The Other Me Part 3

Jordan and I find a patch of dappled gra.s.s and settle with our lunch boxes.

"Please don't make a big deal out of this."

"Me? Never." Jordan feigns innocence as she pops open a bag of Jelly Tots.

"I'm serious."

"Cross my heart, promise." She offers me a sugared candy, which I eat with a cheese cracker.

"You must be an alien," Jordan says. "Or pregnant."

"I am so not pregnant." Gross. If I could get sterilized right now, I would.

"Stef eats the weirdest things. You ever tried milk tart with tomato sauce?"

"Maybe your sister's an alien too," I say.

"She is the size of a planet. But I think you're the only extraterrestrial among us."

Jordan acknowledging my weirdness usually makes me feel good, feel better about being such a freak, but right now, despite the heat sucking the moisture out of everything, I s.h.i.+ver with a p.r.i.c.kle of cold. I don't want to go to the Charity Ball, I don't want to fight with my mom about wearing a dress, I don't want to have to find a partner and end up asking some distant relative for a favor. Right now, I don't want to be me.

Gabriel

I CAN CAN'T sleep. Thunder rumbles somewhere to the south, too far away to be soothing. There's something consoling about the violence of a highveld thunderstorm. The more vicious the lightning, window shaking the thunder, and torrential the rain, the less angry I feel. For those brief minutes when the heavens wreak havoc on the earth, I feel a kind of peace. Mom loved storms, said they were nature's way of reestablis.h.i.+ng equilibrium. Too bad it can't rain inside my head and wash away all the s.h.i.+t clogging up the works. sleep. Thunder rumbles somewhere to the south, too far away to be soothing. There's something consoling about the violence of a highveld thunderstorm. The more vicious the lightning, window shaking the thunder, and torrential the rain, the less angry I feel. For those brief minutes when the heavens wreak havoc on the earth, I feel a kind of peace. Mom loved storms, said they were nature's way of reestablis.h.i.+ng equilibrium. Too bad it can't rain inside my head and wash away all the s.h.i.+t clogging up the works.

The night is a symphony of crickets, with the wind rattling percussion in the tree branches outside my windows. I'd love to be able to practice right now, wouldn't even need to turn on the lights-just let my fingers feel their way through the music. Doubt my father would be too impressed if I woke him up at 1:00 a.m. with Beethoven. Mom used to play late at night. I remember waking up as a kid in the early hours of the morning to the pianissimo strains of Chopin or Clementi.

I've got the matinee coming up. Not that my father knows or even cares. If Mom were still around, I bet she'd come to my concerts and she'd be proud of me.

Using a torch under the duvet, I start writing another letter. I'm not sure why I do this; it's not like I have anywhere to send them, and it's not like Mom will ever read them. Sometimes just writing these helps as much as getting hit at the dojo does.

Dear Mom,Do you think I'll make a good chemical engineer? That's what Dad says he'll pay for. They even offered me a scholars.h.i.+p, but I don't want to do a BSc. I want to study music, like you.I know he hates me, almost as much as I hate him. We blame each other for what happened, but I think he's right. It's my fault and I'm sorry. Wherever you are, I hope you know how sorry I am.

For the first time in five years, tears p.r.i.c.k the back of my eyes. Pain is good for creativity.

Artists should suffer. The greatest pieces weren't ever composed in a moment of elation. Tragedy is what sp.a.w.ns the most profound creations. Thinking about Mom might be good for my composition.

I've been working on this sonata since Christmas, and it's going to be the centerpiece of my Matric portfolio, but it's lacking inspiration. The music seems pedestrian, too normal, too derivative.

The harmonies are uninspired, the melody boring, the structure predictable. When did Chopin first hear the melody for his Nocturne in B-flat minor? How did Beethoven feel as he sat down to compose the Moonlight Sonata? Maybe being sad just isn't enough.

Am I an Alien, Treasa Test #02

HYPOTHESIS: Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as telekinesis. Extraterrestrials possess superhuman abilities such as telekinesis.

GOAL: To prove I can move objects with the power of my mind alone. To prove I can move objects with the power of my mind alone.

METHOD:.

Place five objects of varying weights and densities on a regular surface (my desk).Concentrate on individual objects for exactly three minutes.Attempt to move objects at least five centimeters along surface of desk.

RESULTS: The only objects that appeared to move were the leaf and ball of cotton wool. However this may have been a result of the breeze through the window and not telekinesis. The ball of Prestik did not move, which may indicate that alien powers do not work on polymers. The bottle of nail varnish and pen showed no movement. The only objects that appeared to move were the leaf and ball of cotton wool. However this may have been a result of the breeze through the window and not telekinesis. The ball of Prestik did not move, which may indicate that alien powers do not work on polymers. The bottle of nail varnish and pen showed no movement.

CONCLUSION: Results are inconclusive. I may not have fully developed my alien powers yet, or my powers may be more limited than previously thought. That the leaf moved in the direction I wanted it to indicates possible partial telekinesis on organic compounds. Results are inconclusive. I may not have fully developed my alien powers yet, or my powers may be more limited than previously thought. That the leaf moved in the direction I wanted it to indicates possible partial telekinesis on organic compounds.

Treasa

NINE O O'CLOCK Sat.u.r.day morning, Dad drives me to Jordan's. Despite my complaints, Dad tunes into the cricket and I'm forced to listen to descriptions of batting and fastb.a.l.l.s and innings and wickets. Sat.u.r.day morning, Dad drives me to Jordan's. Despite my complaints, Dad tunes into the cricket and I'm forced to listen to descriptions of batting and fastb.a.l.l.s and innings and wickets.

"Are we winning?" I ask when Lance Klusener hits a six.

"Oh, Resa, I give up with you." My dad shakes his head, and we pull into Jordan's driveway.

"So we aren't winning?" I grin.

He gives me a you-know-better look and turns down the commentary. "You sure about this?"

"Sure about hanging out with Jordan, or taking a martial arts cla.s.s?"

Dad frowns, his eyebrows gathered in a thicket of lines above his nose. "You've got your cell phone. Call me if you're uncomfortable, okay?"

"Thanks, Daddy." I kiss him on the cheek and hop out as Jordan's mom sashays onto the stoep stoep in a flimsy sundress. in a flimsy sundress.

"Howzit, Dave."

"Hi, Sheryl." Dad waves, his smile tight and forced, before driving away.

"Come in, Ree." Sheryl whisks me inside. I like Jordan's house, an open-plan sprawl of gla.s.s and feng shui thanks to her father's child-support checks. Jordan bounds down the stairs in skimpy yoga shorts and a black halter top. I feel overdressed in the board shorts I got from the boy's department and a T-s.h.i.+rt. At least the new sports bra is working, flattening the bulbous protrusions on my chest.

"Ready?" She pauses in the hallway mirror to sweep her long hair into a haphazard ponytail that somehow looks designer messy.

"I guess."

"Cla.s.s starts at ten. We should go. Ma!"

"Coming." Sheryl lights a cigarette and picks up her keys.

Minutes later, we cruise into the country club, the wind making ragged sails of my hair despite all the hairpins trying to hold it in place.

Riverstone Estate is an oasis sandwiched between office blocks and shopping centers. The houses here are palatial; some even have Grecian pillars and porticoes. In the center of this Utopia lies the country club and ultramodern sports center replete with twenty-four-hour gym. The annual club members.h.i.+p fees are probably more than my school fees. Sheryl parks and says to meet her at the pool when we're done. Jordan saunters into the sports center as if she owns the place.

"I've never been here before."

"Don't worry, Ree. These uppity b.i.t.c.hes won't bite. They're too busy worrying about their cellulite and wrinkles to notice us."

"You fit in here."

"Gee, thanks," Jordan snaps.

"I mean, you're one of them, one of the beautiful people with a big house and a convertible."

Jordan stops in the middle of the reception area and turns to face me, left hand on her hip. "I'd be happy with a fifteen-year-old Toyota and townhouse if it meant I had two parents at home working regular nine-to-fives."

"Sorry." I don't know what else to say.

"It's okay." She releases the breath she's been holding. "But money is hardly what matters in this life."

I can't argue with that. Jordan keeps walking, and I follow her into the change rooms where we lock up our bags and fill water bottles before heading into Hall C. There's a poster on the door advertising the self-defense cla.s.s being run by the Cedarbranch Karate Academy. The guy demonstrating a superhero kick looks a little familiar. The image isn't high quality, so it's hard to be sure.

There are a dozen other teenagers, mostly girls, gathered in groups around the edges of the mats. Thankfully, I don't recognize anyone from St. Bridget's. Jordan and I stand in the corner, watching and waiting.

"Oh look, Ree, it's Gabriel." Jordan nudges me with her elbow as Gabriel and a middle-aged man walk in.

Gabriel turns and scans the hall, his gaze resting on us. He waves in greeting with a smile plastered across his face. I can't breathe.

"This'll be fun." Jordan grins as we're instructed to take our places on the mats.

"You knew?" I manage through clenched teeth.

"Of course, why do you think we're here?"

"You're mean."

"I'm devious." She smirks. "And doesn't Mr. du Preez look mighty fine in his karate gi karate gi and black belt? See, black and white. He's already nailed the look." and black belt? See, black and white. He's already nailed the look."

The sensei claps his hands, calling for silence before introducing himself as Sensei Nathan and Sempai Gabriel. Then we start with some basic warm-up drills, and it takes all my concentration not to look like a flailing walrus while doing star jumps. Jordan glows with a sheen of perspiration, while I'm soaking in sweat and left wis.h.i.+ng I'd worn less when we start the hand-to-hand maneuvers.

Jordan and I pair up for a simple takedown. Someone grabs you from the front, you grab his wrist, bend over, and take him down with a knee to the shoulder. Gabriel and his sensei demonstrate the step, and it looks like a dance move, fluid and easy. I grab Jordan first, and we do the move in slow motion a few times before trying it for real. Of course, Jordan pins me to the floor in seconds.

We swap and she grabs me. She resists, and not wanting to hurt her, I relent. Jordan swivels around fast and knocks me to the floor.

"Sorry, Ree, but you're gonna have to try harder to take me down." Jordan helps me up as Gabriel comes over.

"Hi. Treasa, right?"

Oh G.o.d, he remembers my name. I manage a nod.

"And?" He gives us a smile showing too much teeth. It's the first time I've noticed his smile doesn't really touch his eyes.

"Jordan." She holds out her hand and they shake.

"Do you mind?" Gabriel asks, stepping between us to partner with me. Please let him think my face is just red from exertion. Please let him think my face is just red from exertion.

"Go for it." Jordan steps back, giving me an encouraging thumbs-up.

"You need to use your full body weight," he says. "Don't be afraid of taking the other person down."

Is that a veiled way of saying he thinks I'm fat?

"Try it." He grabs my s.h.i.+rt. I stare at his hand a few centimeters above my breast before blinking back into the now.

"You won't hurt me, promise." He grins, and this time there's a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt in his emerald eyes. Tentatively, I wrap my fingers around his wrist. His pulse throbs beneath my fingertips.

"Now use your other arm and bend at the waist, rolling me down and away."

"Come on, Ree." Jordan yells encouragement.

"Like this?" I ask, pus.h.i.+ng my arm across his biceps as I bend. Gabriel offers no resistance and falls to the floor with my knee pressed against his muscular shoulder.

"Like that, only mean it this time."

He grabs me more aggressively, and I go through the motion again. This time he manages to squirm away from me before I can pin him on the mat.

"Again," he says, grabbing me and tugging me closer. "You're short, but that doesn't have to be a disadvantage."

I close my eyes and pretend it's not Gabriel. Candyce's face flashes through my mind as I grab the wrist holding my s.h.i.+rt. There's a moment of resistance before I pin the guy down hard.

"Okay, okay." He pats my knee, and I let him up. Jordan stares at me, wide-eyed.

"What?"

"That was really good." Gabriel rubs his shoulder.

"Did I hurt you?" I raise my hands as if to, what? Soothe him, warp the molecules of his bruised shoulder and heal him like Resa would a friend? I drop my hands.

"Hardly." He gives me a measured look and jogs back to the sensei, ready to teach us a new move.

"That was awesome." Jordan stands beside me as we observe the next block.