Couldn’t I?
One half of me felt horrified at the idea. The part of me that believed Stephanie when she called me weak/cowardly/pathetic/useless could not even imagine ever doing such a thing. What if she found out? What if it didn’t work? Or what if it did work and it didn’t make any difference? It was like I couldn’t even think of doing something so bold: my heart started racing and my stomach would clench in naked fear. But that’s not all I thought about.
The other half of me, the silent, stubborn, hidden core deep inside me, knew that I had to act, and soon. That part of me refused to give up, refused to give in to my fear.
Yes, I was afraid. Knee-tremblingly, stomach-achingly afraid.
But sometimes your feelings are not the most important thing about a situation.
I continued with my plans, in spite of the fear. Some days I was so scared that I couldn’t even swallow, or eat, or sleep. But I kept going. I don’t know how, but I did.
On Gumtree I found a digital camera and video recorder for R500. It would eat up most of my savings, but I knew it was worth it: I was fighting for my life. The owner was a student who lived in the Northern Suburbs, but I arranged to meet him at Cavendish Mall after school one day and we made the deal.
For weeks after that I experimented with different ways of hiding the camera in the house, playing around with settings and angles, quite dizzy at my own daring. And then one afternoon I scraped up enough courage to film my sister while she was in full rant mode.
It was a huge disappointment.
The sound was so bad that I couldn’t use any of it – it was the one thing I’d forgotten to check out beforehand. You could see her waving her hands around and yelling and looking like a madwoman, but you couldn’t make out a word she said.
I was so depressed after that, I almost gave up.
But I didn’t.
With the last of my savings I bought an old, second-hand Samsung cellphone for R200 from a guy in my class. I tested it a few times to make sure it recorded voices clearly, and then I began experimenting with it, secretly recording Stephanie.
I got some good material too, but then one day the phone was stolen from my schoolbag and that was that.
I had no more money, and no more courage either.
But then a couple of weeks later my aunt and uncle and my nine-month-old cousin came to visit us, and I had another idea.
* * *
My dad is talking with my aunt and uncle in the kitchen. I am waiting in my room. I know it won’t be long before Stephanie comes in. I’ve made sure she’ll be angry at me: earlier this evening I deliberately broke some of her ridiculous rules.
It’s not long before my door is flung open.
“You pathetic piece of snot!” She hisses at me, her face distorted by anger. “How dare you tell Dad you want to watch sport when Teen Cribs is on!”
Stephanie likes watching dumb reality shows on E! or MTV. I have to pretend to like them too, so that Dad won’t change the channel. He always just sighs and says he’s outnumbered, although he isn’t, not really. I’d far rather be watching sports too.
“I wanted to watch the game,” I say, too scared to meet her eyes.
“Who the hell cares what you want!” she hisses, absolutely furious.
“But – ”
“Don’t interrupt me! This is a definite Code Yellow.”
My fingers begin to shake as a wave of nausea overwhelms me. Half of me is shuddering in fear. Absolutely sick with terror.
The other half of me remains calm. The other half waits.
And then, suddenly, I know that I can do it. I push through my fear and I look her in the eye, forcing my voice to be calm and strong.
“I’m sick and tired of your punishments, Stephanie,” I say. “You have no right to punish me anyway. You’re my sister, not my mother.”
Stephanie’s face distorts into a picture of astonished rage. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
With the side of my foot I switch on the baby monitor that I’ve taken from the guest room. It’s now hidden beneath my desk. The other part of the monitor is in the kitchen, so that my uncle and aunt will hear the baby crying. I’m hoping that the three grown-ups will hear far more than a baby’s crying tonight.
“How DARE you speak to me like that! I’m going to KILL you, you dirty little PIG!”
“What, like the time you pushed me in front of the car?”
“You should’ve DIED that day! If I’d waited a second longer, you’d be DEAD now!”
“So you did it on purpose?”
“Of course I did!” She gives a cold laugh, cheered by the memory. “I just got my timing wrong, that’s all.”
The pleasure in her eyes makes me feel sick.
When I speak again, my voice is shaking. “Why do you do these horrible things to me Stephanie? What have I ever done to you?”
She shrugs. “It’s fun to watch you squirm. You’re funny when you’re scared.” And then her mood changes abruptly, and she almost claps her hands in excitement. “You know what? I’d really like to drag it out. Make you suffer. Maybe put some poison in your food, so you die slowly and painfully.” She gives her cool predator smile. “Like Chewbacca.”
My heart starts pounding loudly in my chest. Chewbacca was our dog, who died a couple of months ago. The vet diagnosed liver failure and said there was nothing we could do, so we had to put him to sleep.
Until this moment I’ve never suspected Stephanie. But now it suddenly makes sense.
“You . . . you poisoned Chewbacca?”
“Duh!” she snorts. “Of course.”
“But . . . why?”
Another shrug. “I was bored. And the dog irritated me. I wanted to see what would happen. Also, it was fun to watch you and Dad freak out over a stupid animal.”
“That’s – How –? I’m going to tell Dad!”
“Go ahead.” She laughs, a real laugh this time. “Why would he believe you this time?”
“Dad loved that dog!”
“Whatever. He says he loves you too, but he’s never lifted a finger to help you.”
“Because you always lie to him!”
“Oh, please. Don’t blame me. That man believes what he wants to believe.” She snorts. “Like, he even believed me that time I told him I put you in the tumble dryer by accident.” Then she narrows her eyes. “You know what? I think Dad secretly likes it when I hurt you.”
“He does not!”
“He hates you, you know. Because you killed Mom.”
“I didn’t kill her. I didn’t.” But I start getting that weak, floaty feeling I always get when Stephanie accuses me of this.
“Of course you did! You were crying and crying and crying all the time – how was Mom supposed to get any sleep? She would never have had that accident if she hadn’t been so tired.”
“I didn’t mean to –”
“You murdered your own mother! That’s why Dad doesn’t believe you.”
I don’t answer, because this is actually my biggest fear.
“You’re a murderer!”
“I was just a baby . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh puh-leeze. Like babies are so great. They make me want to vomit. Have you even seen that stinking little slug in the guest room?”
“You’re talking about your own cousin, Stephanie.”
She ignores me as another idea suddenly flits into her head. “Hey, you looked so funny when I pushed you off the balcony at Grandma’s house that time.” She giggles. “I wonder what a baby would look like flying through the air like that…”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Is that a dare?”
“You . . . you’re sick!”
“Oh, don’t be so –”
But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence because the next moment my bedroom door is flung open. My horrified uncle tries to say something, but when he opens his mouth no sound comes out. It’s the first time I’ve seen a grown-up actua
lly struck speechless.
My dad is right behind my aunt, who looks like she’s going to be sick. My dad doesn’t say anything either, but his face is grey. For a horrible second I think he’s going to burst into tears, but he doesn’t. Instead he walks to me, sinks onto my bed and pulls me onto his lap, holding me tightly. It’s the first time in years that I’m sitting on my dad’s lap, but it doesn’t feel weird. It feels safe.
After about thirty seconds of complete silence my dad lets me go.
And then he turns around to look at Stephanie, and he sees her.
Fifth Link
Full Circle
You have an hour before the bus arrives to take you home. You kill time by reading the newspaper in the school library. The world is a complete mess. Poverty – Pollution – Injustice – Racism – Sexism – Greed – Crime – Stupidity. You put the paper down in disgust.
You walk outside towards your favourite spot: a patch of grass surrounded by some old trees at the very furthest end of the school grounds. At times when the world gets you down you like to sit there, quietly. You don’t know why, but it usually makes you feel better.
You’re out of luck. Someone is already there, a girl in your hockey team. You sit down anyway. You have about twenty minutes before you need to start making your way towards the bus stop. Maybe she’ll stay quiet.
She does not stay quiet. She tells you a long, rambling story all about how her boyfriend once saved his stepfather’s life by doing the Heimlich manoeuvre. She says her boyfriend is wonderful. You notice that whenever she says the boy’s name her eyes light up like decorations on a Christmas tree.
She tells you that her boyfriend’s coolheaded action, on that night when he saved his stepfather’s life, gave his mother the courage to leave his stepfather after years of abuse. She tells you that they’re much happier now, living in a small flat, than they ever were in his stepfather’s big house. She tells you that he is a real hero.
The story does not sound particularly logical to you, but you find that you don’t mind listening to this girl. She seems to be genuinely friendly and optimistic, if perhaps a little deluded about her boyfriend’s heroic qualities.
You’re just about to leave when she pays you a personal compliment. She says that you changed her sister’s life when you stood up for her that one time. She says that she’s been meaning to thank you for months, but somehow just couldn’t find the right moment. At first you have no idea what she’s talking about, but then you make the connection: Alexis Thomas. Krystle Thomas.
The whole incident happened about three or four months ago, but you can still remember how worried you were that day when you realised your phone hadn’t recorded anything after all. (It’s a two-year-old BlackBerry, your mother’s employer’s old phone, so no wonder.) For a while after that you were afraid Stephanie Adolphus would call your bluff, but she never did.
And then, a couple of months later, things took a strange turn: Stephanie Adolphus was sent to some kind of mental institution. It was all anyone at school could talk about for weeks, but you didn’t join in the gossip and speculation. Unlike everyone else, you took very little pleasure in the tale: the whole thing made you very uncomfortable.
Still. That girl had some serious issues. You only hope she’s found the help she needed – for her sake and everyone else’s.
Alexis Thomas is still talking about her sister. She tells you that since the bullying stopped, she has changed into a different person. She tells you that her sister has taken control of her life; that she’s decided it’s up to her to show people that there’s more to her than her looks. She tells you that her sister is planning on applying to three different universities next year. Apparently she wants to study chartered accounting (of all things!) when she finishes matric. Alexis tells you that she has never seen her sister so happy.
You smile, strangely cheered by this rather unlikely story. Then you wave goodbye and you make your way to the bus stop.
When the bus arrives you are lucky enough to get a seat. You feel relieved: getting a seat always makes the trip home more bearable. You look out the window, but you don’t see much. You are thinking about the world, about how strange it is that so much sadness and so much happiness can exist in the same place. So much pain and so much pure, raw joy.
The bus comes to a sudden stop at the last traffic light before the highway. This shakes you out of your daydream, and you see that someone has written graffiti against the wall of the bridge towering above you. You frown, trying to make out what the big red letters say. As the bus pulls away you realise that it’s some kind of slogan.
OUR CHOICES SHAPE
THE WORLD WE LIVE IN
EVERY DAY
You shake your head at such clueless optimism.
Then you close your eyes and you smile.
Synopsis
Chain Reaction tells of the experiences of bully Stephanie Adolphus, the beautiful Krystle Thomas whose home life holds a shameful secret in her mother’s addictive behaviour, Lisakhanya, a girl from the township attending the school on a scholarship, Krystle’s sister who is trying to make any sense of her life and the changes her sister is going through, Dillan, Stephanie’s bullied little brother, and Ben who lives with his overbearing abusive stepfather and terrified mother. Each chapter is told from a different character’s point of view. In the end, one character’s decision to do something differently, impacts on all the character’s lives. Essentially it’s a book that deals with the issues of bullying, the notion that true beauty is a blessing not a curse, the complexities of young love, and fear of abuse.
About the Author
Adeline Radloff has travelled through 25 countries, collecting an MA in English literature and a law degree along the way. She has worked as a candidate attorney, breakfast chef, perfume girl, bartender, freelance journalist, housewife, EFL teacher, legal aid assistant, barista, waitress and beauty therapist. It was with a sense of relief that she finally found her niche in life as an author, teacher and mother, she says. In 2009 she was awarded the Sanlam Prize for Youth Literature for her novel Sidekick. In 2012 she published her second book, Een Stad, Drie Rooikoppe, Sewe Dae, which she co-wrote with her sister, Lili Radloff. She lives in Cape Town with her husband and two daughters.
This book was awarded the 2013 Sanlam Silver Prize for Youth Literature.
Other books by Adeline Radloff, published by Tafelberg:
Sidekick, 2010
Tafelberg,
an imprint of NB Publishers,
a division of Media24 Boeke (Pty) Ltd,
40 Heerengracht, Cape Town, South Africa
P.O. Box 879, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa
www.tafelberg.com
Text © 2014 Adeline Radloff
All rights reserved.
No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Cover design by Flame Design
E-book design by Trace Digital Services
Available in print:
First edition, first impression 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06902-7
Epub edition:
First edition 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06903-4 (epub)
Mobi edition:
First edition 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06904-1 (mobi)
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