“Exactly.”
Wait. She’s not joking. “You—you were being serious about that?”
She nods. “Hard-ass parents, remember? It took me two years to convince them to let me move across the country for university. Our deal is that I get above 90% for every assignment, test and exam, or I’ll have to move back to Durban. Maintaining those kinds of results means lots of work. Hence, no time for friends.”
“I—that’s—90%?” Before I can form a coherent response, the next slide comes up and the lecture continues. Salima begins scribbling words down at lightning speed—I think she writes down everything the lecturer says, as well as what’s on the screen—while I compose a note to Salima that I’ll probably never pass to her because she’d probably ignore it.
You’re also from Durban? Cool! Me too! What school were you at? We should hang out some time. DON’T tell me you don’t have time for friends. You probably get 100% for everything, so you can afford to slip a few % if it means having a tiny bit of an actual LIFE. And I don’t mean clubs and drinking and drugs and hair salon dates. Trust me, that stuff is overrated. I mean movies and wine tasting and Xbox and chilling at this cool music cafe by my house. What’s your phone number?
At the end of the lecture, we pack up our things and Salima turns to me. “Thank you for helping me catch up at the beginning. And I’m sorry again for being rude. You’re welcome to sit with me in the future, as long as you don’t distract me while the lecture is happening.”
“Wow. How magnanimous of you. You’re welcome to read this note I wrote you, but only if you respond immediately.”
She frowns, take the folded paper I’m holding out to her, and reads it. Her eyes scan my words before looking up. “I don’t drink. My parents wouldn’t allow my brother to get an Xbox, so I don’t know how to play games on it. And my phone won’t let me add new contact.”
“Are you kidding me? Your phone won’t let you add new contacts? That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m not lying.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and holds it up. “It’s an old phone—my parents didn’t want me distracted by a new one with, as they say, all the bells and whistles—and it won’t let me add contacts or take photos or use the hash key.”
I eye the phone suspiciously. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your parents got someone to disable those functions before giving it to you.”
She laughs and puts the phone away. “Neither would I. But I’m living on a strict allowance, and I don’t have extra cash to get a new phone. And I don’t really need one,” she adds, heading for the door.
“You know, my friend Adam could probably fix that phone for you,” I say as I follow her outside. “He’s a total genius with all things tech. And music too, but I think most people know him for the tech stuff. He’s doing computer science here.”
Salima frowns at me. “Is that Adam Anderson by any chance?”
“Yes! You know him?”
She nods, and even though it’s difficult to tell with her darker skin, I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. “Yes. I’m taking a computer science course as an elective. Just for fun.”
“Oh my goodness. Somebody needs to show you what fun actually means.”
She smacks my arm, but I can tell she’s trying not to smile.
***
“Why do they make us do maths as part of a Marketing degree?” I whine. “Seriously. I am never going to use these mattress things in real life.”
Adam looks up from across the table at Jazzy Beanbag. We had dinner here earlier and now he’s doing some complicated coding thing on the laptop he just bought from someone on Gumtree while I try to understand the newest section in my mathematics course. “Mattress things?” he asks.
“Yes.” I hold up my notes to show him the heading I wrote down based on Professor Muzenda’s garbled words before he spent the entire lecture scribbling numbers and brackets hastily across the board. I barely managed to keep up with note taking, let alone brain processing. “See? Mattresses.”
Adam makes his trying-really-hard-not-to-laugh face. “I think you mean ‘matrices.’” He spells it out for me while I write it down.
“Oh.” I tilt my head to the side while examining the word. “That’s what he was saying?”
“Oh my goodness, Liv.”
“What? He’s foreign. I only understand about twenty percent of what he says.”
“Does that mean you’ll only be getting twenty percent for your exam?”
“I hope not. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t make his accent disappear.”
“I don’t know. Ask one of the tutors for help?”
I smile and flutter my eyelashes. “Want to be my tutor?”
“Uh …” Adam swallows. “I guess I could.”
“Relax. I’m not such a terrible student. It shouldn’t be that difficult for you to help me.”
Adam mutters something before turning back to his coding.
“What was that?”
“NOTHING,” he says, which probably means he was making fun of my mathematics ability. “Oh. Livi.” He looks around his work area, disoriented for a moment, then reaches under the table for his laptop bag. “Livi, Livi, Livi. I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I was surfing YouTube and I found this amazing group. A pianist and a cellist. They do these incredible covers and mash-ups. I don’t know how I haven’t come across them before.”
I laugh to myself. Given Adam’s level of excitement, I should have known it had something to do with music.
“Here.” Adam plugs a pair of headphones into his laptop and hands them to me across the table. I adjust them before placing them over my ears. “Ready?” Adam asks. I nod, and he presses a button on his laptop.
I close my eyes as the music begins, shutting out all distractions so I can concentrate. It’s familiar, but I’ve never heard it played on only a cello and a piano, so it takes me a while to think of the name. I know it, I know it, I know it. It’s from … The Mission. Yes, that’s it. I smile to myself when I get the name. And then again, when I recognise the hymn layered over the music. Clever. They go perfectly together. I keep my eyes closed, only opening them when the final mournful tones of the cello have faded to silence.
“Beautiful,” I say to Adam, who’s watching me with a small smile on his lips. I pull the headphones off and hand them back. “Can you send me the link to their YouTube channel? I want to listen to more of their stuff.”
“Already sent,” Adam says, winding the cord around the headphones and returning them to his bag.
“Thanks.” I pick up one of my highlighters. “And now, back to the boring stuff.” I add some more colours to my notes, but I can’t concentrate for long. I lean back with a sigh. “I can’t believe we’re studying on a Saturday night.”
“Missing the cool crowd?” Adam says absently, clicking away on the laptop keys.
“Definitely not. They can keep their parties to themselves. I kinda miss the dancing, but that’s about it.”
“You can dance here,” Adam says. “Go stand by the stage and shake your behind to the beats of the …” He tilts back on his chair to read the flyer stuck to the window. “Dofkop Donkies.”
“You know—” I tap my chin with my highlighter “—I’m not usually a fan of Afrikaans music, but these songs are quite catchy.”
“They need a better name for their band, though.”
“Definitely.”
“Like … Die Koeksisters.”
I laugh. “Brilliant, but I think they make take exception to that, considering they’re all guys.”
“Hmm. Kortbroek Laaitjies?” he suggests.
“Die Jean Pant?” Hugo says, dropping into the chair next to me.
“Ha! Yes. That.” I point at Hugo. “Awesome name for an Afrikaans band. Oh, hey, aren’t you meant to be working?”
“Yes, but the lady over there just yelled at me because I told h
er we can’t make chicken noodle soup without the chicken, so I thought I’d hide here for a few minutes while she cools down.”
“Customers are weird,” Adam says, shaking his head.
“Tell me about it.” Hugo turns to me and says, “So. Open mic night tomorrow, Livi. You coming? Ow!” He groans in pain and glares at Adam. “Dude, what the hell?”
“Don’t pressure Livi.”
Hugo lets out a pained moan-laugh. “That is so not why you kicked me.”
I look back and forth between them, pretty sure I’ve missed something. “Yes, I’ll probably be here. But if you were hoping I’ll get up on stage and sing, you’re going to be disappointed.”
He smirks at me. “If everything works out, no one will be going home disappointed tomorrow night.”
“What do you—”
“Hugo, you should probably start hunting for chicken-less chicken noodle soup before that woman gets you fired,” Adam says loudly.
“Yeah, yeah.” Hugo stands. “You kids enjoy your homework.”
“Hey, we’re studying in style,” Adam calls after Hugo. He picks up his rum and coke. “Aren’t we, Livi.”
“Absolutely.” I lift my wine and clink it against his glass.
“And we have the next season of The Big Bang Theory to look forward to when we get back.”
“Ooh, yes. Whatever will we do when we’ve watched every episode available?”
“Hmm. Firefly? Star Trek? Stargate SG-1?”
“Or Stargate Atlantis or Stargate Universe.”
“Or Battlestar Galactica.”
“Basically,” I say, “we have a lot of ‘star’ options. I think we’ll be fine.”
“We’ll definitely be fine.” Adam pushes his glasses up and starts typing again.
“Ooh, want to hear something funny?” I say, looking for any distraction from my work and suddenly remembering my conversation with Salima yesterday.
“No.” Adam continues tapping away. “I’d rather you tell me something really depressing so I’ll end up crying.”
“Okay, so I made a new friend—this girl from Durban who’s in most of my classes—and it turns out she knows you. And she totally blushed when I spoke about you. I think she has a crush on you.”
Adam looks up, suddenly a whole lot more interested in me than his coding. “Oh. What’s her name?”
“Salima. She’s doing one of your computer science courses as an elective.”
“Oh, yes, I know her. She doesn’t interact much with anyone else, but we had to do a tutorial together once.”
“Well, you obviously made an impression.”
Adam nods. “Maybe I did. Hmm. She’s pretty.”
I shrug. “I guess she is.” I wink at him. “Maybe you should ask her out.”
He leans back and runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it up. “You think I should ask another girl out?”
“Um, yes. I mean, unless it’s too soon after Jenna.”
“No, no, that’s …” The tops of his ears turn red. “I think I’ve moved on.”
“Okay.” I pick up a pen and tap it against my notebook. This conversation feels weird all of a sudden.
“So … you’d be fine with me dating someone else?”
“Sure,” I say, although I’m starting to think it might not be fine. I give my brain a few moments to imagine it—Adam’s door shut with him and another girl behind it. Giggling and … other stuff—before deciding that it’s definitely not fine. Flip, that would actually be really awkward. What if she stayed over? I’d have to smile and be all friendly in the morning, and I could never go into his room without wondering what they did in there. I’d never be able to just hang out with him watching TV series because this other girl wouldn’t understand and she’d get jealous.
Other girl? This is Salima we’re talking about. She’s probably sworn off boys until she’s graduated, got a job, and been promoted at least once.
“You know, she might be anti-dating, now that I think about,” I say. “Her parents are super controlling slave drivers.”
Adam laughs. “Well, there’s no harm in trying, right?”
“Right.” I smile, but I have the weirdest feeling that it isn’t right. In fact, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, it somehow feels very, very wrong.
After five episodes of The Big Bang Theory, I should be ready to fall asleep, but my tired brain keeps trying to figure out what’s wrong with the idea of Adam dating someone. I didn’t have a problem when it was Jenna, but perhaps that’s because she was on the other side of the country, not in the room across the passage threatening my friendship with Adam.
Maybe that’s what I’m worried about. Our friendship and how it will change once he has a girlfriend to spend all his free time with. But I wasn’t exactly concerned about our friendship when I was chasing after Jackson, so I need to stop being selfish and let Adam do the same thing. With a girl. Not with Jackson, obviously. Ugh, stupid brain, where do you come up with these things?
I turn over yet again and pull the duvet up to my neck. Where was I? Oh yes. I’m being selfish. STOP BEING SELFISH, ALIVIA. Let Adam be happy with whomever he wants to be happy with.
Wow. My brain just said ‘whomever.’
***
Thanks to the maps app on my phone, I’m almost at the block of flats Salima mentioned she lives in. She never gave me her phone number, so this visit is unannounced, but it’s probably easier to talk her into taking a night off in person than it would be over the phone.
Oh, who am I kidding. There is no possible scenario in which it will be easy for me to convince her to take a night off.
After instructing myself to let Adam be happy with whomever he wants to be happy with, I decided to give him a chance to do just that by bringing Salima to Jazzy Beanbag for open mic night tonight. I’m almost completely certain she’ll say no if he asks her out, regardless of how she feels about him, and I’m trying really hard not to be relieved by that thought.
I WILL NOT BE SELFISH!
I park as close as I can get to the block of flats and walk across the road to the pedestrian entrance with the keypad. I raise my finger and—Hang on. She never actually mentioned which number she’s in. Shoot. I didn’t really think this through properly. I bite my lip and stare up at the building. She did say she lives at the very top, because that means fewer people walking past her flat and disturbing her—her parents’ logic—but that still doesn’t help me with what number to punch into the keypad.
Click.
The noise comes from the locking mechanism of the gate just as a young guy hurries out of the building and down the path towards me. I push the gate open, smile at him as he passes, and walk through. I’m in! Yes! Once inside the building, I wait for the lift, then hit the button for the highest floor. I sing softly to myself—a song that was just on the radio—as the lift creaks slowly all the way to the top of the building. I hope there aren’t too many flats up there. And I hope they have windows I can somehow see into, so I don’t have to knock on every door. Come to think of it, though, how am I supposed to recognise the inside of her flat even if I can—
“Livi?” The lift doors are open and Salima is standing in front of me, a handbag over her shoulder and a set of keys in her hand.
“Um. Hi?” I give her a small wave.
She leans into the lift, grabs my arm, and pulls me out. “What are you doing here? I didn’t tell you where I live.”
“You did actually mention the name of this block of flats,” I say. “Also, I am totally not a stalker. I just wanted to ask if you want to hang out this evening at Jazzy Beanbag—it’s this really chilled cafe—and I don’t have your number, so I couldn’t phone you, and this block is only, like, five minutes from where I live.”
She blinks. “You want me to go out somewhere with you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a school night,” she says automatically, then shakes her head. “I mean, you know, a varsity night.
We have classes in the morning.”
I cross my arms. “Looks like you were already on your way out somewhere.”
A puff of air escapes her lips. “I was just going to get some dinner. I don’t have time to cook anything because I’m too busy studying.”
“Weeeeell, how about you get dinner with me?”
“You’re starting to sound like a stalker.”
“I just want to be friends!”
“You’re coming across as desperate.”
“Perhaps I just really want to be friends with you. You should be flattered.”
“I told you I don’t need any friends, Livi. My parents warned me about people like you. People who would try to tempt me away from my studies. People who could end up ruining me.”
I groan. “I swear I am not out to ruin you, Salima. I thought it would be fun to relax for the evening at Jazzy Beanbag, eat some good food, clap for all the awful singers brave enough to get on stage for open mic night, and go to bed early enough to be fresh for lectures in the morning. Oh, and Adam will be there. He can fix your phone and you guys can … chat.”
Salima purses her lips.
“Okay, how about this?” I say. “You go back into your hermit hole now and work really hard, then meet me at Jazzy Beanbag at, say, 8 pm. Look it up. It’s easy to find. We’ll order some food, and once we’re done, you can leave. See? Early school night.”
She narrows her eyes. “I sense you’re making fun of me.”
“Only a little,” I say. “And it doesn’t count, since we’re friends.”
Her eyes widen. “We are not friends.”
I walk back into the lift—there obviously aren’t too many people coming and going on a Sunday evening, since the doors never closed—and hit the number zero. “See you there, friend.” I smile and wave as the doors close.
***
The Trouble with Flirting Page 17