by Lisa Grekul
I shrug.
“No,” she says. “Uh-uh. It doesn’t work that way. This friendship – you and me, us – it’s all been written in the stars, Colleen. Preordained by some higher being.”
Rosa’s face is flushed. She grabs my hands again, and squeezes.
“You have been sent to me,” she says. “I’m going to make embryos on eggs.”
•••
Rosa and I spend the remainder of the day together. After lunch, when the Mandela celebrations start up again – dancing on the play fields, readings of banned poetry in the assembly hall – we take a long walk around campus. Then we sit together on my bed, sharing crackers and peanut butter from one of my care packages. Rosa asks about my family and my hometown, about life in Canada. I show her photos of Mom and Dad, Sophie and Wes. Photos of our dog Ralph. Our house. The farm.
Rosa is amazed by my photos. She doesn’t think they’re real. She wonders if we’re really like this – arms around each other, cheeks pressed together – or if it’s put on for the camera. I tell her that it’s real. We’re not just posing. Rosa flips through the pictures again to take another look. She says that it must have been hard for me to leave. Hard for everyone. I nod.
Her oldest brother, she says, is in London studying medicine, and her next-oldest brother works for some big computer company in Singapore. There are three of them in the family. Plus her mother and father, of course. But Rosa hasn’t lived with her mom and dad – or with her brothers, for that matter – since she was very young. She was sent to boarding school in New Zealand when she was seven.
I don’t understand why she would go to boarding school. Why her parents would send her away.
Rosa says that her parents started their medical careers in the tropics and never really left. They were in Surinam for seven years before Rosa was born, and in Tanzania for nine years after. For two years they worked in Cameroon, then another two years in Swaziland. Rosa’s parents have been working in Zambia for the past three years. For the last five, Rosa has been boarding at Waterford.
She can’t believe that my family has never moved. That we’ve always lived in the same house on the same farm by the same town. That every day – day after day – my brother and sister and I came home after school, and that we slept under the same roof as our parents. I can’t believe that she didn’t.
Walking into the dining hall for dinner with Rosa at my side, I catch myself smiling. For the first time in more than a month, I’m smiling. I look from side to side across the room, at the students and the teachers eating in groups. Yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, I sat alone, making it seem as though I enjoyed being by myself. Now I have someone to sit with too. I don’t have to pretend anymore.
Over supper, Rosa asks me to tell her more about my family. More stories from home, about all of my aunts and my uncles, my cousins. Grandparents. Do I see them all the time at home? Do they live close by? Rosa has two grandparents, two aunts and one cousin – in the whole world, they’re all she’s got. And in her whole life, she’s seen her grandparents twice.
“What about the eggs,” says Rosa. “The pysanky. Do all the women in your family make them? Do you make them together?”
Before I can answer, Rosa leans across the table so that we are nose-to-nose. So that I can hear her whispering.
“I have to tell you about this crazy thought of mine. It’s about my twins. My batik twins. I think that they’re prophetic. I think that they’re us. I know it sounds crazy, but I think that I made a drawing of you before I ever even knew that you existed. Is that crazy? I mean, do you think that I’ve lost my mind completely?”
Rosa stops grinning, then, and she stares me straight in the eye.
Is that crazy?
I stare back, at her green, green eyes, islands in a sea of freckles.
Slowly and solemnly, I shake my head.
“No.”
Four
At the beginning of May, two months before the end of the first term, Mrs. McBain corners me. After check-in, she pulls me aside, saying that we need to have a chat. I’m supposed to stop by her house for tea the next day, after class. I can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s not happy. She half-whispers, half-hisses her words at me. I’ve heard her use the same tone with other students when they’ve been in trouble. But she’s never spoken to me this way. I wonder what I’ve done wrong. The night before our meeting, I hardly sleep.
Nobody likes Mrs. McBain. She’s the least popular teacher with the senior students. A lot of the other teachers are lenient when they’re on duty. Especially the younger teachers. Mr. Afseth, our history teacher, doesn’t mind if we hang out in each other’s cubies during the homework period in the evening, as long as we’re quiet about it. The art teacher, Miss De Silva, hardly ever patrols the corridors. And our English teacher, Mick Dawson, doesn’t pay attention to any of the college rules. He lets us call him by his first name. We have our English classes in the common room, where we can pull our chairs into a circle, or outside the hostel, on the grass in the courtyard. If someone has been drinking in town on a Saturday night, Mick looks the other way. He says that we’re adults. Why should he treat us like children?
Mrs. McBain isn’t like the other teachers. Behind her back, a lot of the girls call her Mrs. McBitch, or just McBitch, because she seems to enjoy catching rule breakers, and she’s notorious for the punishments she comes up with – anything from picking up garbage around campus, to being denied weekend exeats, to being suspended and even expelled. She’s a stickler for rules, there’s no doubt about that. Even when she’s not on duty, she has her eyes on us. Every Thursday night before check-in, Mrs. McBain inspects our cubies to make sure that they’re tidy. She can show up anytime, though, in anyone’s room, for a random inspection – and she does. Plus we’ve all seen her in Mbabane on the weekends, strolling through the mall and popping into restaurants downtown, making sure that none of us is smoking or drinking. Once, she dragged two guys out of the Ekhwezi bar before they ordered. Before they even had a chance to do anything wrong.
I don’t think Mrs. McBain is so bad, really. As long as we follow the rules, we have nothing to worry about. Rosa disagrees. She’s had a few run-ins with Mrs. McBain over the past couple of years. Rosa doesn’t trust her. I tell Rosa that Mrs. McBain is in charge of the whole senior hostel, which is a big responsibility. It’s her job to keep us in line. Without her, there would be no order. The place would fall apart. Rosa thinks Mrs. McBain goes overboard, spying on us and invading our privacy. She says Mrs. McBain is like a prison warden. I say she’s more like a mother.
Of course, in music class, I see a different side of Mrs. McBain. Five times a week, I see a side of Mrs. McBain that Rosa never sees. On Mondays and Wednesdays, Katja and I meet with her for classes in ear-training, sight-singing, and melodic dictation; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the three of us do harmony, counterpoint, and composition; Fridays we have individual piano lessons. Mrs. McBain must see Katja and me glaring at each other over our books, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. When she steps into the music room, everything about her changes. Her face lights up as soon as she spots us sitting in our desks, and she doesn’t stop smiling until the end of the class. We’re the best part of her day, I can tell, because she always looks disappointed when the bell rings.
Every class starts with a few minutes of small talk about how we’re feeling, how our other classes are going. Mrs. McBain likes to hear about our families, and our former piano teachers. What we like about Swaziland. Whether we miss home. She talks about her husband – who lives with her on campus but works as an architect in Mbabane – and her two daughters, both studying music at university in England. I think we must remind Mrs. McBain of her girls. I know she misses them.
It feels weird talking about myself in front of Katja, and hearing Katja tell stories about Poland in front of me – since we don’t like each other, and we never talk to each other outside of music class. When it’s my turn to talk abo
ut my old piano teachers, I don’t mention anything about Sister Maria or her work on the Ukrainian composers. I don’t want Katja to know about Sister Maria. I’m not sure that I want Mrs. McBain to know about her either. So I tell them about Simone instead, and Dr. Kalman, and I pretend that my lessons at the convent never happened. It’s easier this way. I’m afraid that if I talk about Sister Maria, I’ll start to cry, and I won’t be able to stop.
The truth is, I think about Sister Maria all the time – more than I think about Mom and Dad, or Sophie and Wes. I’m homesick for her from the moment I wake up in the morning until the moment I go to sleep at night. It doesn’t make any sense, I know. She’s been gone a long time now. Plus I have Rosa. I spend all my free time with her. And I have Siya. I have no reason to feel lonely.
For the past couple of months, on weekends, the three of us have been meeting downtown for lunch. We meet at The Mall and then go for walks together, window shopping and eating ice cream. When I first phoned Siya, and made plans to meet him in Mbabane, at the market near the centre of the city, I wasn’t sure if I should bring Rosa along. I thought they might not get along. They hit it off, though, from the moment they met. As though they’d known each other all their lives. For three hours straight, they talked about art galleries in Europe, and the art scene in southern Africa. Ever since then, we’ve made a point of getting together at least once a week, and we always have a good time. Siya isn’t much of a know-it-all when Rosa is around. He’s actually pretty normal.
Mrs. McBain reminds me of Sister Maria. That’s the problem. The way she paces around the music room when she’s teaching us something new. The way she bobs her head up and down in time with the music when we play well, and frowns when she doesn’t like something she hears. All sorts of little things make me think of my lessons at the convent. Like how Mrs. McBain sits at the piano with her eyes closed for a moment before she starts to play, and how she taps the side of the piano bench with her pencil to keep us in time when we’re sight-singing. She’s nothing like Dr. Kalman. From the first time she heard me play, she’s given me nothing but praise.
So I don’t understand why Mrs. McBain is angry with me now. She’s my favourite teacher. I’m not like the other girls. I don’t call her McBitch. And I know that I’m her favourite student. During my piano lessons with her, when it’s just Mrs. McBain and me, she tells me that I’m exceptional. My playing is outstanding, my ear is remarkable, and I have a special talent for composition. In all her years of teaching, she’s never come across such a gifted musician. Katja, she says, is a very good pianist. Technically, Katja’s playing is almost flawless. Maybe too flawless. There’s no emotion in her performances. Katja reads lines of music like a scientist. I read between the lines, like an artist. Pieces sound new when I play them. I make them my own.
How can I be in trouble with Mrs. McBain?
I try to read between the lines, but I just don’t get it.
•••
While Mrs. McBain fixes our iced tea, I pace around her sitting room, touching the odd ornament, picking up candles and pottery vases, then setting them down again. I don’t know what to do with myself. Rosa and I sat up half the night trying to guess why I’ve been summoned to Mrs. McBain’s place. I tossed and turned until morning, replaying everything I’ve done over the past few weeks.
Her house isn’t at all what I expected. From the outside, it looks like the other teachers’ houses on campus. Thatched roof, whitewashed walls. A little garden out front next to a small driveway. I’ve seen the inside of Mick’s rondavel, and it’s tiny. His floor is tiled like the floor of the classroom block, and he’s hardly got any windows. Mrs. McBain’s house is huge and bright. It might have started out small and round, but Mrs. McBain’s husband has obviously done a lot of work on the place. He’s added at least a half-dozen extra rooms, some of them round, with low ceilings; others long and thin, with vaulted ceilings. I’ve seen Mr. McBain around campus a few times – going for a swim in the college pool, joining Mrs. McBain in the dining hall for lunch. She introduced me to him once at an evening assembly. He seemed so ordinary. Short, balding. Friendly, but quiet. Ordinary clothes, ordinary glasses. I would never have guessed that he had it in him to transform their house like this. One wall in the sitting room is practically all glass. There are plants in every corner of the kitchen, and big paintings of African animals in the sitting room. Blown-up photographs of the market in Mbabane, and sunsets over the hills behind the senior hostel. The McBains’ furniture is covered in wild animal prints – zebra, cheetah, giraffe – and they’ve got Swazi spears and shields propped up against the fireplace. I thought their house would be more prim and proper. More British, somehow. Plainer. I never imagined it would feel so African.
I could understand if Mrs. McBain had asked Rosa to come to her house for a meeting. Rosa’s been in trouble with Mrs. McBain before because she breaks the college rules all the time, and she doesn’t seem to care if she gets caught. I’m always a little on edge when we go to town together. Rosa smokes cigarettes in restaurants downtown – openly, without keeping her hand under the table in case a teacher walks in – and she orders wine or beer with all her meals. She buys liquor in town, too – Southern Comfort and brandy – to drink in her cubie after lights out. It’s easy to buy booze and cigarettes in Mbabane. No one ever asks for id. Rosa knows where to go to buy dagga, too, and sometimes she goes for walks in the hills behind the hostel to smoke it. Which is really asking for trouble, since we’re not allowed in the hills, and we’re definitely not allowed to smoke pot. Once in a while, after lights out, Rosa smokes right in her cubie – cigarettes and dagga – even though Mrs. McBain could walk in at any time. I never join her. I’m too afraid of losing my scholarship. And I ask her not to do it, either, but she just laughs. She says that they wouldn’t dare kick her out. They need her tuition fees.
Mrs. McBain takes ages to come back to the sitting room. By the time she reappears, carrying a tray with a glass pitcher of iced tea and two glasses, I’ve gone through her record collection beside the stereo, and I’ve read nearly all the titles in her bookshelf. She’s obviously been in Swaziland for a long time because everything in her house is African. The pitcher and the glasses are etched with outlines of the African continent, like see-through maps.
She starts the conversation by asking about my school work. How am I doing in my other courses? She doesn’t seem angry, just curious. Am I keeping up with the workload?
I don’t know why Mrs. McBain bothers to ask about my other courses. We talk about them all the time at the beginning of our music classes. She knows that my grades are excellent, and that I get along well with the other teachers. I stay on top of my readings and my assignments.
As Mrs. McBain pours our iced tea, I explain to her that my classes are fine. No problems at all.
Next she asks me about my Extended Essay. Have I settled on a topic? Have I given any thought to her suggestions about it?
Again, I’m not sure why Mrs. McBain is asking about my E2. She knows that I’m going ahead with Ukrainian Canadian folk music. I’ve already done most of my research. Mom sent me a box of material at the beginning of April. Cassette recordings of old lp’s, Ukrainian songbooks, history books about Ukrainians in Canada. I’ve gone through it all. Now I’m ready to write the actual essay. When I first mentioned my topic to Mrs. McBain, she was a bit hesitant. She thought that I should do something more creative, like Katja – compose a piece of music, and then submit it instead of an essay. But I told her that I wanted to stick with Ukrainian folk music. It’s important to me. Rosa agrees. She thinks it’s a brilliant topic. We’re going to make pysanky together, with the supplies that Mom sent along with the material for my essay. Then we’re going to photograph the eggs for the title page of my essay.
I tell Mrs. McBain that I’m still working on “The Evolution of Ukrainian Folk Music in Canada.” That I’m about to start writing. I tell her about the pysanky and the title page.
/> She frowns.
Then she asks how I’m enjoying my free time. Whether I’m making friends, taking part in college life. Getting out to experience Swazi culture. Have I decided where I’m going to do my Community Service next term?
This is weird. Of course I’m making friends. Mrs. McBain sees that Rosa and I spend all our time together. She’s signed all our weekend exeats, so she has to know that we go to Mbabane every Saturday and Sunday. Plus I’ve told her about Siya during my piano lessons – how we met on the flight from Paris to Johannesburg, how I introduced him to Rosa. How the three of us have become friends. And we’ve already talked about Community Service. Mrs. McBain knows that Rosa and I are going to volunteer at the hospital in town, starting in June. Siya is going to join us there on Tuesday mornings.
I tell Mrs. McBain that my social life is good. I’m happy. Still planning to do Community Service at the hospital. Nothing has changed.
“That,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, “is precisely what I feared.”
I don’t understand.
“Have I done something wrong? Because I seem to be in trouble, and I don’t know why. Can you just tell me what I’ve done?”
Mrs. McBain uncrosses her arms, then crosses them again.
“I’m concerned about you, Colleen. I’ve asked you here today because I’m very concerned.”
She looks down at her sweater, picks off a piece of lint from her sleeve. I wait for her to continue.
“I don’t need to remind you that there is more to being a good Waterford student than fulfilling the college’s academic requirements. You’re part of a community here, part of a large family, so to speak. And when you’re part of a family, you participate in family activities.”
I nod.
“I didn’t see you at Sunday dinner this week,” she says.
Every Sunday, the kitchen staff puts on a special meal for students and staff, with turkey or roast beef. All of the tables in the dining hall are covered in tablecloths, with fresh flowers and real plates instead of metal trays. Rosa and I have been skipping Sunday dinner. Not just last Sunday, but a few Sundays before that too. We’ve been meeting Siya at Marco’s Italian Restaurante downtown.