“This is going to be so much fun,” Mom says to me as we climb into my car. “We haven’t shopped together in ages.” She doesn’t ask if I want to drive, and I don’t offer. I have messages to send.
Livi: You didn’t tell me your cousin is now one of the hottest guys on the planet.
Adam: I don’t really think of guys in that way.
Livi: Adam! As one of my best friends, it’s your duty to point out attractive potential boyfriend material to me.
Adam: *throwing up* I don’t think it is, actually.
Livi: You could have mentioned his hotness when you invited me to live with you guys.
Adam: Perhaps I was waiting to see you become a speechless, handbag-dropping mess.
Livi: *sigh*
Adam: *throwing up again*
***
My mother is scared of old furniture that’s been used by other people—“You never know what might be living in it now.”—but after a lengthy argument, I remind her of what she and Dad always say about not giving me the best, biggest, and newest of everything because they don’t want to raise a spoiled child, and that’s how we end up heading to the second-hand shop Lynda mentioned. I breathe a sigh of relief after winning that battle—I can only imagine the ‘princess’ names Adam would come up with if a delivery van from the most expensive home decor store at the V&A Waterfront showed up in Toll Road to drop off my designer furniture.
After an hour or so of Mom trying to touch as little as possible and me examining every item of furniture in every room of the rundown house in Muizenberg that now serves as a second-hand furniture shop, I’ve chosen my collection: a desk, bed, bedside table, bookcase, and a comfy old armchair covered in a hideous green-and-brown patterned material that I assure my mother I’ll be covering up with a throw the moment it’s delivered.
“Okay, that’s all,” I say to Mom after pointing out my chosen items to the guy behind the make-shift counter in the centre room of the house. “Do you, um, want me to pay?” I never know with my parents if I’m going to catch them in a generous mood or a Livi-needs-to-learn-how-to-support-herself mood. On the one hand, they were happy to pay for my ticket to Germany last year, and they’ve assured me they’re fine with paying my rent this year, but on the other hand, they flat-out refused to buy me a car.
Mom heads to the counter without saying a word. She whips out her credit card, gives me her be-grateful-I’m-paying-for-this look, then exclaims in surprise at the low total. “Oh, goodness, Livi. These things cost hardly anything. Are you sure they aren’t going to fall apart five minutes after they’re delivered?”
The guy behind the counter assures her that all items are thoroughly checked when they come into the shop, and anything broken is fixed before going on display. Mom looks doubtful but pays for everything anyway while I write down our Toll Road address so someone can deliver everything this afternoon.
“Now that you’ve had your second-hand shop experience, we’re going to the Waterfront,” Mom says as we climb back into my car and wind the windows down to let some air into the oven-like interior. “There’s a hotel there with the most gorgeous views out onto the water, and their sushi is simply superb. Your father and I ate there often the last time we were on holiday in Cape Town. How about we have lunch there? And then we can shop for the rest of your things. Some curtains and bedding and a decent mattress—and something to cover up that awful armchair you seemed to like so much. Perhaps I’ll even treat you to some Egyptian cotton items.”
***
After the shopping expedition is over, and my furniture has arrived at the house, I spend the remainder of the afternoon helping Adam and Lynda clean. Mom hangs my curtains, makes my bed, and takes her time arranging cushions and other frivolous decorative items around my room so she won’t be roped into anything that involves dust, household detergents, or a wet cloth. She even unpacks all my clothes and shoes and arranges them neatly in my cupboard when it becomes clear that the only other task left in the house is cleaning kitchen shelves.
As evening draws closer, Mom goes for a walk and comes back with a selection of gourmet sandwiches from a restaurant she found a few roads away. Mom, Adam, Lynda and I—not Luke, who left the house so quietly no one is sure exactly when it happened—sit on the floor of the empty lounge eating our sandwiches, and Mom and Lynda reminisce about a time long ago when their children were young and the idea of sending them off to university seemed like an eternity away. Even my mother, whose butt probably hasn’t touched a floor since she was a teenager, seems to be relaxed and enjoying herself. I suddenly wish Dad were here too. This is what our last dinner together should have been like: laughing about the past and dreaming of the future.
At the end of the evening, when Mom and I have finally unpacked and put away all the stuff I brought with, I collapse onto the mattress on my bedroom floor—a blow-up mattress borrowed from Sarah’s family—while Mom climbs into my bed.
My lamp clicks off.
“I enjoyed dinner,” I say through the darkness.
After a pause, Mom answers with, “Me too.”
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket up over my shoulder; the evenings are cooler here than in Durban. “I kinda wish Dad had come with us.”
The pause is longer this time, and my mind is already drifting into that half-awake, half-asleep state when Mom’s second answer comes, quieter than her first. “Me too.”
***
Sunday dawns bright, beautiful, and disgustingly hot. I layer sunscreen over every exposed part of my body, and Adam and I head into the garden to battle the weeds while Mom and Lynda drive to the second-hand shop together to find furniture for our living area. I thought Mom would try to find a way out of returning to ‘that bug-infested place’ and simply offer to pay half of whatever Lynda chose, but, to my surprise, she seemed happy to go with.
The sun climbs higher, Adam fights with the lawnmower, our moms return, the furniture arrives, we spend all afternoon transforming the house into a home, and before I know it, it’s time to drive my mother to the airport and say goodbye.
We’re quiet in the car. I’m concentrating on the road—having actually been allowed to drive my own car this time—and Mom doesn’t seem to have any words to say other than those required to direct me to the airport. It’s only when we climb out at the drop-off zone and she’s standing in front of me with her small suitcase at her feet that I notice her red eyes and trembling lips. She blinks and presses her lips together, swallowing hard as she tries to remain composed. I’ve never seen my mother in an emotional state like this before, and suddenly I feel like crying.
“I … I don’t think I ever told you how much I missed you when you were in Germany,” she says. “It was all arranged in such a rush, and then you were gone, and we’d barely said goodbye to each other.” She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Now you’re leaving again, and this time I want to say goodbye properly. I want to say all the things that should be said.”
“Mom, it’s … it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Deep Meaningful Conversations have never been my mother’s strong point. She gets uncomfortable when people start getting too personal. So does my dad, for that matter. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up with the emotional IQ of a brick wall.
She smiles at me and takes hold of my hand. “I know we haven’t always found it … easy … to talk to one another. But I hope you know how much I love you and how excited I am for you embarking on this new journey in your life. Please don’t think that I don’t want to know about it. I do. I want to know everything. Well,” she adds with a laugh, “perhaps not everything.”
Holy hippogriff, did my mother just make a joke? On top of getting personal? Who is this woman! I wrap my arms around her and laugh to keep myself from crying. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”
After a few more sniffles, she gives me one last smile and turns away. I watch her go, trying to imprint this relaxed, smiling, jeans-and-T-shirt version of her
over the suit-and-high-heels image my brain always defaults to when I think the word ‘Mom.’
On the drive back to Toll Road, I’m too busy concentrating on the dual task of not getting lost and not crashing into something to focus on my feelings. But after parking my tin oven in the vastly improved front garden and looking out at the tall trees across the road that hide the mountain, I’m aware of an odd mixture of nostalgia and excitement. A kind of mourning for everything I took for granted in the past—passing notes to Logan during Afrikaans class because Mev. Pretorius was always too ditzy to notice; lying on the grass in Our Spot every breaktime at school; sleepovers with Sarah—and a joyful anticipation for tomorrow and every day after that.
It only takes about half a minute for the excitement to begin burying the nostalgia. It rises up like bubbles in a jacuzzi and blots everything else out. I slam the car door shut and bound up the stairs to let myself in—with my very own key. “I’m home!” I shout, just to see what it feels like to say those words.
Home. My home.
It feels good.
“Good to know you’re still alive,” Adam shouts back from his bedroom.
I dance down the passage, run into his room, and jump onto the bed with a squeal. “This is really happeniiiiing!”
I’ve never been particularly good with early mornings, but I’m up with the sunrise on Orientation Day Number One. I barely slept all night, even though the linen spray Mom spritzed all over my high thread count sheets is supposed to create ‘a mood of peace and tranquillity’ with its ‘delicate fragrance.’ I should be exhausted, but TODAY IS THE DAY my fabulous university life begins, and nothing can keep me in bed a second longer.
Despite our cleaning efforts, an unpleasant damp odour still clings to the bathroom, but I soon manage to mask it with the scent of strawberry body sorbet and grapefruit shampoo. I exit the bathroom in a cloud of steam, waltz into my bedroom, and throw my cupboard doors open dramatically. After almost losing my towel and checking behind me to make sure that my bedroom door is closed, I step back to survey my outfit options. I did a complete revamp of my wardrobe during the post-Christmas sales, paying close attention to items considered Fashionable rather than Comfortable.
After far too much consideration, I pick out a tight-fitting, blue-patterned mini dress that shows off plenty of my recently tanned I-wish-they-were-longer legs and just a hint of cleavage. I have to suck my tummy in and stand up as straight as possible to pull it off, but I’ll be wearing heels, so that’ll remind me not to slouch.
After shimmying into the dress, I grab my phone and check the numbers on the screen. Hmm. I’ve got fifty minutes until the time Adam and I agreed we’d leave for Upper Campus, and I’ve still got to eat breakfast, do make-up, and, of course, tame my hair. Frizzy mess is not part of Project Ditch the Nerd. Deciding to do hair first, I plug in my straightener and drag my desk chair in front of the mirror inside my cupboard.
Half an hour later, I open my door, flick my sleek hair over my shoulder, and sashay down the passage towards the kitchen. This is excellent practise for my high heeled sexy walk. I should grab a bowl of cereal and do a few laps up and down the passage while eating. I need to know I can pull off the sexy walk without actually thinking about it.
“Good morning,” I sing as I enter the kitchen and find Adam in boxers, a wrinkled T-shirt, and hair pointing in a hundred different directions. He’s typing a message on his phone—probably to girlfriend Jenna who’s stuck on the other side of the country finishing her last year of high school—with one hand while taking a bite of toast from the other. He doesn’t look remotely close to being ready. “Hey, you know we’re leaving in twenty minutes, right?”
He swallows and carries on typing. “Yeah. I can get ready in—” He looks up, and both his jaw and the piece of toast hit the floor. His eyes travel all the way down to my peep-toe heels and back up again, freezing on my face. He clears his throat. “You … why are you … where are you going?”
“Uh, to campus? Just like you?”
“In that?”
I place my hands on my hips and give him a glare to hide my disappointment. This is not the reaction I was hoping for. “Project Ditch the Nerd, remember? Losing labels like Orchestra Geek, Choir Monkey, and The Ginger.”
“And this—” he gestures to my dress “—is supposed to help?”
“Yes. If I have to be a ginger, I will at least be a hot ginger.” And with that, I turn and flounce from the kitchen. Who needs breakfast anyway? Not me. Not if I’m planning to fit into dresses like this every day. So instead I take photos of my bedroom and send them to Sarah along with the message, Remember Gross Cousin Luke? He has been replaced by World’s Hottest Hunk Luke! No kidding. Deadly serious. And he is still super shy, which makes him even more adorable. Now I feel bad for always thinking he was creepy when he was just too shy to talk to us. Although there was the hair-sucking thing … which thankfully he doesn’t do anymore. Now he has hot-guy hair. Anyway, I’ll call you later!
Adam and I are in his car reversing out the driveway less than twenty minutes later, because apparently that’s all the time you need to get ready when you don’t care about making a good first impression—which Adam clearly doesn’t in his Beam Me Up, Scotty T-shirt. I mean, as a Star Trek fan, I appreciate it, but he has to realise it’ll put him immediately in the nerd box in the eyes of everyone he meets today.
“I’m not sure you realise how big Upper Campus is,” Adam says as we join the morning traffic on Main Road.
“What? Of course I do. I’ve seen the maps.”
“And I’m not sure you realise how much competition there is for parking, meaning we’ll probably be walking from Middle Campus—if we’re lucky.”
“Yeah, I get that.” And I get where he’s going with this line of conversation. “And before you continue, yes, I still chose to wear these shoes, and yes, my feet will be fine.”
“Okay,” he says, his tone implying he knows he’ll be proved right before the day is over.
“Besides, you’ve heard of the Jammie Shuttles, right? The blue busses that are free for students? We can just hop on one of those and get a ride to Upper Campus.”
“Okay.” That same annoying tone.
“You’ll see,” I tell him. “Today is going to be awesome.”
***
And it is. I mean, the welcome talk in Jammie Hall isn’t all that inspiring, and the campus and library tour isn’t exactly thrilling, but simply being here is incredible. Walking along Jammie Plaza, seeing the ivy-covered buildings, hearing the laughter and chatter of the students around me … it’s everything I’ve been dreaming of. I have to admit, there aren’t many girls dressed as fabulously as I am, but I do see a large number of short dresses and skirts, even if they aren’t all as tight as mine and only a few are paired with heels. Okay, so maybe I’ll save heels for once a week.
After a traumatising talk about sex education and STDs—don’t they know we heard enough of that stuff at school?—we’re sent off for a lunch break. I try to attach myself to a group of girls who look like they’ve always been part of the cool crowd, but before I can greet them and introduce myself, one of them waves to a guy nearby, and they all hurry towards him.
Right. I guess I’ll try again after lunch.
I swivel around on the spot, hoping to see a sign pointing me in the direction of food that will satisfy my gurgling, breakfast-deprived stomach. All I see are the many tables, gazebos and umbrellas set up on Jammie Plaza for the clubs and societies promoting themselves this week. I wander towards them, wondering if any of those tables sell food.
There’s a club for just about any activity you could ever hope to do. Ballroom dancing, wine tasting, astronomy, film, debating, skydiving, archery—archery! That is epic! I could be the next Green Arrow or Hawkeye. I could be the next Katniss! I wonder where archery ranks in terms of ‘cool’ clubs, though. Probably not that high.
I continue walking. My eyes glide over hockey, ten
nis, rowing—
Wait. Is that … Logan?
I take a few steps closer to the busy rowing club table. “Logan?” The laughing guy with the blond hair and the arms and shoulders that are way bigger than the last time I saw them looks up. His eyes travel over me, and when they’re done, he looks almost as shocked as Adam did this morning.
He stands up and comes towards me. “Livi?”
I cross my arms. “Oh, you remember me?”
“Livi, what do you mean? Of course I—”
“You haven’t replied to a single email, text or Facebook message I’ve sent you over the past year. And you haven’t spoken to Adam or Sarah either. What happened? You got here and we were no longer good enough for you?”
“Liv, come on.” He reaches out and runs his hand down my arm. He smiles, but I can see the uneasiness—the guilt—in his eyes. “My life is insanely busy here. I’m involved in everything. Res and sports and committees, and then having to study to pass all my courses on top of that. I didn’t forget about you guys, I just haven’t had time to—”
“Oh, yeah, no time.” I nod. “I’ve seen the pictures on Facebook. I can understand why you’d have no time for us with all those parties you go to.”
“Liv, that’s not what I meant.”
“Look, I get it, okay? Being involved in everything. I mean, I want that too. I want to be the life of the party, not standing on the outside wondering where my invitation is. It just would have been nice if you hadn’t ignored your old friends while meeting all your new ones.”
The Trouble with Flirting Page 3