Entwined

“Eish, Connie, where do you live?” she demands irritably. “Everybody knows about these girls. There are five of them, and Amantle runs the clique. It’s a whole process – interviews and all.”

Wiki catches my eye. We both snicker, then take note of Lebz’s glare and pull ourselves together.

“You have to have the right background, hobbies, everything. If Amantle likes you, she gives you a necklace and you’re in.”

Oh, dear. “A necklace?”

“Some fancy silver thing with a big rock on it,” says Lebz. “Apparently Amantle had them custom-made.”

Signs, as my grandfather put it. A necklace can serve as an amulet, especially if it has some sort of charm or locket on it. Could Amantle’s VIP bling be sign number one?

07:30

“The number you have dialled is not available. Please try again later.”

Hey Rakwena, we meeting at break or lunch?

Sender: Conyza

Sent: 08:15:24

OK. Lunch.

Sender: Conyza

Sent: 10:35:50

13:55

“The number you have dialled is not available. Please try again later.”

When I get home, Auntie Lydia has set out the ingredients for spaghetti and mincemeat.

“Yummy,” I declare, dropping my bag on the dining table.

“You’re cooking,” she tells me. “Will you manage?” She always does this, as if I haven’t been cooking for years, and then she ends up doing half the work, anyway.

“Sure.” I smile on my way to my room. When I return in my home clothes, vegetables are chopped and water is coming to the boil in a large pot.

“I got hungry,” she says, grinning over her shoulder. “But you can handle the meat. Not too much salt, and remember –”

“Just a dash of pepper.” I wash my hands and take my place at the counter. I like cooking with Auntie Lydia. I suppose it’s similar to what cooking with my mother would have been like, although I doubt my mother would have been quite so strict about sticking to the recipe.

Back in the day Auntie Lydia would sit and eat with me, and ask about school. But now she has her own kids to look after, so she’s out of the house by five-thirty, clutching a Tupperware dish and rushing away in flurry of skirts.

After supper I make an unsuccessful attempt to study Maths, then resort to my tried and tested distraction – movies.

I select the first instalment of The Lord of the Rings – that should keep my mind off Lizard for a while. But the hobbits haven’t even left the Shire before I’m reaching for my phone again. I take a deep breath. Control yourself, Connie! Maybe he’s busy. Or out of town. Or sick. I’m not sure about that last one. People like us don’t get sick often. The only ailment I ever suffer from is indigestion.

I stare into Frodo’s innocent eyes. Poor kid has no clue what he’s getting into. He inherits a ring and suddenly his world turns upside down. Yep, all it takes is a ring, or a headache, or a guy with a lizard tattoo…

I wish Lizard were a normal guy, then I wouldn’t care what he did. I wish I were a normal girl. I wish I could ignore the supernatural, shrug it off, pretend it doesn’t matter. What Lizard doesn’t understand is that the gifted have to stick together. It’s the only way we can protect the people we care about. It’s the only way we can protect ourselves.

Later that night I’m woken by the sound of Dad’s voice. I sit up and peer at the clock on my bedside table. It’s almost eleven-thirty. At first I think I might have been dreaming, then I hear his voice again and I get out of bed.

He can’t possibly have visitors. My dad isn’t a social butterfly, but he has a steady group of friends, all teachers and scientists. They meet up in town or at Wendell’s house – Wendell’s the only childless one in the group, so his bachelor pad is the perfect place to watch serious science shows like Dad’s favourite, Earth Unravelled.

I tiptoe to my door, open it and stick my head into the corridor. I can’t quite hear what he’s saying, but I can tell he’s having a heated argument. Not Wendell, then. My curiosity gets the better of me. I slip out of my room and walk barefoot along the corridor until I’m standing outside his bedroom door.

“I’m just asking you not to encourage it,” he’s saying. “She’s at a very impressionable age, and I don’t want her getting involved in your… activities!”

My heart plummets. He’s talking to Ntatemogolo.

“She has enough on her plate with school! She needs to focus, Lerumo – don’t you want her to be able to make the most of her education? She doesn’t need to waste her time dabbling in this sort of – of course not, you know that!”

There’s a long pause, and when Dad speaks again there’s a catch in his voice. “You can’t claim to know what Rebecca would have wanted.”

I find myself holding my breath. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Dad say my mother’s name, especially to Ntatemogolo. Although she’s the person who forced them together in the first place, she’s the one subject they never touch.

“I am her father,” Dad growls. “I will decide what is best for my daughter. You must respect that! Soon Connie will be old enough to make her own choices, and I don’t want you confusing her!” He makes an exasperated noise and then snaps, “If you refuse to listen to reason then I’m wasting my time. Goodnight!”

I sneak away, but instead of going back to bed I head for the living room. I walk over to the bookshelf and take down one of our photo albums. The first picture is of me, a chubby, beaming toddler. I skip ahead to my favourite photo of my mother. She’s barefoot on a well-kept lawn, wearing a pretty summer dress and laughing at my dad, who took the picture. I raise my gaze to the only photo of her that’s on display in the house – my parents’ wedding picture. It’s on top of the bookshelf, next to a horrible school photo of me taken not long after her death.

My mother was beautiful. I don’t know where all those genes went, because I don’t look anything like her. She had smooth dark skin and short hair, and lovely hands. I remember her hands more clearly than anything else. Her nails were short but always painted in different colours according to her mood. Dad uses the most wonderful word to describe her – luminescent. I’ve often wondered how a skinny, awkward lekgoa managed to get such a goddess to notice him. Dad has many great qualities, but you have to get him talking before you’ll see them.

I don’t realise he’s entered the room until I hear the chair creak. I turn around and there he is, sitting at the dining table and looking at me.

“Did I wake you? Sorry.”

“It’s OK.” I close the album and put it back. “So you two aren’t the best of friends yet?”

He winces. “I’m sorry darling, but if you’re waiting for your grandfather and me to get along you’ll be waiting a long time.”

I shrug. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Connie.” He looks at the chair opposite him, then at me. “A minute, please.”

My body tenses. The last thing I need is another lecture on Ntatemogolo’s “esoteric rubbish”. It’s difficult to sit and listen to Dad go on and on and not be able to contradict him. How do I tell him that the world he thinks is so orderly and practical is all in his head?

“Dad, it’s late,” I remind him. “I have school in the morning.”

“It won’t take long.” He fixes his stern I’m-the-head-of-the-house gaze on me.

With a sigh of resignation, I plonk myself onto the chair. “OK. What’s wrong?”

“Connie…” He frowns, then sighs and starts again. “Connie. We both know you’re… I mean you’re very… you’re a smart girl. I’m not talking about school. What I mean is, you’re more… insightful than most people.” He’s squirming in his seat, his thoughts running back and forth as he tries to find the right words. If he knew that I knew what he was thinking, what would he do?

“Dad –”