Is it your own hairspray, Shaun?
followed by three laughing emojis.
Very funny
he answers.
How’s Hein’s eye looking, Dineo?
Dewald asks. When Dineo doesn’t respond immediately Shaun types:
Dineo’s getting her beauty sleep before her big night.
Hey! I’m right here! Hein’s going on stage in an eye patch tomorrow night. You really rearranged his face nicely, dude. And I thought you were a softie. Just goes to show.
When we’ve all said goodnight on the group chat, I send Dewald a private message.
So, did you talk to Irma today?
He sends a single-word response.
Yep.
Just as I’m about to doze off there’s a soft knock at my door. I expect Ouma, but it’s Mom who peeps around the door. She sits down next to me on the bed.
“I’m so proud of you, Noldy,” she says, wiping a curl of hair from my eyes, like she used to do when I was small. “I know it’s not easy making friends in a new town every time we move. And yet you never complain. You just put on that new school uniform and walk bravely out the door. Do you have any idea how much I wish I were more like you? How much I admire your resilience and bravery? I’m your biggest fan. Never forget that.” She’s holding the pink sticky-note pad in one hand. “Here’s your Word of the Week. I’ll paste it in the usual spot for you. Sleep tight, my darling. Tomorrow is going to be unforgettable.”
Mom leans over and kisses my forehead. Her hair smells like jasmine and it’s still wet from her shower. She straightens, tears the top sheet from the pink pad and pastes it onto the coffee tin.
“Love you, Ma,” I say.
Once she’s gone, I get out of bed and go over to have a look at the Word of the Week.
INDOMITABLE, it says in bold, black letters. Underneath, Mom has scribbled the definition: Brave, courageous, impossible to defeat.
The morning of opening night, I wake up like Tracy Turnblad does in the show. It’s no woolly-headed, groggy awakening. It’s an instant wake-up, with immediate, icy butterflies in my stomach. Good butterflies. Butterflies with glittery purple-and-red wings and Doc Martens boots on spindly legs.
Ouma Dina is at my bedside holding out a mug and plate. Toast with apricot jam and cheese, as only she makes it. (Butter first, then jam, then the cheese ... and then extra syrup drizzled on top.) The mug is filled with sweet tea.
“Wakey-wakey!” she chirrups. “Today’s the big day, trucker chick!”
I sit up like a soldier standing to attention.
There are few things better than breakfast in bed, especially when it’s served by your favourite granny.
“Thanks, Ouma.” I attack the toast with gusto.
“Now, fill me in with what’s happening today? Do you have a normal school day?”
“Yes, Ouma. An atom bomb would have to fall on the school before The Grump gives us the day off.” I talk between mouthfuls of toast. “But at least the guys working at On a Roll and the cast and crew of the play are allowed to start setting up and to get their business in order from midday. We’ve got so much extra to do. This is our first public event.”
Ouma hangs on my every word.
“And will I have to queue with the rest of the plebs for my food at the show? Or will it help that I’ve got connections in the tuck truck’s management team?” she asks, with a wink.
I laugh. “Oumie, you can place your order with me and I’ll make sure it’s ready before the show or during interval. Just come and collect it. Wait, I’ll show you the menu ...”
I dig around in my school bag for the pamphlets Ilana had printed and hand one to Ouma.
“Mmmm ... Chick Norris ... Blondies ...What is the Tracy Turnblad? I see it’s a new item?” I can almost hear her drooling.
“You have to try it, Ouma! It’s Dewald’s new creation. Lamb with onion marmalade. Absolutely divine!” I’m bubbling over with enthusiasm, which is my normal state when I talk about food.
“And this Dewald fellow? Is he divine too?” She has a naughty twinkle in her eye.
I’ve always suspected that Ouma is clairvoyant. It’s no accident that she wears those bright, gypsy colours. It’s impossible to hide anything from her.
“Yes, Ouma, he’s pretty cool. Tall and dark, with the nicest smile. You’ll meet him tonight. But we’re just friends – nothing more. Girls like me don’t date guys like Dewald. Don’t you remember what it’s like at high school?”
“Oh, I remember very clearly what it was like in high school, my child. And I know that the cleverest chaps are interested in girls who look and act a little different from the rest. So, it all depends on how clever this Dewald is.”
Having dropped this pearl of wisdom, she taps my bed twice with her freckled hand and says, “But wait, you need to get ready for school, and I should also get going. See you later, Noldybear.”
I find Mom talking on her cellphone in the kitchen. As I enter, she turns her back as if she wants privacy. I rummage in the basket of clean laundry on the table for my black On a Roll T-shirt. I stuff it into my bag and hug her from behind. I hear her annoyance as she tells whoever is on the other side of the line, “Oh, I’ll believe that when I see it.”
It’s probably one of her translation-service clients who has promised to pay today. I hear Ilana’s mother hooting outside our flat. I quickly jot a note to Mom before I run out the door. Six o clock tonight. Don't be late!♥
Even the Viljoens’ car seems impatient. The Volvo is idling and grumbling at the curb outside our little complex. Ilana’s parents are academics and they’re terribly precise. I’ve had a few funny looks from Tannie Bets when I’ve kept them waiting for a minute or two. I take the steps two at a time, yelling, “I’m coming!”
Ilana holds the door for me. “Today’s the day, Ari!”
“Good morning, Tannie Bets. Hi, Oom Phillip,” I rattle off as I climb into the passenger seat. The Viljoens travel together because they work at the same college. Oom Phillip is a lecturer and Tannie Bets does research.
“Did you forget to brush your hair, Arnelia?” Tannie Bets looks at me with a hint of irritation.
I lift my bum to see my reflection in the rear-view mirror.
“Erm ... no? This is the way my hair normally looks, Tannie Bets.”
Sometimes, I get the feeling that Ilana’s parents think she should choose her friends more carefully.
“Are you guys coming to the show tonight?” I ask them.
“Ilana knows full well that she has our support in anything to do with schoolwork. The tuck truck and school musical, however, fall into our category of ‘social activities’. So, no, Arnelia, we won’t be at the show tonight. But one of us will pick her up after her shift at the tuck shop.”
Ilana and I look at one another. She rolls her eyes. Tannie Bets always sounds as though she’s had a dictionary for breakfast.
Very little schoolwork is going to be done today. This is quite clear to me. Even the teachers are chatty. Miss Heyns asks the show kids if they’re ready for the big night. She says she even has a date for the evening, and is looking forward to it. Then she asks me, “Arnelia, don’t you regret that you’re no longer part of all the excitement?”
“Oh, but I am part of it, Miss!” I tell her. “One of my best friends is the star of the show and I’ll be working at On a Roll. I guess you could say my bread is buttered on both sides.”
That’s truly how I feel. Midday can’t come quickly enough.
Shaun is getting Dolores ready when I reach the Kombi a few minutes after twelve. She looks cool in her retro outfit: a wide striped skirt and a snug blue jumper. Her wig is a typical nut-brown beehive, and Shaun has found her a pair of spectacles with cat-eye frames in Mrs Elgin’s wardrobe department. He’s fastened them with Prestik to what
remains of old Dolores’s nose. He’s busy tying the can of hairspray to her left hand with masking tape when I walk up.
“Hey, Shaun. Howzit, Dolores.”
“Don’t you think she looks fabulous?” Shaun asks.
“Heey, Dolores! Girl, you sure do scrub up nice!” I tell the shop dummy in my best American accent.
Inside the Kombi, Dewald is dishing out portions of lamb. There’s a Tupperware container of his secret-recipe onion marmalade next to him.
“Nina’s going to bring fresh herbs from the farm later, when she and my dad come into town for the show,” he says. “Tonight we’re garnishing, guys!”
“Yeah, baby!” Shaun yells from outside. He clasps Dolores to him and tips her over backwards for a kiss.
“Who’s doing the bookkeeping now that Dineo’s not here?” I ask.
“Ilana,” Dewald answers.
Thank the stars they didn’t ask me to do it.
“Look here!” Shaun says when he’s back inside the Kombi. He fiddles with a tiny sound system under the counter and then ‘Good Morning Baltimore’ blasts through the two loudspeakers mounted outside the Kombi.
“Music!” I cry. “That’s so cool!”
“Aha! Here comes our bread,” announces Dewald.
Irma and Hein Geyer are carrying crates of bread. Hein’s eye is a greenish yellow and not as swollen any more. Thank goodness. And Irma doesn’t look like someone who’s just lost the love of her life. Dewald seems to read my thoughts, and whispers, “She’s clearly moved on.”
Shaun flashes a mischievous wink at Hein as he walks by with the bread crate.
“Hello, Handsome,” he teases.
Hein doesn’t react, but Dewald calls out to Shaun, “Hey, stop pulling the lion’s tail, dude!”
The Geyers put the crates down in the Kombi, chatting amicably. As Hein turns to leave, I say, “Break a leg, Hein.”
He glances at me – the plump redhead who couldn’t possibly be the crush of any hot-blooded guy. He’s probably relieved that I’m no longer the romantic heroine to his hero in the show.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
Oom Simon has parked the Kombi next to the school hall for the three nights of the show, so that the audience can buy refreshments before the show and during interval. We borrowed a few patio tables and chairs from parents, and they’re arranged bistro style around the Kombi, so customers can sit out there to eat and chat. While we prepare a good supply of hero rolls for the Tracy Turnblad orders, and put all the other snacks out on display, a stream of actors and dancers moves past us, costumes in plastic covers draped over their arms. Several stop to buy fruit juice, popcorn or something else to eat.
Ilana’s petty-cash box has a small-change crisis, and it’s not even three o’clock yet.
“Don’t stress,” I say. “I’ll call my mom.”
Mom’s phone rings and rings. She’s probably in the bath.
I decide to try Ouma Dina. She answers on the second ring.
“Noldybear!”
“Howzit, Ouma, is my mom around?”
“Erm ... I’m not sure where she is, Nolderpoop. Why?” There’s something suspicious going on ... Our flat is tiny. How can she not know where Mom is?
“Is everything all right, Ouma?” I ask outright.
“But of course, child. We’re about to start getting ready for the show.” My grandmother can do many things expertly; lying is not one of them.
“Okay then. Please can you stop at the bank before it closes and get us R500’s worth of small change? We don’t have enough.” Now’s not the time to play detective.
“Righty-o. I’ll go immediately, and we’ll bring it along later,” she says in her nothing-is-too-much-trouble-for-my-grandchild voice.
Nina delivers the herbs, and soon afterwards the guests start arriving. Before long Mom and Ouma are there too with the small change. It’s the first time the two of them have laid eyes on the On a Roll Kombi. Mom has only ever heard about it. Ad nauseam, I must add. Ouma is bubbling over with excitement.
“What a fantastic concept! You’re all so, so clever!” She walks around the Kombi, touching everything. She doesn’t shut up for a minute. Mom’s wearing an odd smile, and it strikes me that she’s far too quiet.
I get their Tracy Turnblad heroes ready and garnish them with rosemary from the Fouries’ herb garden.
When I hand the food to Mom over the counter, I ask her straight out: “Are you okay, Ma?”
“Of course I am,” she answers quickly. Too quickly. She takes the two TTs, turns and calls Ouma. “Hurry up, Mother, we want good seats.”
I watch them head off. Their walk is identical, but that’s where the similarity ends. Ouma Dina in her extravagant gypsy colours and Mom in her ‘going-out uniform’ of black jeans, long white shirt, and a red silk scarf with white polka dots.
It seems that many musicalgoers have decided to get their supper from On a Roll. Behind the counter, we run around like headless chickens and are relieved when the five-minute bell rings to summon everyone to their seats. Then it’s a mad rush to clean the surfaces, butter a new batch of rolls and warm more fillings, so that everything’s ready for interval.
We can hear the bass tones of the songs we know so well by now. Every now and again there’s loud applause, whistling and whooping. Hairspray is evidently proving to be a big success.
For a brief moment I wonder what it would feel like to be up on the stage right now, with a sea of admiring, smiling faces around me. Then Ilana asks me something, and I’m forced back into the On a Roll kitchen.
The crowd that comes to buy food at interval behaves completely differently to the earlier bunch of customers. The first lot was quiet and reserved. This crowd is fired up by the infectious music of the play. There’s a buzz of laughter and chatter. We have to do some nifty footwork to serve everyone in the twenty-five-minute interval. The TTs are all sold out, and Dewald’s curry pot is almost empty when the stage bell chimes for the second half of the play. Our supplies made it by a hair’s breadth.
“Guys, let’s leave things just as they are and watch the second half,” Dewald suggests. “We can clean up afterwards.”
We don’t need a second invitation and hurry out of our aprons, shut the service hatch and lock the Kombi door. We race to the hall and find standing room behind the last row of seats.
We’ve all seen most of the play, but to experience the full spectacle of Hairspray at night, with the effect of the lighting and the actors and dancers in their vibrant costumes and enormous wigs, is a totally different matter. Mouths open, we stare at the stage. When Dineo makes her appearance on stage, we yell in unison, “Neo!” She spots us at the back of the hall and winks. A number of heads in the audience swivel to see at whom her wink is directed.
The final scene is unbelievable. Tracy Turnblad and Link Larkin sing ‘You Can’t Stop the Beat’ and when they embrace, the audience leaps up as one. Their jubilation all but brings the roof down.
At the back of the hall, we’re jumping up and down and hugging each other as though we’re personally responsible for our friend’s impressive talent. Dewald lets out a long wolf whistle.
The cast take their bows while the entire ensemble sings ‘Welcome to the Sixties’. They come forward in pairs to bow deeply to their audience. When it is Dineo’s turn, a Grade 6 boy runs up to the stage and hands her a beautiful bouquet of yellow lilies. A perfect match to her yellow Crimplene dress with its white collar. I can’t help thinking back to the day Mrs Elgin saw me in that same dress and decided on the spot that I would be her lead actress. So much has happened since then.
Dineo does exactly what beauty queens do when they’re crowned or receive a bouquet. She’s a natural. Her mouth drops open in surprise, she widens her eyes with her hands at the sides of her face. She kisses the boy on both cheeks, closes her ey
es and smells her flowers, then mouths “Thank you so much.” Her dad is standing right in front of the stage. He’s snapping dozens of photos of his daughter with his cellphone. I haven’t seen a prouder father in a very long time.
The audience applauds and applauds. It’s a standing ovation, with the entire audience on their feet. The actors, the technical team and Mrs Elgin stand in two perfect rows and absorb the adulation like parched earth thirsty for rain.
Dineo crosses the stage and whispers into Mrs Elgin’s ear. Mrs Elgin takes the microphone and asks the audience for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Dineo would like our original Tracy Turnblad to share the bouquet. Is she here? Arnelia, where are you, young lady?”
My heart beats in my throat. My friends prod and push me forward, towards the aisle. “Go!” they say, and Dewald lets out another extended wolf whistle. The entire audience has turned in their seats to applaud me. Me, Arnelia van Zyl. I walk down the aisle in my sweaty On a Roll uniform of jeans and T-shirt. On stage, Dineo hands me the bunch of lilies and hugs me. The applause is deafening. Mrs Elgin hands the microphone to Dineo and asks if there’s anything she’d like to say. The applause subsides and Dineo raises the microphone to her mouth.
“Thank you very much, you have been an unbelievable audience. I ... we will never forget tonight. But now I’d like to tell you a bit about this girl, my friend, Arnelia van Zyl. Some of you may know that she was originally cast in the role of Tracy Turnblad. Until ten days ago, she rehearsed faithfully every day. And she was an outstanding Tracy, believe me!”
There’s another blast of applause and I hear Dewald’s trademark whistle from the dark recesses of the hall.
“What you may not know about Arnelia is that she has a heart as big as ...” – for a few horrific seconds I expect her to say “as her boobs”, but she finds the perfect comparison – “well, as big as this wig I’m wearing.” She points at her head and the audience breaks into loud laughter. “Ari knew that it was my dream to land a role in a school play. When she was offered the role, she accepted it because she felt it such an honour. But later she thought it would be an even greater honour to give the role away. The most precious gifts, ladies and gentlemen, are those that cause the giver a measure of pain. Ari, I know how much you enjoyed being Tracy. You filled her dresses so much better than I do.” At this the audience laughs again. “I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity. I hope that I’m deserving of your generosity.”
Confessions of a Ginger Pudding Page 13