says, and I flick the towel at him to
show my distaste at his use of my childhood nickname. For some reason, it’s
common practice amongst South African children to take each friends name,
shorten it and add ‘kie’ onto the end. I know this practice stems from the
‘tjie’ (pronounced ‘chi’ or ‘ki) suffix tacked onto Afrikaans words to indicate
that something is either very small or very young. I resent the implication.

Luke snickers, jumps back out of reach and schools his
expression back to seriousness.

‘She thinks she’s doing what’s best for you.’

‘But surely
I
know what’s best for me?’ I demand, ‘I’m seventeen for goodness sake. Why does
she still treat me like a child?’

‘Sixteen,’ he corrects.

I cluck my tongue and he grins back; he offers me a hand
and pulls me up from the floor.

‘Look, she just doesn’t realize how good you are.’

‘Yeah, cause she’s never bothered to come watch me.’

Luke puts one hand on my shoulder and spins me around.

‘Stop it,’ he admonishes. ‘Just stick with the plan.’

‘But what if I can’t persuade her to come to the
competition? What if -’

‘Uh-uh,’ he interrupts, shaking his head and wagging a
finger in my face. ‘You need to stay positive if this is going to work, and it
will
work. If your mother will just come
to the competition and see you dance, I
know
she’ll change her mind about the School of arts.’
 

Luke gives me a quick kiss on the forehead and chucks me
lightly under the chin before moving off toward his Polo, parked on the curb.

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘But tomorrow is my birthday!’ I protest.

He turns around, does a little backward walk for a few
steps and flashes me one of his impish grins.

‘Yes and you need to keep those ageing muscles in shape,
Ms Greene!’

I stick my tongue out at him but when I turn toward my
mother’s waiting car, for the first time today, I am smiling.

‘What about this one?’

Jenne pulls a pale pink silk blouse from the sale rack
and holds it up for my inspection.

‘I thought we were looking for a gift for your mom?’ I
say.

She pulls a face at me and tosses her mass of brunette
curls back with a flick of the head.

‘Yes, I know but don’t you think this would be perfect
for Venice?’

‘Rub it in why don’t you?’ I tease, and immediately feel
contrite when Jenne bites her bottom lip.

‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I really wish you were coming too –
you know that.’

‘I know,’ I sigh and rifle through the sale items. I
pull a lime green blouse in the same style from the rack and hold it out to her.
‘I think the green would look better on you. It compliments your skin-tone.’

‘I knew there was a reason I brought you.’ Jenne smiles,
takes the silky blouse from my hand and heads toward the cashiers. While she
stands in the queue to pay, I take my time, meandering through the racks and
aisles, trying to quell the wave of self pity that has engulfed me since Jenne
mentioned the Europe trip.

We’d planned the itinerary together last year but my
parents had refused to let me travel without them. In hindsight, what else
should I have expected? My folks have always been over protective – I’m used to
not being allowed to attend parties and it was no surprise when mom said no to
the post matric weekend celebration to Magaliesburg, and Melissa van der Westhuizen’s
eighteenth birthday party at Montecasino - but somehow, I’d been stupid enough
to think they would calm down a little once I matriculated. Instead, things had
gotten worse.

Mom had started insisting on coming
into
the doctor’s examination room with me, and had even refused, for
the first time in seven years, to allow me to spend New Year’s with Jenne at
her dad’s house on the Vaal River. When my mother had started talking about
visiting my Nan in England, after refusing me since age seven, I knew things had
gotten out of control.

Even now, my mother was probably lurking somewhere in
the mall. She’d mumbled something about buying handkerchiefs for my father and
followed me into the mall. Handkerchiefs?

I glance suspiciously behind me, certain that any second
now, she’s going to pop out from behind a clothes rack. I shake my head and
join Jenne at the store exit.
 
 

‘How’d practice go by the way?’ she asks, flinging the
shopping bag over one shoulder and slipping her arm through mine as we turn in
the direction of the entertainment court.

‘Good, thanks…well, sort of…’

‘What do you mean, ‘sort of’?’

I hesitate, bite the inside of my lip and admit: ‘Well,
it’s just that I think Luke is becoming a little too, um…
fond
of me.’

Jenne lets out a loud laugh that causes a couple of
teenage boys passing by to glance in our direction. Their eyes glaze over me
and linger on Jenne’s curvy frame. She was blessed with a combination of the
best genes from both of her parents: her father’s generous mouth, her mother’s curves
and a combination of his ebony and her ivory skin that resulted in Jenne’s coffee-cream
hue. Her beauty, combined with her outgoing personality, ensures that wherever
she goes, Jenne is the centre of attention, which suits me perfectly, since it
means that I’m not.

‘Took you long enough to figure out!’ she teases,
oblivious, as usual, of the attention she has attracted. ‘What’s wrong, don’t
you like him?’

‘Don’t start!’ I glare at her. ‘You know I don’t think
of him that way.’

‘Oooh - what about
that
for my mom?’ Jenne asks. It takes my brain a moment to register the
topic change, but I turn to examine the beautiful beaded necklace in the
display window that she’s pointing at. It is bright and loud, perfect for
Jenne’s eccentric, arts-and-crafts mother.
 

‘She’d love it.’

Jenne opens the boutique door and a little bell rings somewhere
inside to herald her entrance. She glances questioningly at me, but when I
shake my head, she lets the door swing closed between us. I stand in front of
the display window, watching the Saturday crowd milling in and out of the
stores.

A group of kids catches my attention as they stop at the
top of the escalators and shout across the wide aisle to a young girl exiting
The Body Shop
. She turns at the sound of
her name, grins widely and makes her way across to the group. The girls kiss
cheeks and exclaim over the contents of her brown paper shopping bag, while the
boys punch each other playfully on the upper arms, trying to show off for their
female companions. I smile, marveling at the rainbow mix of skin colors, eclectic
dialogue and chaotic accents that jumble together into something so uniquely
South African.

‘I hope she likes it,’ Jenne says, interrupting my eaves-dropping.
She falls into step beside me, a brightly wrapped box in hand.

‘She will.’

We walk a few steps in companionable silence and then
Jenne turns to me, her lips pursed.

‘What?’ I prompt.

‘I got my Rhodes enrollment pack today.’

I feel a quick stab of jealousy that is immediately replaced
with remorse when she bites the side of her lip.

‘Oh my friend, that’s great!’ I force a smile I’m far
from feeling and drape my arm across her shoulders.

‘You’re not upset?’

‘Of course not! I’m happy for you,’ I lie, and then
admit: ‘I just wish we could go together.’

‘Me too,’ Jenne agrees, looking almost as disappointed
as I feel. ‘Are they still insisting on WITS University?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply miserably. ‘Mom says I must study law
and Dad says Accounts. They’re not even keen on my Bachelor in English
literature suggestion.’

Jenne puts a comforting arm around my waist and gives me
a squeeze.

‘Cheer up! Just one more year to legal freedom.’
 

‘Be realistic, Jen,’ I complain, ‘I’ll probably be at
home for at least another three years and you know the rules.’

We both say in unison: ‘My roof, my rules…’

She gives me a sympathetic smile and shakes her head, to
clear the depressing cobwebs.

‘Well, for tonight, we’re not going to think about that.’
She gives me a mischievous grin. ‘You know, I’ve heard the saying ‘sweet
sixteen and never been kissed,’ but don’t you think seventeen is pushing it?’

‘Very funny…’

‘We still have a few hours before your birthday and I
know just the person -’

‘Don’t even start!’ I warn, feigning light-heartedness.
I link my arm through hers again as we turn toward the popcorn stand.

Chapter
4

Confusion

Tastes like: Lemon and chocolate

Smells like: Carnations,
delivered anonymously on Valentine’s Day

Sounds like: The beat of
silence that follows an astounding revelation

Feels like: Your first step
back onto dry land after a week-long cruise

Looks like: The sun shining
in the middle of a storm

No… please no…

I tried to crawl
forward but something or someone kept pulling me back.

‘No!’ I croaked,
pushing wildly against them but my throat was too dry, burning from the smoke
and the sound that escaped was barely a rasp.

Somebody was
speaking to me in a low, coaxing voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. I
couldn’t tear my gaze away from that figure.

‘No!’ I cried
again and this time, the familiar shape, outlined against the flames, turned toward
me. Relief poured through me but turned quickly to dread as, too late, I
realized my error. I stared in horror as a black silhouette separated itself
from the dark trees and began to move forward stealthily. A long, sharp shape
separated from the blurred shadow and I let loose a gasp of horror that seemed
to emanate from the very depth of my soul.

Too late, I
thought, as I watched the point descend, I’m too late.
 

My vision blurred
out of focus again and I never saw the moment the point found its mark - but I
felt it. Pain, like burning coals lanced through me, starting in my stomach and
spreading, like wild-fire through my veins. I gasped and clutched at my abdomen,
confused as my hand came away wet and dripping red, and then I began to scream.

‘Shaylee! Wake up, baby, you’re dreaming!’

‘Open your eyes…’

I hear the voices of my parents echoing through a
distant tunnel as I force my eyelids open. Another wave of pain shakes me and I
clutch at my father’s arms, circling like a steel band around me. Mom’s face
hovers above mine, eyes wide with terror.

 
I know I’m not dreaming
anymore but the pain still consumes me. My mouth moves but I cannot draw enough
breath for even one word.

‘What’s wrong, baby? Oh God, Kaden, do something!’

My entire body is on fire and my stomach is the centre
of the inferno. I claw at it, unable to stop another agonizing scream from escaping
between my clenched teeth.

My vision begins to fade around the edges and my body
quakes uncontrollably. I feel my tenuous grip on consciousness slipping. The
pain is indescribable, ten-fold worse even than the time I stuck my foot into a
bee hive. I’ve reached my threshold, and cannot take any more, so I close my eyes
and let go…
 

The first thing I notice when I wake up are my parents,
standing beside the window, heads bent together, arguing quietly. The fact that
they’re in my private sanctuary is cause enough for concern but there is
something so disconcerting about the way they are standing, huddled together,
that makes me feign sleep to watch them for a while.

‘You know what this means, love,’ my father whispers but
mom is shaking her head.

‘Maybe it’s not -’

‘We can’t pretend,’ he takes both of her hands in his, ‘you
know it is.’

The expression of pure horror in my mother’s eyes sends
a shiver of apprehension down my spine and I blurt out: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, thank God!’ my mother breathes, pulling her hands
from my father’s and coming to my side with a strange look of relief.

‘How do you feel?’ Dad asks.

I frown at him and raise a hand to my temple. My head
feels thick and heavy and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten
something important, but that’s nothing new since early mornings have never
been my forte.
 

‘A little hazy but okay I guess…Why?’

My parents share a perplexed look and mom perches on the
edge of the bed, taking my left hand in hers.

‘Do you remember your dream?’ Mom asks, and the instant
my brain hears the word ‘dream’, I am flooded with images.

Fire… Shadows… Pain…

My hands fly to the flat plane of my midriff, probing
tentatively for evidence. I know it’s crazy, I mean, it was just a dream, but
it
felt
so real that I’m sure it has
left scars. Mom’s eyes follow the movement of my hands as I reach for the hem
of my tank top.

‘Don’t,’ she says, in a strangled voice. I hesitate, fingers
curled around the stretchy material, waiting for her to continue and terrified
that she will because there is something in her expression that tells me this
was more than just a dream. When she just sits there, staring at me, I lift the
shirt and look down. I inhale sharply, blink my eyes and look down again, then
I spring off the bed and hurry to the full length mirror.

It’s quite impossible, but there, etched onto the smooth
skin of my middle, like a faded grey tattoo, is a strange butterfly-like symbol.
Four interlocking ovals make up the wings of the creature, with a fifth, at the
centre, representing the body. I rub my hand across it, examine my clean
fingers, glance at my mother, who is also looking at the mark, and stare at the
mirror again.

‘What is it?’ I ask, flicking my gaze to my parents’
reflection.

There is a beat of silence, then my mother answers:

‘Something we didn’t expect.’

There is so much emotion in her voice that I automatically
step toward her, but I freeze as she crumples to the edge of the bed and buries
her face in her hands. My mother is often overly emotional; I’ve seen her laugh
at jokes that aren’t funny, rage over a missing television remote and cry over
some silly, romance novel; but never in my life have I seen her shoulders slump
and shake with the force of her sobs as they do now.

My father pulls her into his arms and our eyes meet above
her head. It’s like a double whammy for me because he wears a mask of pain I’ve
never seen before and my confusion and apprehension triples. He schools his
expression and clears his throat.

‘Tell us about your dream, Shaylee.’

I drop my gaze from his and focus instead on the
comforting pot of violets beside the bed.

‘It was just a dream, dad -’ I evade but he interrupts
me.

‘Tell us,’ he insists, ‘it’s important.’

I reach out to fondle the violet petals and glance up,
meeting my father’s gaze again. I’m going to have to admit the truth and there
are so many reasons I wish I didn’t have to.

‘It’s the same one,’ I say in a small voice.

My mother’s breath catches and dad tightens his arms
around her, the muscles in his jaw clenching visibly.

‘The same one you used to have as a child?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long -’ His voice wavers and for a terrifying
moment I think he is about to cry but he clears his throat and says: ‘I thought
you stopped having them years ago?’

I turn back to the violets, unable to look him in the
eye and shake my head, once.

There is a heavy pause and I glance up to see an odd
mixture of hurt, anger and disappointment flash across my father’s reflected face.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
 

I am so taken aback by the betrayal in my father’s eyes
that I cannot speak, so instead, I focus my gaze on the reflection of my
mother’s back. Her shoulders still tremble as she cries into my father’s shirt.
Dad’s gaze follows mine and his lips pull into a tight line.

‘Get dressed.’

He leads my mother gently from the room, shutting the
door softly behind them. For a full minute, I just stand there, staring at the
closed door, and then I mentally shake myself and face the mirror again, trying
to understand what has just happened.

I remember the dream vividly: the screaming, the fire,
the shadow and the pain - but it doesn’t make any sense. Dreams don’t leave
physical memoirs like this symbol. I rub my hand over the faded ink again,
once, twice, three times. Maybe if I can erase it from my skin, I can erase the
look in my father’s eyes too.
 

With a growing sense of desperation, I walk to the
en-suite bathroom, pulling off clothes as I go. I climb into the shower and
turn on the taps, making the water scalding and then I scrub. I scrub and scrub
and scrub until my abdomen glows raw and red - but the symbol remains.

When my skin feels too tender to touch, I drop the
sponge and tilt my head up into the scorching spray, letting the water run down
my face alongside the tears.

‘I don’t understand.’

I stand reeling in the centre of the lounge, looking
from one parent to the other, trying to make sense of what they’re saying. My
mother is perched on the edge of the black leather sofa opposite our wide-screen
television and Dad stands beside her, rubbing his hands soothingly over her
shoulders. She is still visibly upset and this should make me feel
compassionate toward her, instead, all I can manage is annoyance. I’ve come for
answers but all I’ve gotten from my parents, is another bomb-shell.

‘It will only be for a couple of months,’ Dad says,
‘we’ll join you as soon as I can get out of my contract.’

I press my fingers to the dull throb that still lingers
at my temples and groan.

‘But I don’t understand
why
and you still haven’t explained what this is.’ I lift the hem of
my camisole and crochet shirts in emphasis, revealing the marking beneath and
my mother flinches.

‘We can’t explain that now, Shaylee,’ Dad says,
squeezing mom’s shoulder and his action just serves to inflame my mounting
anger. Why is he comforting
her
?
Shouldn’t I be the one he is comforting?

‘You can’t explain what it is but you can send me to
another country because of it?’

‘Shaylee, please -’

‘No,’ I say, in a rising voice, ‘I won’t go. I’m not
leaving my entire life behind to go and live in some little-hick town on the
other side of the world just because you -’

‘You don’t have a choice, Shaylee.’

My father’s voice is quiet, even as he interrupts me,
but the effect is like a gunshot in the room. I’ve heard this particular tone
of voice before and I know what it means; if he has to tie me up and drag me
onto the plane, I
will
be going to
Aylburton.
 

I stare, unseeing at the painted ostrich egg perched on
the oak coffee table as I try to gather my thoughts, but it’s like playing
pick-up sticks.

‘But what about my dancing - and my friends? I can’t
just leave everything,’ I say in a small voice, feeling the warning prickle of
tears, gather in my eyes.

My mother makes a small sound of distress and stands.

‘It’s the only way we can protect you, baby.’ She holds
her arms out to me but I step away, folding my arms across my chest and
ignoring the hurt in her eyes. I blink away the moisture in my own eyes and
focus on the injustice of this decision, because if I fill my heart with anger,
there will be no space for tears. I
will
not
cry. I
will not
show
weakness. I
will not
be like my
mother.
 

‘Protect me from what?’ I demand.

Mom gives Dad a questioning look but he just shakes his
head.

‘You just need to trust us, Shaylee,’ he says.

‘Aahh!’ I groan my frustration and throw my hands in the
air. ‘Why are you being so secretive? What could I possibly be in danger from?’

‘It’s going to be ok,’ mom says. She puts one hand on my
shoulder but I shrug it off.

‘When do I leave?’ I demand in a tight voice, tapping my
heel agitatedly against the floor.

There is a slight hesitation.

‘Next Wednesday,’ Dad says.

I stare at him in shocked silence for a heartbeat and
then the words escape in a blast of air from my lungs.

‘A
week
? You’re
giving me
one week
?’

‘You’re in danger here. The sooner you get to Aylburton,
the better.’

‘
What
danger?’

‘Shaylee -’ my father warns with a sharp look and I know
my voice is rising again but I’m past the point of caring.

‘This is
my
life, damnit -’

‘That’s enough!’ Dad’s voice booms loudly off the walls
and wooden floors and I immediately fall silent, although I continue to seethe
inside. ‘We’ve made this decision for your own good and there will be no more
discussion. I’m going to get you into a bridging course at the Royal Forest of
Dean College, so that you can do a Literature course next year. That’s what you
wanted, isn’t it? Nan is already preparing your old bedroom for you and mom and
I will be there as soon as we can.’