CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Trying to pretend she
hadn’t been crying when her eyes were wide and black with mascara like a
panda’s was not easy, but Naledi had tried it all the same, entering her house
and going straight to her room, slamming the front door shut with a force that
suggested anger, when all traces of anger or anxiety or any emotion, really,
had drained out of her with the last shudder of tears long ago. Someone had walked past her as she lay
against the tree and asked her if she was okay, and she had sniffed in reply,
nodded, and made her way home, pulling the sleeves of her jacket tight around
her, smudging their ends with mascara
Once home, door
slammed and room found, Naledi listened out for her mum’s voice or Mr. Plant’s,
but she couldn’t hear a thing.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of her and she looked around the
house. Empty. They must have decided to go round his
after all; there wasn’t even the scent of burnt food or the crumbs of a
take-away in the kitchen. There
wasn’t a note saying where she was gone, either, but Naledi hadn’t expected
that. Mum didn’t really seem to be
good at that sort of courtesy anymore.
She hadn’t returned
by the next morning. Naledi
stirred in the morning sunshine, feeling heavy as if she needed at least
another night’s sleep to catch up with the rest of her body.
She got out of bed
all the same. She bathed alone,
ate breakfast alone, got changed into her school uniform alone, and left for
school, wondering if her mum would even be there when she arrived. She was. Her mum was sat at her usual desk, and seemed to notice when
her daughter had entered the room as she made a big point of refusing to look
up and meet her eye. This carried
on throughout the lessons that morning.
The others in class picked up on the atmosphere and maintained an almost
deathly silence during maths and geography, speaking only when spoken to, raising
hands to ask for bathroom breaks instead of shouting out as per usual, having
the good grace to pretend not to notice when Naledi’s mum almost purposely
ignored her daughter when she was the only one to know the answer to a maths
problem.
When the break came,
everyone felt relieved. Naledi
waited for everyone to leave the room until she was alone with her mum. She coughed, but her mum refused to
turn around, pretending to be concentrating really hard at something she had
written on the board during class instead. Naledi went to talk, but her voice caught and chest
tightened; she felt so nervous, more than she ever had before. How had it come to the point where she
couldn’t even talk to her mum?
Naledi swallowed and
gave up, leaving the room and her mum with her sums behind her.
She walked through
the school corridors, only now aware that people were staring at her. Maybe word had got round the school
that her mum had been acting so cold to her that morning? She had German next and she didn’t
quite fancy being around people, so she made her way straight to Miss.
Schnabeltier’s classroom, and it was there that she found out why people were
staring.
“Ah! Meine heroine!”
smiled Miss. Schnabeltier, and she held up a copy of the local paper. ‘PEDAL POWER!’ cried the headline, for
no readily apparent reason; they must have just struggled to think of a
suitable one-liner. Beneath it was
a picture of the cyclist she’d saved the day before, posing for the camera with
a just-been-goosed look in his eyes and dirty yellow jacket, holding up a
broken tire, and there, just below, boxed out and clearly taken on a mobile
phone’s camera, zoomed in from some distance but clear enough, was Naledi on
the kerbside, talking to the police.
“Local girl saves the
day,” read aloud Miss. Schnabeltier, tracing her finger over the words of the
sub-header as she did so like a child learning how to read. She looked up at
Naledi and smiled. “I’m surprised you’re in school today.”
“I’m surprised you’re
surprised: have you ever met my mother?” Naledi sat down and massaged her knee;
it was aching now she’d been reminded about what it had gone through the day
before. She nodded towards the newspaper. “Where did you get that?”
“The shops, my dear.
It is a newspaper after all,” replied Miss. Schnabeltier.
“And everyone knows
about it?”
“There’s a copy
hanging up in the staffroom, yes. Everyone wanted to speak to your mum this
morning. And,” she added, “to you, too, of course. To the hero.”
“I’m not a hero. I just jumped,” muttered Naledi. “My mum
will have a fit if she hears you calling me a hero.”
“Ah, I see.” Miss.
Schnabeltier looked understanding. “Not too impressed?”
“Hardly. She went
absolutely mad.” She stopped, remembering that she was talking to one of Mum’s
work colleagues. She paused and continued. “She made it said I was a selfish
idiot.”
“She was probably in
shock.”
“She thought I was
trying to make her feel bad about being with Cli— with Mr. Plant.”
“Ah. Tricky.”
Naledi didn’t want to
probe any further, but noted how Miss. Schnabeltier didn’t look too surprised
by this. She carried on: “She thought I was trying to kill myself or
something.”
“And were you?”
“No.” Naledi blinked,
almost surprised at how quickly she had responded. “No. Of course not.”
“Well then.” Miss.
Schnabeltier threw the newspaper to Naledi so she could read it. “That’s okay.”
She started to walk around the classroom. “I’m sure it’ll all blow over with
your mum. Just give it time.”
“Time.” Naledi shook
her head. “Time.”
“Speaking of which,
how is the story of yours going?”
“The story of mine…
oh, the creative writing?”
“Yes!” Miss.
Schnabeltier nodded, excitedly. “How does it go?”
“Fine,” lied Naledi.
“Exhausting. But, okay I think. It’s hard to tell.”
“Escapism can be like
that,” observed Miss. Schnabeltier, “but it helps sometimes.” She paused. “Is
it helping you? To hold back everything and have the time to think things
through?”
Naledi felt herself
grow quiet. “That isn’t what this is about.”
“No. No, of course
not.” Miss. Schnabeltier smiled and wandered over to where Naledi was sat. “I
like the photo. It’s a nice jacket that you are wearing.”
“Thank you.” Naledi
smiled and tried not to let the gnawing anxiety in her stomach overwhelm her.
This wasn’t about escaping or holding back, was it? She looked down at the
cyclist and how grateful he was.
No. No, this was about something else.
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