The Other Me Part 23

Can't wear my Sissy Boy jeans again, and there's no flipping way I'm wearing a skirt.

"Resa, some help, please," Mom yells up the pa.s.sage. I'm meant to be making potato salad.

"Coming," I yell back as I grab a fitted T-s.h.i.+rt and pair of less-baggy shorts that will actually require panties. Do I wear black or blue? What are the connotations of blue undies?

"Treasa Rae!" Mom's losing her cool. Gabriel will be here in less than hour. Dressed and with my hair scrunched up in a bun, I head to the kitchen and start work on the potatoes.

"You look nice." Mom bastes the chicken legs.

"For once I bet you're glad I'm not wearing a skirt and sandals, right?" I mean it as a joke. Mom purses her lips, unamused. The oven buzzer rings, and Mom retrieves a perfect milk tart.

Keeping an eye on the clock, I watch the minutes tick closer to three. Everything's ready, leaving me a full three minutes to double-check my face and hair. I'm touching up a dash of concealer on my chin where pimples are rearing their ugly heads when Dad shouts, "He's here."

Gabriel gets out of a blue Honda, firing off a volley of Afrikaans at whoever is behind the wheel. The driver waves at me and gives me a huge smile before reversing out of the driveway. Gabriel walks toward me. He's wearing camo shorts and a navy-blue T-s.h.i.+rt. I was a little nervous he'd arrive with a mohawk and black nails. I'm also a little disappointed he looks so respectable. I would've loved to see Mom's face!

"Hi," he says and hands me a Tupperware container.

"What's this?"

"Fudge. It was either that or toast." He gives me a strained smile.

"Thank you." He is too sweet. The gesture will go down well with Mom as well. "Who was that in the car?" I ask.

"My brother, JP." He drags his long fingers through his hair.

"Oh. He's on holiday?"

"Taking a break, ja."

"Thanks for doing this." I lead the way into the house. "I hope it's not too awkward."

"It'll be fine."

Introductions go as well as can be expected. Dad shakes Gabriel's hand harder than is necessary, and Mom scrutinizes every inch of him before nodding in greeting. Dad offers him a beer, and Gabriel respectfully declines, pa.s.sing the first test. He and Dad head out to the braai while Mom and I pour soft drinks and empty chips into a bowl.

"You play rugby," Dad starts.

"A bit. I prefer cricket, but don't have the time for it." I give Gabriel a thumbs-up behind my Dad's back. "Did you hear about this Hansie Cronje debacle?"

"Of course."

And their conversation becomes an animated discussion about the match-fixing accusations brought against the Proteas. I sit on the patio with Mom, a ball of nerves still wreaking havoc in my belly.

"He seems like a nice boy," Mom leans in to tell me in a hushed voice.

"Told you so." I crunch through half a bowl of chips before the meat is ready and we can eat. We're halfway through the meal when Mom starts firing her questions at Gabriel about school and future aspirations, and then she asks about his family.

"You've mentioned your father. What about your mom?" Mom sips her gla.s.s of white wine.

"Ah...." Gabriel impales a chunk of potato with his fork. "She's dead." His says it with such finality. I hope my mom takes the hint and leaves it at that, but of course she's about as sensitive as a tree trunk.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"

"Mom," I hiss between clenched teeth and reach for Gabriel, placing my hand on his knee. I didn't know his mom was dead. He has a right not to tell me and not to have to blurt out every detail of his life over chicken kebabs and coleslaw.

"Car accident," he says, and carries on eating.

The conversation dies after that, no one really sure what to say. We eat in silence and Gabriel helps me clear away the dirty plates afterward.

"I'm sorry about your mom," I say when we're elbow to elbow, dropping dishes in the sink.

"Everyone always says that, but there's nothing for you to be sorry about."

"I mean I'm sorry you lost her, sorry you hurt."

Gabriel turns to me, his eyes s.h.i.+ny green. I'm pretty sure we're about to kiss when Dad walks in with a dish full of leftovers and ruins the moment.

Mom serves milk tart, ice cream, and fudge for desert.

"This is delicious," Dad says between mouthfuls. "Who taught you to make this?"

"My mom. She loved condensed milk," Gabriel says. I take a piece of fudge, savoring the grainy texture and creamy taste. It's the best fudge I've ever eaten.

"d.a.m.n, this is good."

Mom glares at me, because in her books, "d.a.m.n" is a swear word.

"I'm glad you like it. It's easy to make." Gabriel gives me that soft little smile that makes me melt.

"Would you teach me?"

"Of course."

"You seem to be teaching my daughter quite a lot." Mom gets violent with the ice cream server and ends up with double the amount she usually eats.

Gabriel looks at me, clearly not sure what to make of Mom's tone.

"Piano, karate." If I had alien powers, I'd be using them on Mom right now, giving her a few wrinkles around the eyes and a streak or two of gray.

"Treasa's a natural at karate," Gabriel says, and I swell with pride.

"Really?" Dad seems totally surprised.

"Ja, she throws me down no problem." Gabriel smiles, and both my parents raise their eyebrows.

"And piano?" Mom had to ask.

"Less of a natural, but not terrible." Gabriel gives me a sideways glance and sneaks a hand under the table to squeeze my fingers.

The phone rings and Mom excuses herself to answer. With her gone, Dad and Gabriel start chatting about cricket again and migrate indoors to catch the news in case there's any more information about the match fixing.

Just after six, Gabriel's brother arrives.

"Invite him in," Mom insists. Gabriel politely refuses, saying they're in a hurry. We've learned more about his family today then he probably intended us to. Mom almost follows me out to the car. Thankfully, Dad grabs her arm and leads her back inside, giving us a modic.u.m of privacy. No chance of a kiss today, with my parents hovering in the background and JP grinning at us from behind the wheel.

"On a scale of one to ten, how'd I do?" Gabriel asks.

"You're at least a ten."

"Your parents think so too?" He grins.

"Not sure I care what they think."

He bites his lip and studies his feet for a bit.

"Thanks for today and for the fudge."

"No problem." He lifts his head, meeting my gaze, and now's my chance.

"There's something I wanted to ask you."

"More questions?" He looks nervous.

"Not like that. It's just...." I take a lingering look at the st.i.tching on the collar of his s.h.i.+rt. "Would you go with me to the grade ten dance?"

"Treasa-"

"It's in May, so there's still time."

"Treasa." He runs a hand through his hair and s.h.i.+fts his weight between his feet. "I'm not sure what this is, what we are." His voice is almost a whisper.

"That's okay. Me neither." I force a smile.

JP hoots at us, and Gabriel swears. "Sorry, I should go. See you Thursday?"

He sort of leans forward as if to kiss me, but he seems unsure and I hesitate, the moment lost to awkwardness.

"Chat later?" he says.

"Sure. See you Thursday," I echo as he gets into the car. I watch them drive away, and Gabriel waves before the car slips out of view. What are we? Excellent question, Gabriel. I wish I had the answer. And what about the dance? He didn't say no; he sure as h.e.l.l didn't say yes. In what world would a guy like that go with a girl like me to a ball?

Gabriel

"HOW WAS WAS it?" JP asks as we cruise along the Sunday-quiet roads. it?" JP asks as we cruise along the Sunday-quiet roads.

"Fine."

"They give you the third degree?"

"Sort of."

"They like you?"

"Why do you care?"

JP chuckles and shrugs his bulky shoulders. "Just curious. She's not the sort I'd thought you'd go for."

"What sort would that be?"

"The Karla type."

"You only met her once."

"Once was all it took. So is this chick good in bed?"

"f.u.c.k off." I sidle up to the window, getting as far away from my brother as possible. He laughs as we pull up to the lights.

"Ag, I'm just teasing you, boet."

We're the only ones at the intersection. Movement out the corner of my eye catches my attention. A guy runs toward us. There's something in his hand and my body goes rigid.

"JP, drive."

"It's red, man."

"Just drive. Drive!"

The guy reaches us, and I scream at JP as black hands start smearing our windscreen with soapy water.

"Jislaaik, calm the h.e.l.l down, boet." JP puts a hand on my shoulder. I jerk away and grab his hand, twisting his arm and tugging back his fingers.

Blind panic overwhelms me as the window washer gives me a white-toothed grin and starts with the squeegee. Pain bursts across my face, and my head whips back, connecting with the seat.

"Christ, Gabriel." JP rolls down his window and gives the guy five bucks.

"You hit me?"

"You nearly broke my b.l.o.o.d.y fingers." He accelerates through the intersection. "You need help, boet. I'm serious. Like real, proper help."

I spend the rest of the drive trying not to hyperventilate, hiding my shaking hands by sitting on them. Maybe JP's right. Maybe I do need help. And I thought Treasa was the head case.