I roll my eyes at him. “Gingers aren’t cool. People make jokes about them.”
“Firstly, so what? Secondly, you’re definitely more of a redhead than a ginger. And thirdly, if red hair wasn’t cool, there wouldn’t be so many celebrities dying their hair that colour. And don’t forget about all the kick-ass fictional redheads. Like Jean Grey and Ariel and Princess Fiona from Shrek.”
“And Dumbledore.”
“Exactly. Let’s not forget Dumbledore.”
“Well, anyway, Jackson called me sexy, so the blonde hair was worth it.”
Adam sighs and says nothing.
“You’re trying really hard not to roll your eyes or mime puking, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much.”
I stick my tongue out, then push my chair back and stand up. “Time to shower. Unless you want to go first?”
“No, go ahead.” Adam places my mug and his plate in the sink.
“Thanks. And, um, I’ll do the dishes before I go out. You can leave them.” See? I can take responsibility.
He smiles. “Thanks, Liv.”
“And Adam? Can I say something else?”
“Yes?”
“You were right. Which I guess isn’t surprising, since you turn out to be right about ninety-nine percent of the time. And in this case you were right about me, um, struggling a bit with—as you put it—‘real life.’” I add the air quotes with my fingers. “But I’m trying. I paid Luke back for the grocery shopping he did last weekend, and I saw the milk was finished on Thursday, so I bought more on my way home. And I managed to get most of my laundry done this week, so I won’t be borrowing any more of your clothes.”
I half expect Adam to give me a slow clap and a sarcastic ‘Well done’—after all, as far as accomplishments go, buying milk and doing laundry aren’t exactly high up—but instead he looks at his feet, shrugs, and says, “It wasn’t … such a huge deal. I didn’t—I mean—yeah, anyway. Thanks.”
I watch him as he leaves the kitchen. “Weird,” I murmur to myself.
Allegra and Courtney want to know every detail of my date with Jackson last night, but after all the family drama that’s occupied my mind since then, the date seems light years ago. And a whole lot less important. Nevertheless, I open up my Bag of Appropriate Responses and pull out my squeals, sighs, and giggles.
We’re halfway to the vintage market when Courtney receives a text from Logan the Legend saying he’s free now if she still needs help with the section she’s been struggling with in Stats. Apparently he aced the course last year, which added to his legend status, because after that, everyone knew he could party hard and work hard. Allegra tells Courtney to ask Logan if Damien is around. When the answer comes back—yes—we’re all thrown against our seat belts as Allegra hits the brakes, performs an illegal U-turn, and accelerates back towards campus.
I close my eyes and try not to groan out loud. I wanted a proper distraction today, and sitting in a guys’ res watching two of my friends flirt-study doesn’t count. I pull out my phone and text Jackson. I know I’m supposed to wait for him to contact me first so I don’t come across as desperate, but maybe if I make the message casually flirty, it’ll camouflage the desperation.
Livi: Hey ;-) In case you couldn’t tell, I had fun last night ;-) Anyhoo, Allegra, Courtney and I are gonna be at Smuts in about 20 min. Just letting you know in case you’re free to come hang out with us. xx L
I then spend the next ten minutes examining every word I wrote and cringing over all the things that shouldn’t be there, like the two winking smileys (too much? Should one have been a normal smiley?) and the word ‘Anyhoo’ (do people actually say that?) and—oh, terrific—the fact that I signed off as ‘xx L.’ Which is basically the same as XXL. Hello, my name is Extra Extra Large, and I am an IDIOT.
Jackson: Hey, sexy bunny. Sorry, I’ve got a family thing on. Forgot to tell you about it last night. Must be because I was having fun too ;) I’ll see you Monday. J
J. Now that’s a heck of a lot cooler than XXL. Disappointed, I return my phone to my handbag and watch the scenery flashing by outside. Jackson lives at home because his parents’ house is only twenty minutes from UCT, which means he gets roped into the kind of family stuff that those of us living far from home don’t have to get involved in. He complains about it, but I know he enjoys not having to worry about buying food or doing laundry.
I close my eyes and try to remember the feel of his hands around my waist and his lips on mine, but the memory of Dad’s phone call—and the two calls I’ve ignored since then—keeps getting in the way. I can’t stop thinking about him (I hope he’s wracked with guilt) and Mom (is she falling apart? Is she dealing with this devastating news by working even harder than normal?) and the other woman (is she prettier than Mom? More intelligent? A husband-seducing minx?) and my half-sister (what does she look like? Does she know about my mother? Does she know about me?) and the dreaded D-word that no one has said but everyone must be thinking.
Allegra pulls up outside Graça Machel Hall, and Courtney runs inside to fetch their notes. “You can share with us, Livi,” Allegra says, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, okay.” I actually have a semi-decent understanding of what’s going on in Stats—as does Allegra—but when I offered to help Courtney, she said she could figure it out on her own. I should have known that ‘needing help’ was just another flirting tactic.
I look out the window and try to calculate how long it will take me to walk home from here. Fifteen minutes maybe? Twenty? I’m not too sure, but I’d be happy to walk an hour or more if it means I don’t have to watch Allegra and Courtney bat their eyelashes and try to make the words ‘probability distribution’ and ‘linear regression’ sound sexy. In fact, what I’d like more than anything else right now is to walk. Slowly. Unintentionally. Letting my mind wander. Breathing in fresh air and breathing out all the complications brought on by my father’s—
“Okay, I’ve got everything! Let’s go!” Courtney jumps back into the car, and then we’re zipping up the hill to Upper Campus. We park on Rugby Road and walk up the steps to Smuts Hall. We’re busy signing in at reception when I decide there’s no way I’m spending my afternoon here.
“I’m not feeling so great,” I say to Allegra. “I think I’m gonna walk home.”
“Walk home? From here?”
“Yes. It’s not that far.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Livi. You can’t walk from here. This is South Africa. You’ll get mugged.”
Allegra sounds so much like my mother at this point that I can’t help laughing. “It’s the middle of the day, Allegra. And thousands of students walk on the roads around here all the time. I’ll be fine.”
“But you said you’re not feeling well. Maybe I should …” She looks over her shoulder to where Courtney is telling the receptionist which room to buzz to get Logan to come down and fetch us. “Maybe I should quickly take you home.”
“No. Seriously. I’ll be fine.” I give her a quick goodbye hug and add, “You don’t want to miss out on any time with Damien, do you?”
She smiles. “I guess not. Okay. Be safe.”
I head outside, and once I’m down the stairs and out of view of the front door of Smuts Hall, I pull my phone out and open the maps app. I may be happy to wander the streets of Rondebosch as I slowly make my way home, but my direction sense is terrible and I’d like to know that I’m at least heading towards Toll Road and not away from it.
***
It takes me almost two hours to get home because, after reaching Main Road, I decide to make dinner for Adam tonight as a way of making up for neglecting our friendship. Which means that I then spend an unnecessarily large amount of time wandering the aisles of the closest shop searching for recipes on my phone and ingredients on the shelves. And then I have to lug heavy shopping bags all the way home, which I didn’t think about when I first came up with my brilliant dinner plan.
I change my
sweaty clothes as soon as I get home, then lie on my bed looking through recipes on my laptop and ignoring another call from Dad. Adam and Luke are both out, so I turn my music up loud and sing along while creating a Pinterest board of the best recipes I come across. I’ll have to make more time to stay at home in the evenings so I can try these out.
As evening draws closer, I turn my music off and head to the kitchen to start my cooking extravaganza. At least, that’s what I plan for it to be. And if so many people cook, it can’t be that hard, right? You just follow the recipe.
I gather my ingredients on the table, then search the kitchen for a chopping board. “Where are you?” I murmur as I search the cupboards. Finally, in a cupboard above the counter, on the highest shelf, I see a collection of chopping boards. Why? Who puts chopping boards so high up that regular people can’t reach them?
Absently humming the song that’s currently stuck in my head, I drag a chair to the counter and stand on it. It’s the wobbly type, which isn’t great, but I’m sure I can manage to balance for less than a minute. I remove the pile of chopping boards—who knows, I might need them all—and close the cupboard.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, I almost fall off the chair. The chopping boards slide off my hand and clatter onto the floor. I cringe at the noise. When they come to rest, I turn slowly and find Adam beside the fridge. “Nothing. I’m doing nothing.”
His lips twitch as he suppresses a smile. “Your clothing suggests otherwise.”
“Huh?” I look down at my I solemnly swear that I am up to no good Harry Potter tank top. I look up again. “Okay. That is an unfortunate coincidence.”
“So you’re not up to no good?”
“I’m—no, I’m—Okay, fine.” I climb off the chair and cross my arms. “I was going to surprise you with dinner.”
His eyebrows climb up his forehead. “You can cook?”
“Of course I can cook.”
I have no idea if I can cook. I haven’t cooked dinner here once. The last time I even ate dinner here was the night we sat on the floor eating sandwiches with our moms. Ever since then I’ve either skipped dinner or been with Allegra. We often get dinner together somewhere nearby, or end up in her room at res eating takeout.
“I think I have a better idea,” Adam says. “How about we go to Jazzy Beanbag down the road and get dinner there?”
I place my hands on my hips. “You’re avoiding my cooking.”
“I’m … looking out for my general wellbeing. And yours,” he adds hastily as I throw an onion at him.
“But I’ve been looking at recipes all afternoon. I want to show you that I’m not Princess Useless who can’t do anything for herself.”
He gives me a smile that makes me think Allegra might have been right when she called him cute. “I never called you Princess Useless.”
I point a spatula at him. “But you were thinking it.”
“No. I might have been thinking Princess Chopping Board Challenged, or Princess Kitchen Hazard, but never—Ow!” The second onion catches him on the ear before landing on the floor and rolling into the passage.
“You’re supposed to catch the onion, moron,” I tell him. “Now I’m an onion short.”
“Oh, come on, the onion is fine. Especially now that it’s made its escape,” he adds with a cheeky grin before dashing into the passage so I can’t throw anything else at him. I press my lips together, shake my head, and work really hard at not laughing. “Truce?” Adam says. His arm appears around the edge of the doorway and waves the onion at me.
“You’re supposed to have a white flag.”
“The onion is white inside.”
I allow myself a smile. “Fine. You can come back and I’ll consider not throwing anything else at you.”
He walks back in and sets the poor battered onion on the table. “Plan B,” he says. “I help you cook dinner so that you don’t set the house on fire or create something inedible, and afterwards we go to Jazzy Beanbag for wine or cocktails or beer or something.”
“They serve all that stuff?”
“Of course.”
“Hmm. This cafe might be better than I thought.”
***
Jazzy Beanbag is down the road and takes us about five minutes to walk to. The outer walls are covered in peeling paint, and the windows are tinted just enough to be difficult to see through, which is why I always thought it rather a dodgy place. Inside, though, it’s entirely different. It’s larger than it appears from the outside, oddly shaped with nooks here and there. Warm lighting illuminates a mishmash of couches, chairs, tables, and beanbags. Several walls feature canvases of abstract art, while others are covered with sheet music or the pages of books. A bar runs across the length of one wall, and a stage across another.
“They have live music here,” I blurt out the moment I see the band.
“They do.”
“That is seriously cool.”
“Of course it is,” Adam says. “Do you really think I’d keep inviting you here if it wasn’t awesome?”
“I guess not.” I tap my foot to the beat, taking in the vibe as I look around at the groups of people enjoying everything from drinks to snacks to full-on meals. “It’s just that none of my friends have mentioned this place, so I thought it was kind of lame.”
Adam shrugs. “Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong crowd.”
I try to elbow him in the ribs, but he grasps my arm and pulls me towards a table against the wall next to a red leg-shaped lamp with a feathery lampshade.
“Seriously, though,” I say as we sit down. “How come more people don’t know about this place?”
“They tend to feature new bands that hardly anyone’s heard of, so I guess they don’t have famous names bringing in more customers.” He leans over and grabs two menus from the empty table next to ours. “They’re non-existent on social media, and they’ve done almost no marketing since they opened two years ago, so if you think about it, it’s actually a miracle they have as many customers as they do.”
“Word of mouth, I guess.”
Adam nods. “I asked the owner why he isn’t doing more to market this place, and he said he likes it the way it is. He doesn’t want it to become the kind of place where people have to book a table days in advance or queue out the door and around the corner.”
“You spoke to the owner?”
“Yes, he’s the guy behind the bar.”
A waiter, tall and skinny with an electric shock of white hair, walks up to our table and grins at Adam. “Hey, man, what are you doing back here so soon?”
“Just thought I’d introduce Livi to the cool beats of The Flying Monkey Train.”
“Oh, hey, you’re Livi. I’m Hugo.” The waiter reaches out and shakes my hand, his expression suggesting he’s heard of me before. Which is a little weird.
“Um, hi.”
“Anyway, can I get you guys anything?”
Adam asks for a beer, and, after a quick look at the drinks section of the menu, I order a glass of red wine.
“Ooh, sophisticated palate,” Hugo says. He nods appreciatively, then heads back to the bar.
I turn to Adam with narrowed eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Uh … I may have neglected to mention that I now work here. I guess I told Hugo about you and Luke when we were chatting.” Adam leans over and whispers, “Hugo’s in third year and still lives with his parents, but he’d appreciate you not mentioning that to anyone, especially the drummer of the The Flying Monkey Train, whom he happens to have a crush on.”
I look over at the tiny brunette girl behind the drum set, then back at Adam. “Wait. Back up. Since when do you work here?”
Adam settles back in his chair. “Not long. For about a week now.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise you were planning to work this year.”
“Well, uh …” Adam pulls a menu towards him and runs his finger along the edge. “I wasn’t. But living away from home
is turning out to be more expensive than I anticipated, and my parents … Well, my dad isn’t getting as many clients as he used to, so things are tight for him and Mom. So I don’t want to bug them for money.”
I nod, but I’m not sure what to say. Money has always been an awkward topic of conversation for us, mainly because my family has far too much of it and Adam’s family has never quite had enough. Fortunately, his parents managed to produce two brilliant children, so their education has always been taken care of by scholarships. But they always had second-hand, falling-apart versions of all the things I took for granted.
The Flying Monkey Train finishes their current song with a cymbal crash so loud, even the tiny drummer who created it looks startled. After a smattering of applause, the lead guitarist launches into a slow solo. His deep, husky voice captures the attention of the room, bringing in some enthusiastic applause after the first few lines of song, and even a ‘Woo-hoo!’ from several of the tables.
“Could be you up there soon, hey?” Hugo says to Adam as he sets our drinks down in front of us. “Charming the ladies with your guitar skills.”
I pick up my wine glass and open my mouth to tell Hugo that Adam doesn’t play guitar, but Adam’s already saying, “We should get Livi up there on open mic night.”
“Whoa, what? I don’t think so.” I swirl my wine and bring it to my nose to sniff it. English toffee and … something berry-ish. My parents are wine snobs, and this is one of their recent favourites, which is how I know I like it.
I wonder if they’ll ever drink wine together again.
“Come on, Livi,” Adam says. “You’re always singing at home. You should share your talent with others.”
“My talent?” I start laughing. “What talent?”
“You were in the choir,” Adam reminds me.
“Right. Group singing.”
“You did a solo once at a school function.”
The Trouble with Flirting Page 9