I close the door on the night. As soon as I put the instrument to my lips, the notes flow. The flute is difficult. The flautist always gets the hardest parts in concertos, and everyone is always on my case when I’m too slow at getting the phrasing. People forget that flautists need to manage their breathing.
God, I love Bach. I turn the page of my sheet music on the cold glass and continue to the next stanza.
This is when I love music the most, when I’m alone and can geek out over how cool higher octave notes sound when you know what you’re doing. I stop when the dent in my index finger doesn’t bounce back. Then I help myself to a Jelly Stick because no one will notice one missing. Half of them are congealed at the bottom of the box anyway.
After work, I kick off the gravel and roll down the hill on my longboard, straightening my back so I don’t go tumbling into the gutter, like I did last week, leaving me with a massive copper-brown graze on my chin. I love the downhills of Cape Town, like mini roller coasters. Now you see the mountain, now you don’t. I love the way the wind whips my hair back, the way my heart skips a beat and my stomach lurches on that first dip. Exhilarating.
I never wanted to move here. Ma has Jerome and she’s happy, but I’m the third wheel, the dikbek teenager. We moved from the northern suburbs to Rondebosch so Jerome would be closer to work. And who cares if I don’t fit in?
I’ve been trying to take care of my own happiness and failing dismally. Music, my board, the Reader’s Den comic book store in Stadium on Main – all the things that keep me going – can’t replace the feeling of being accepted.
At the bottom of the hill I kick my board up into my hand and heft it over my shoulder. I hear the screach of tyres and jump out of the way just as a white Citi Golf takes the corner at fullspeed, nearly wiping me out. I look back to see a guy sticking his head out the window, chin-length dark hair hanging in his face.
“Sorry, beautiful!” he shouts.
I lift my middle finger and the car speeds away. My nose twitches from the smell of marijuana.
Finlay
KENILWORTH, SATURDAY
I look back at the girl standing with her skateboard over her shoulder giving me the finger. She’s wearing grey jeans with holes at the knees and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt – I recognise the Icarus design from their album artwork. The tips of her blue hair blow in the air like flames licking the sky. The rained-out lights blur around her like an electric halo. She turns around with her finger still in the air and I sink back into my seat, laughing. I love my hood. I really do.
I realise how high I am. Normally I wouldn’t let Bones pick me up at home, but I’m in no condition to navigate my way around. I walked as far as Kenilworth Centre before sending him a WhatsApp.
“We almost hit someone,” I say, wiping my hand over my face.
“Who cares? Got any more spliff?” asks Brendan from the back seat.
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon, man. You always say that. Don’t hold out on me.”
Grudgingly, I reach into my pocket and pull out a joint. I guess he did sort of pay for it.
Brendan takes it and tucks it into his pocket. “Cheers.”
“Whatever. Just rob me. Like I care.”
“Hey, have you checked your phone lately?” he asks. “Julia is trying to get hold of you.”
I look up guiltily. “Me? Why?”
He shrugs. “Ask her yourself.”
He doesn’t know what happened last night, or I hope he doesn’t. And Jules is the last person I want to speak to right now. I look back, but Blue-haired Girl is gone. Or maybe I just imagined her. That can happen when you spend ninety per cent of your day high.
We hotbox the car all the way down the M5.
Once we get to the city, we hit a hole-in-the-wall club called The Bunker, where drinks are cheap and the bouncers don’t look at you twice unless you hit someone. I’m struggling to focus on what’s happening around me. That second joint has really pushed me over the edge.
“I need a beer, man. I need to come down. I’m way too high.”
Bones starts laughing and I whip around. “Whoa. When did you get here, man?”
“I drove you here, asshole.”
“Oh yeah.” This is not good.
We head inside the graffitied building, where I crash into a pool table. When I look up, dazed, Bones and Brendan are polishing pool cues with bits of blue chalk.
“I think I passed out.”
Bones presses a beer into my hand and then I’m up again, throwing my arms in the air and dancing round the table while Bones and Brendan laugh like cavemen. This is the life I know. It’s only a matter of time before I lose myself in one epic, unending party.
A vision of short skirts and mermaid hair clouds my vision – Jules and her friends have arrived. I sink back onto a chair and finish my beer, trying to pretend I haven’t seen her. But she’s already spotted me. Like a shark that’s picked up the scent of blood in the water.
She sits down next to me and starts talking animatedly. I nod, hardly listening.
I’m staring at my nails, freaking out at how yellow they are. Were they always this yellow? It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. Weed does strange things to your brain.
“So you’ll come with me, as my date? I hate going to these things alone.”
I finally look up from my nails and I blink till Jules comes into focus.
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to, but I can’t say no to Jules. Break her angel heart. Not just because she’s Brendan’s sister. She’s like family to me.
I slip away to the bathroom and spend a long time looking at myself in the mirror. The bruises are fading but the dark skin under my eyes is a permanent fixture. Have I brushed my hair today? I doubt it. It’s sticking out everywhere, like I stuck a fork in a socket.
The walls around the cracked mirror are covered in stupid messages and phone numbers. Someone’s left a black Sharpie on the basin. I draw a little hammer on the wall – I like to leave my mark, even in gross club bathrooms.
When I come out, Jules is waiting for me. She’s leaning against the wall, one leg bent back. This was what I was afraid of. She grins at me and extends her hand.
“Not here, Jules, please. Not in front of Brendan.”
Her smile falters. “He doesn’t care, honestly.”
“Yeah, but I do.”
She doesn’t look happy. I wait for her to walk away first, then I hunch my shoulders and skulk back.
I’m suddenly extremely nervous about what I’ve just agreed to and it’s got nothing to do with drug-induced paranoia.
Kayla
RONDEBOSCH, TUESDAY
Recital. Recital. Recital. I’m so nervous.
Lucinda is being nice to me. Almost. I know as soon as this is over she’s going to go back to hating my guts. I don’t care. For now she’s civil, and I can breathe, and this is not going to end up being one huge disaster. Oh, I know Galactus is still out there, his mouth gaping wide, ready to suck me up with the rest of the planet. But he has to wait.
Backstage, the other Music nerds with their perfect hair and expensive designer dresses don’t give me a second look. So everything’s normal on that front. I’m wearing the plainest, yuckiest dress I could find and my gladiator sandals. My hair is tied up in the same high ponytail I always wear. The other girls look so perfect they could belong to any of the most illustrious symphony orchestras; I look like I should be busking in a train station. But somewhere cool, like Prague.
Sebastian walks past like I’m not even here, like he’s done all week. I bend down and pretend to fiddle with a strap on my shoe. I’m nervous as hell already – I can’t afford to be all bleak about him too. I’m surrounded by the sound of instruments being tuned. Clarinet. Oboe. Violin.
I nervously take out my flute and give it a tentative blow. It sounds okay. I know I should really tune my instrument properly so it doesn’t sound too sharp, but it’s impossible
to do it here, where I’m circled by enemies and my head hurts from the effort of not freaking out. I need to get out of here. I grab my case and rush outside. The air smells like the sea – my favourite smell. This is a good omen. I take a deep breath and look around for somewhere quiet to practise.
People are starting to come up the path. They’re not supposed to see me. I slip into the shadows and decide to try the back of the building, but I interrupt a couple making out against the wall. “Whoops, my bad,” I say, backing away quickly.
The couple spring apart. The girl glares at me and I realise it’s Julia freaking Montgomery. The guy also stares. Or I think he does. I can’t really make out his face underneath his red hoodie.
I disappear quickly, only to be grabbed roughly by the wrist by my Music teacher, Mr Emersen. “Backstage, now. You’re up first,” he says, exasperated.
“Already? I thought Sebastian and Leo were doing their Mozart piece first?”
“I changed the programme. If you had been backstage like you were supposed to be, you would have known that. Move it, young lady.”
My nervousness swirls around my stomach and my vision swims.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m following Lucinda and her perfect, complicated braid into a circular room with about forty chairs arranged in rows in front of us. Vomit rises in my throat, but I manage a bow and a nod to the audience. I clumsily arrange my sheet music on the stand. Why does paper sound so loud all of a sudden?
Mr Emersen emerges in a blue blazer with ridiculous shoulder pads and addresses the crowd: “Ladies and gentleman, it is such an honour to have you all with us tonight for the second of this year’s Music School recitals. We are so blessed to have such gifted faculty members with years of concert experience under their belts, willing to bestow their wisdom on our students. I’d like to introduce you now to the first of our duos for the evening: Lucinda Pretorius, Mr Brocker’s star pianist, and Kayla Murphy, our youngest flautist.”
The audience applauds and I step forward awkwardly and lift the flute to my lips, waiting for Lucinda to begin. I hope nobody can see that my hands are shaking. I don’t look at the crowd but at my notes. I would die if I had to look up – I can just imagine Lorenda’s nervous, expectant face waiting for me to screw up. Jerome would just be bored. If he even bothered to come to these things. Neither of them are here tonight, but only because I’ve successfully managed to hide it from them for weeks.
Lucinda’s fingers hit the keys and I take a deep breath. As my lips touch the plate, I look up and notice the couple from outside. The guy is staring at me like he’s just seen a ghost.
Did I see something I wasn’t supposed to just now?
I begin my piece, concentrating on the notes, even though my eyes flit up every few seconds to see if he’s still staring at me. He hasn’t looked away once. The part of my brain that’s still able to think has decided he’s really cute, in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way.
I can’t seem to look away. It’s as if our eyes keep finding their way back to each other. I can feel a smile tugging at my lips. He smiles too, then tries to hide it with his hand.
Finlay
RONDEBOSCH, TUESDAY
What the actual –? It’s Blue-haired Girl.
My head jolts up like I’ve been struck by lightning. I grin into my hand while Jules sits still and straight next to me, concentrating on the music. I didn’t have much choice when she asked me to come as her date to her friend’s recital. Could it have been fate? Weed makes me slow. Sometimes I see patterns and connections that aren’t there. It doesn’t help that this place is so formal. But it is her – I recognise the hair. And the face. It’s hard to forget a face as pretty as that. All big brown eyes and tiny button nose. Or did I imagine those too?
I wipe my forehead. I smell like a spice rack.
What are you doing, Fin? You’re here with Jules, but you’re checking out someone else?
It’s the way she’s smiling at me, like she’s telling me the song she’s playing is for me alone. I should force myself to look at Jules. Smile at Jules. But I can’t look away from Blue-haired Girl.
Kayla, the guy said.
She plays really well. I’ve never liked classical music. I haven’t even listened to that much of it, but when she plays it becomes … interesting.
This has never happened to me before. I don’t stare at girls like a crazy person. Thor definitely doesn’t.
Every couple of minutes, she stops playing to wipe her mouth. She has pretty lips. I smile. Then stop myself.
I’m here with Jules.
I sink back into my chair and try and look anywhere else but at the girl. It’s impossible.
What am I even doing with Jules anyway? I shudder and reach up to tie my hair into a ponytail to stop it from falling into my face. It’s greasy. I forgot to wash it again.
Kayla turns the page and starts a faster, more energetic piece. She leans to the left as she gets into it, like her body is following the course of the notes, trying to keep up with them.
This is so bad. I’m grinning again. I realise Jules is staring at me. I cough into my hand.
“What?” I whisper and turn towards her.
“Isn’t Lucinda gorgeous? I wish I could play like her.” Jules’ eyes are shining.
I nod. I haven’t looked at Lucinda once because Kayla is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.
I jerk at the sound of applause and stand up quickly. I need air. Sky. Anything. I need to get off this tiny chair. “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Across the room, Kayla looks up from her flute and our eyes meet again. When she’s not smiling, she just looks sad. I tear my gaze away and rush outside before Jules can gather her bag.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home writing music. Or out with the crew. I decide to let Jules down via text message and I pull out my phone. I’m a coward. The sooner she realises that, the better. I can’t give her what she wants.
I’m busy typing when I hear voices. I look around the corner and see a group of girls in black dresses drinking water out of plastic bottles. Blue-haired Girl is among them.
“Well done, Kayla. You didn’t screw up. That’s a first, right?” It’s Jules’ friend Lucinda. Inside the hall, a clarinet echoes moodily.
Blue-haired Girl looks defiant. “Wow, you were nice for what, ten minutes? That must be a new record.” Her voice has a certain brusqueness to it. Almost tomboyish.
They all laugh. It’s a catty, ugly sound.
“I wasn’t being nice. I was being professional so that you didn’t fall apart and ruin our piece. It’s not fair that I have to carry your weight during my own recital. I’m going to ask for another partner next time.”
Blue-haired Girl stalks off. In my direction. I back up against the wall, trying to make myself invisible.
Blue-haired Girl wipes a tear from her eyes with the back of her hand, and I can’t resist. Without knowing what I’m doing or even why, I step out just as she passes.
“You okay?”
She looks up in fright, then bristles. “What do you care?”
I can’t help but smile, remembering the middle finger from the other night.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I’d made a joke,” she says crossly, folding her arms across her chest. Her feistiness and mock-bravado is adorable.
“I’m sorry. It’s just … ah … never mind. You shouldn’t take crap from those girls. You’re better than them.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Wow. Okay. That’s a first – I’m better than the future Miss South Africa finalists. You should tell them that.”
“I would if I had any interest in talking to them. You played really well. I liked it.”
She looks around uncertainly. “You’re not from this school, are you?”
“No. Does it matter?”
I’m smiling. She’s not. In fact, her expression is blank.
“Yeah, because if you went to this school
, you probably wouldn’t be talking to me.” And with those words she disappears down the dark path.
Kayla
RONDEBOSCH, TUESDAY
I hate my life. I hate everything. School. Music. Ma. I want to go to another school, where no one knows my name.
Craig is there when I get home. He looks me up and down in my black dress like he’s never seen a girl before. “You been on a hot date or something?” he asks, grinning.
“No. I had a music recital.”
He would have known that if he was my boyfriend. He would have been there supporting me, telling me how amazing I was. I erase the image of Ponytail Boy out my head. He doesn’t know me. And he has a girlfriend – Julia Montgomery, of all people. One of the Queen Bitches. Those girls would kill me if they knew I was giving Julia’s boyfriend the eye. And he’s clearly a cheater.
I untwist the straps of my gladiator sandals.
Craig sits down on the bed and runs his hand over my leg. “You look pretty,” he says.
My head drops. I know Craig – the compliments always come first. I hate myself for wanting this.
“Go lock the door,” I say.
While Craig nuzzles into my neck, I shut my eyes and imagine Sebastian’s cello piece that he’s spent weeks practising for, with Leo on bassoon. I’ve always loved the cello. And I replay Lucinda’s words in my head. Replay the conversation in Sebastian’s bedroom. Replay the word “pretty”. Pretty, pretty, pretty.
Something shifts inside me. It strikes me that I’m addicted to this feeling of disappointment. It’s a warped sense of satisfaction that comes when people reveal their true selves. I should know better than to try so hard to fit in. The knowledge simmers inside me. Next time, I won’t be fooled so easily.
“Kayla?” Lorenda calls through the door.
I push Craig away. “Yes, Lorenda?”
“It’s late. Please say goodbye to your friend.”
I turn to Craig. “You heard her. Go home.”
He tries to act cool while he puts on his shoes, and shoots me with pistol fingers before leaving.
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