Читать книгу Unravelled - Cheryl Ntumy S. - Страница 10
ОглавлениеPeople think nothing ever happens in Botswana. It’s too quiet, too docile, too peaceful. Ha. They don’t know the half of it. I know everything that goes on around here, and I’m not talking about gossip. I’m talking about monsters under beds, eerie vibes in the ether, mysterious whispers in the night. I am the teen queen of things that go bump in the night.
Right now I’m hunched down in the front lines, preparing for a supernatural attack. My general is in the trench beside me, rifle at the ready, so to speak. We’re here to solve a mystery of the mystical kind, and both of us are only too aware of all the magical powers lurking in the room.
It seems like an ordinary ramshackle house on the seedier side of Ginger, one of those slapdash brick and cement structures that look like they went up in a matter of hours. It’s cold inside, and there’s very little furniture. A few plastic chairs, a warped wooden table, a small electric stove and a cooler box in the corner. Innocent. Sympathy-inducing. Or so one would think.
In reality, this little house is crawling with malicious intent. Somebody here is hiding something.
My general, otherwise known as my grandfather, speaks first. “When was the last time you saw your son?”
The woman shifts slightly on the floor, tucking her skirt around her slim thighs. “Two days. He went to school in the morning and never came back.” Her voice breaks and she lowers her gaze, presumably to hide her tears.
But I’m getting a funny vibe from this lady. I zero in on her mind. Her demeanour is guarded, but her thoughts aren’t. She has the flimsiest fence of deceit wrapped around her emotions, because she has no idea who she’s dealing with. My grandfather likes to bring me along on missions as his secret weapon. People think I’m just a kid, harmless, coming to watch the elders at work. They’re wrong. I’m no ordinary teenager. I’m a telepath.
I step over the woman’s defences with ease, and her deceptions are so obvious it’s almost funny. She knows exactly where the little boy is. She’s the one hiding him.
“Conyza!”
“Huh?” I jerk awake in the passenger seat, startled by the sound of my grandfather’s voice. “Sorry, Ntatemogolo. Did you say something?”
He takes his gaze off the road just long enough to examine me with those all-seeing eyes of his. “Were you sleeping?”
“No!” I protest indignantly. Of course I was sleeping, and lost in a grainy black and white dream featuring Conyza Bennett, supernatural detective. I was just about to expose that woman and prove to my grandfather how incredibly smart I am, and he had to go and wake me up.
I look at Ntatemogolo, all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m awake, really.”
He grunts. He does that a lot. It generally means he thinks I’m talking complete nonsense. I sigh, feeling only slightly abashed. I know it’s impolite to doze off while your eminent grandfather is imparting great wisdom, but I’m exhausted from our three-hour telepathic training session. For the past six months, Ntatemogolo has been brutal. It’s not enough that I can read and plant thoughts in people’s minds. I also have to be able to read the fading energy people leave behind in rooms and on objects. I have to be able to tell at a glance when someone is lying. I have to be able to break any mental barrier and part the murky waters that hide the truth. And I have to learn all this while trying to get through my final year of secondary school. Piece of cake.
Ntatemogolo isn’t your garden-variety grandfather. He’s got a head of greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard with flecks of white. He’s tough, brilliant and completely uninterested in etiquette or political correctness. It’s a miracle that he’s even giving me a lift home today. He never drives me anywhere; he thinks anyone under forty should be able to make daily cross-country treks. It just happens that he’s heading home to Serowe, so I got lucky.
The ancient Toyota Venture bumps along the road, making my teeth rattle, and pulls up in front of my father’s house. It’s an old house, painted a colour that used to be white but is now closer to grey. We have a couple of trees, but no garden, no flowers, no carefully designed yard. Instead there’s lots of bare sand, some overgrown grass, and a few weeds. My best friend Lebz says our yard is unkempt, but I prefer to call it unpretentious.
I step out of the car, glad to have made it home in one piece. I slam the passenger door shut and the entire vehicle trembles. For a second I’m afraid it will collapse, but somehow it holds. Ntatemogolo’s gaze passes over the empty space where Dad’s red Volvo is usually parked. He glances at me for confirmation that Dad is out, and only when I nod does he open the door and climb out of his car.
Eish. You’d think he and my father would have resolved their issues by now. They keep saying that they’re too different to be friends, but that’s not true. They both insist on driving cars that are older than me. They’re both academics, far more concerned with acquiring knowledge than making sure their socks match. And they’re both incapable of accepting that their world view might be wrong. In all fairness, Ntatemogolo’s worldview is far more balanced than Dad’s, but it’s difficult for a man who believes in reason to accept that the world is full of things that science can’t explain.
Ntatemogolo doesn’t venture into the house. He lingers at the gate as if he thinks Dad might have left a pair of bespectacled eyes behind to keep watch. “OK, my girl. Remember what I said, eh?”
I nod, stifling a yawn. Ja, I remember: It is the responsibility of the gifted to never stop learning. It’s his new mantra, drummed into me at the start of every practice session. I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to. “Bye, Ntatemogolo. Give my regards to everyone at home.”
He smiles. “Yes, I will.”
To be honest, I’d rather keep my regards to myself. With my freckled caramel skin, mass of unruly curls and preference for English, I don’t quite fit in with my grandfather’s people, and they never let me forget it. But it doesn’t hurt to be polite. I wave as Ntatemogolo gets back into his death-trap car.
The house is quiet. Auntie Lydia, our house help, is long gone, and Dad must be at his office at UB (aka the University of Botswana), where he teaches Biology. I doubt he’s working on university stuff, though – lately he’s been absorbed in research for the Salinger Biological Institute.
I close the front door behind me and turn on the lights. I don’t mind being home alone. It doesn’t really feel like I’m alone when I’m here, surrounded by Dad’s stuff and things that remind me of my late mother.
My stomach is growling, so I head to the kitchen. Auntie Lydia has taken out yesterday’s leftovers. I pop them in the microwave and reach into my pocket for my phone. I’m tired, but not too tired to talk to Rakwena.
Hey. I’m home. Feel free 2 drop by
Sender: Conyza
Sent: 19:23:45
I’m at the petrol station around the corner. Ten mins
Sender: Lizard
Sent: 19:24:01
Talk about perfect timing. I can’t help smiling. I haven’t seen him all week because he’s been busy registering for his first semester at UB, and my grandfather has been monopolizing my free time with these training sessions. I miss Rakwena. I miss his cocky grin, his freshly ironed clothes, the badass scar that runs down the left side of his face, the black lizard tattoo on his left forearm and the way he always pushes my buttons. Technically he’s my boyfriend. Actually he is my rock-steady magic touch, my hero, my superstar sidekick. Rakwena is too cool for school.
The microwave emits a shrill PING! I retrieve my day-old potato wedges and steak. I wolf the food down, wash the plate and bolt to my room to make myself presentable. I swap my dirty cargoes and T-shirt for pyjama pants and my favourite Snoopy shirt, which is so old it’s stretched to twice its original size. I pull my hair out of the black scrunchie keeping it tame, run my hands through it and shake it out so I look like a seventies disco-diva.
The trick with Rakwena is not to get dolled up. No lip gloss, no subtle mascara, no Wonderbra. I want to look like I couldn’t care less that he’s coming over. It’s not enough to look relaxed and casual; I must look as if going through the trouble of putting on proper clothes and combing my hair never occurred to me. I’m going for a cavalier, don’t-give-a-damn kind of attitude. I wear the pants in this relationship. I can be as scruffy as I want but I expect him to show up looking as fresh as a kiwi and lemongrass smoothie.
I sprint to the living room, rifle through my Rachel McAdams DVD collection and select something at random. The Notebook. I snicker – he hates that one. I put on the DVD, go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of Milo, then settle down on the sofa with my legs curled under me. Just in time, too – I hear his car pull up outside. I’m itching to run to the door and watch him walk up the driveway, all tall, dark and mysterious, but I have to play it cool. I wait an agonising three minutes for him to knock on the door, then wait till he knocks a second time before I get up to let him in.
I sneak a peek at the time on my phone and fling open the door with a mock scowl. “You’re six minutes late.”
I’m tall and skinny, but he’s taller, with the lean, muscular physique of a runner. He offers me an apologetic grin and leans over to plant a half-hearted kiss on my cheek. He seems a little preoccupied. School stress already? “Where’s Dr Bennett?”
“Out.”
“Good.” He steps into the house, closes the door behind him and sweeps me up into a movie-worthy smooch.
Well, so much for playing it cool. I melt into his arms, losing myself in the sheer pleasure of being with him after five long days. Sigh! Rakwena’s energy seeps into my skin, sending delicious tingles through my body. When he touches me, sparks fly. Literally. How many other girls can say that?
“I missed you,” he says, pulling away to look at me. His eyes are bright with earnest emotion, a look so intense that my heart plays a two-second game of hop-scotch in my chest.
“Of course you did.” I think I need to kiss him again. Five days is a long time.
He runs a finger down the side of my face, and out of the corner of my eye I see blue light dancing on his fingertips. I pull him towards me and kiss him. Ah. Much better.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Can I assume you missed me, too?”
“That would be pushing it,” I tell him happily. “Hungry? We have leftover steak.”
He holds up an anonymous white plastic bag. Through it I can see several chocolate bars and three fizzy drinks. “I came prepared. What are you watching? Not The Notebook again!” He rolls his eyes. “Can’t we watch the Discovery Channel?”
This is what happens when all the men in your life are super-smart. “I just spent all afternoon working – I want to give my brain a break.” I reach into the plastic bag for some chocolate and settle down on the sofa. “So. Tell me all about your escapades at UB. What did you register for?”
Rakwena sits next to me and opens his own bar of chocolate. “You don’t really want to know about school. Let’s talk about you.”
“It’s not school, it’s university.” I bite into the chocolate and let it melt in my mouth. Thank God for Rakwena’s sweet-tooth.
He sighs, and I pick up a hint of impatience. “Well, I’m taking all the sciences for first year – Bio, Chemistry, Physics and Maths. I’ll have my hands full.”
“What about work?” His job at RikaElectrics isn’t the most exciting gig in the world, but he enjoys it and the money’s good.
“I’ll still work on weekends and holidays. I have Thursdays free, too. But how have you been?”
I finish off the chocolate and rest my head on his shoulder. “Form Five sucks. I’ve never worked so hard in my life!”
“Aw, poor Connie,” he teases. “Your system must be in shock after all those years of sheer laziness.”
I poke him in the ribs and he jerks out of my reach with a chuckle, then reaches into the plastic bag for one of the drinks. He opens it and downs it all in one go, then goes for the next one, drains it and goes for the third. I shake my head, smiling. Rakwena’s insane appetite is one of the many not-quite-normal things about him. One of the things I admire most about him is the fact that he flies his freak flag high. I’m not quite there yet, but I think his confidence is rubbing off on me a little.
“I know I’m pretty,” he says suddenly, “but that doesn’t mean you should stare.”
I roll my eyes and shove him. Confidence? I meant conceit. His laughter tapers off, and again I notice that there’s an anxious edge to him today.
“You OK?”
“Sure.” He flashes me a big smile. “What’s new? Any gossip? Meet any new people?”
“Where would I meet new people?” I counter. “I go to the same places all the time.”
His shrug is nonchalant, but that anxiety has crept into his voice. “You know how you attract trouble.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. So, nothing? Business as usual?”
“Business as usual.” I study him through narrowed eyes. “What’s your story? You seem nervous.”
“Of course I’m nervous,” he replies, a little brusquely. “I’m going to university and leaving you alone with all those idiots at Syringa. I’m allowed to be worried.”
Ah. I can only assume that by “idiots” he’s referring to one idiot in particular. Thuli Baleseng was my crush for all of three dazed years before he finally deigned to notice me last year. I was thrilled that my perseverance had paid off, until he lured me into his room during a party and tried to have his way with me. It turned out that the brilliant, somewhat seedy Thuli was only after one thing – my gift. As soon as Rakwena and I became friends, Thuli realised I had to be different from other girls, because Rakwena wasn’t exactly Mr Friendly.
Thuli is a freak hunter, an ungifted obsessed with discovering the magical secrets of the gifted and using them for himself. Whether this is possible is debatable, but it didn’t stop the psycho from trying to get into my pants in the hope that my powers were contagious.
It was Rakwena who found me running madly through that huge house, and took me home. Ever since he has kept a special place for Thuli in his dark dungeon of hatred, and Thuli is too clever to risk life and limb by coming near me again.
“Thuli isn’t a threat anymore,” I assure him.
“Maybe, but who knows? There could be others out there like him, others that just want to manipulate you, and I won’t be able to protect you as easily as before.” He looks at me, his brow creased in concern. “Maybe I should cut down on my classes.”
I gape at him. “Are you crazy? I don’t need a babysitter! I was fine all year while you were working!”
“Yes, but it’s different now.”
“Why?”
He purses his lips and slumps against the cushions.
“You’re overreacting,” I tell him gently. “I’m fine. And Lebz and Wiki are there to keep an eye on me.”
“Right.” His smile is strained. “Just stay out of trouble, OK? Promise me.”
“It’s been really quiet over the last few months; I really doubt – ”
“Promise!”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay out of trouble. I promise.”
He pulls me close, squeezing me a little tighter than necessary, and I frown against his chest. Usually I’m the one who has premonitions, but suddenly I’m getting the feeling that Rakwena smells trouble.
**
It’s still dark outside. I’m sitting at my desk in my room, freshly showered and dressed for school. I couldn’t sleep after seeing Rakwena. His worries infected me, and I kept having funny dreams about alien sock puppets and evil garage bands. Finally I decided to get up and get some work done. Not schoolwork, though. The other kind.
The File lies open in front of me. It’s an ordinary yellow file, the type a lot of students use to keep their notes in order, but it’s filled with research on the supernatural, myths and folklore and any magical snippets that might come in handy. The File was my friend Wiki’s idea, inspired by the onset of my telepathic powers, and he’s been updating it regularly ever since. Normally it stays with Wiki, but I borrowed it to add some information on telepathy.
On the right-hand page is a rough identikit sketch from the front page of The GC Chronicle. The man in the sketch is thin, in his forties, with a distinguished air about him and a pair of round spectacles perched on a broad nose with flared nostrils. It’s John Kubega, the man we call the Puppetmaster. Last year he turned five schoolgirls into a gang of super-freaks and had them roaming the city of Gaborone, leading me on a merry chase. Rakwena and I managed to break the spell, but the Puppetmaster got away. Well, we broke the spell in four cases, anyway. I’m still not sure where one of the girls, Emily, stands.
I still remember the last time I saw her at the mall. She had a wicked, smug look on her face, as though she knew I knew her secret and didn’t care. It terrified me. She’s just a kid – thirteen or so. Once it became clear that she was still under his control, I made it my mission to save her, for real this time. But her family moved suddenly, and no one has heard from her since. I hate the idea that she might still be working for the Puppetmaster, but the scariest thing is the knowledge that she might not even be doing it under duress. I never got to find out for sure. She could be a puppet…or a willing servant.
I turn my attention back to the sketch. I don’t know how many times I’ve stared at it since the Puppetmaster disappeared. It’s as if I’m expecting to find a clue to his whereabouts hidden in the lines. I bite my lip as I look at the picture. The memory of his eerie house in Kgale Siding still haunts me. The house where he kept Rakwena and me trapped overnight, testing us. The house where Rakwena lost his senses and kissed me as though the world was about to end and salvation was hiding somewhere on my body. The house that vanished before our eyes when morning came…
I shake my head. This isn’t helping. I’m obsessing over this, and the truth is I’m probably never going to find the Puppetmaster. His face was plastered all over town for a few weeks, but more interesting scandals erupted and the story faded. By now he must have a new face, a new name, and a new plan.
So far there are no clues. Well, nothing but the premonition I had back in February, and it’s August now. In the premonition I saw an army of bewitched ungifted far more powerful than the girls we rescued, an army he is building for some unknown purpose. I know he’s out there, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, but I’m just a kid who can read minds. How on earth can I go up against a seasoned sorcerer with a magical army?
I’m startled by a sudden buzzing noise coming from the other room. I exhale; it’s only Dad’s alarm. I hear a muffled groan, a creaking noise and then footsteps.
I turn my attention back to the File. “Where are you?” I whisper to the sketch.
I suppose part of me expects a reply. He’s a sorcerer after all – he could speak to me through an identikit image if he wanted to. But the picture is silent and still, so I turn the page and skim through the notes I’ve been adding over the past few days. They’re just brief points I’ve gleaned from my grandfather, tips for telepaths, interesting little insights and so on. They’re handwritten, but reasonably legible.
I read for a while, making a few changes here and there, and then close the File and turn to the wooden chest at the corner of my desk. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather, a miniature version of the chest he keeps in his house. I pull it towards me and lift the heavy lid to reveal the contents. The small clay jar, bronze bell and beaded anklet came with the box. Beside them is a folded note.
The jar works a little like a supernatural vacuum cleaner; when I’m plagued by negative energy I put my hand over it and it sucks out all the dirt. I’ve only used it twice – both times after particularly trying sessions with Ntatemogolo. The bell makes a wonderful sound and is supposed to clear my head. The anklet is about a century old, and I can’t help worrying that if I put it on it will fall apart.
I take it out of the box and examine the faded design on the chipped and scratched wooden beads. There’s something humbling about holding a piece of history in my hand. Ntatemogolo promised he’d tell me the story of the girl who first wore it, but we’ve been rather busy.
I put the anklet back, close the box and put it back in its place. I glance at my phone and gasp; it’s almost six-thirty. I jump up and shove the File into my school bag; I’m giving it back to Wiki today. Then I head to the kitchen for breakfast.
Dad is standing over the counter, gulping down a cup of coffee. His shirt is slightly rumpled, his brown hair is standing up at the back, his milky skin looks flushed, and behind his glasses his eyes are half-closed.
“Morning, love,” he says with a sigh, dragging himself over to kiss my forehead.
“Hi, Dad. You look terrible.”
He gives me a weak, lopsided grin. “Just tired. I was up most of the night working on a report for Salinger.”
I open the fridge and take out the milk. “What time did you get home?”
“Late. After eleven, I think. Was Rakwena here?”
“Ja; he left around nine.” I make myself a bowl of muesli and eat it standing up, watching him. “Are you almost done with the report? I think you need a break.”
He yawns and puts his empty mug on the counter. “I’m done, but they want me to oversee a big project they’re starting soon. I have to hire research assistants from the university before then. God, I’m knackered.”
I frown at him. “Let me at least make you a proper breakfast, Dad – you can’t survive on coffee.”
He shakes his head and goes to fetch his briefcase from the dining room table. “I have a meeting at eight – got to prepare. See you later, love.”
I frown as he heads out. After breakfast I turn on the radio while I wait for Lebz. Auntie Lydia comes in at quarter to seven, her petite frame buried under bags of sewing material. She runs a tailoring business on the side, but I can’t remember the last time she brought this much work with her. I hurry to open the door for her.
“Wow,” I marvel as she dumps the lot on the dining table. “Are you opening a shop?”
She laughs. “I have a lot of orders this week. Is your father gone?”
I nod. “You just missed him. Any messages?”
“It’s nothing…” Her sigh says otherwise. “He forgot to pay me yesterday.”
I rummage around on the dining table where Dad usually leaves Auntie Lydia’s pay, but there’s no sign of an envelope. “He must have forgotten all about it. He’s been really busy. Should I call and remind him?”
She shakes her head and pats my arm. “I’ll call his office later. Aren’t you going to be late? Where’s Malebogo?”
“I don’t know.” I reach into my pocket for my phone and check the time. “She’s usually here by now. I’m sure she’s on the way.”
Auntie Lydia goes off to clean the kitchen and I stand on the doorstep, watching the road. Finally I see Lebz hurrying towards the house, scarlet braids flying behind her. Students at the Syringa Institute of Excellence aren’t allowed “unnatural” hair styles, but the teachers can’t seem to agree on how to define “unnatural”, so people like Lebz get away with anything.
She lifts the latch on the front gate and pushes it open, then runs up the driveway, leaving the gate wide open behind her as usual. The gate, I tell her silently. She comes to an abrupt stop, turns around and goes back to close the gate. Being a telepath comes in very handy sometimes.
“News!” she squeals, almost knocking me over as she bolts into the house.
Only a boy could get Lebz this excited. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Can we go? We’re late already.”
She dashes into the kitchen to say hello to Lydia, then runs back and grabs my arm. Her nails are blue today, but I bet not a single teacher will notice. “Connie, oh my God! You will not believe Kelly’s new boyfriend.”
Oh, a double whammy – a boy and Kelly, Lebz’s buxom, brainless role model. I drag her towards the road. “Let me guess – his father owns half the country.”
“I have no idea who his father is, but who cares?” She sighs and releases my arm so she can clasp her hands together in rapture. “Connie! He’s so hot. I mean…so, so, so hot. Damn! I have never seen anyone so cute in my whole life. And get this – there are more of them!”
“More boyfriends?” I arch my eyebrows. I thought Kelly was more of a serial monogamist, but I’m always looking for new reasons to dislike her.
Lebz makes an exasperated noise in her throat. “More hot boys! A whole group of them; six, and they are all good-looking. All of them! Do you know how rare that is? A bunch of guys who hang out together and are all the same level of hotness?”
I roll my eyes. “Wow. A biological miracle.”
She slaps my arm impatiently. “Don’t you think this is a little bit weird?”
There’s something about the way she says that last word that grabs my attention. “Strange weird or freaky weird?”
She raises her eyebrows. OK – freaky weird. As in “too strange to be a coincidence; must be supernatural” weird. I ignore the neighbourhood scenery and the other kids making their way to school.
“Come on. What’s freaky about a bunch of cute boys? Maybe they’re related.”
“They are, but still.” She heaves a weary sigh and shakes her head. “Choma, listen to me. There are cute boys, and then there are cute boys. The Cresta Crew are unnaturally hot and charming. All of them. I repeat – all of them.”
I snicker. “What are they, a boy band? Were they discovered at Cresta Lodge or something?”
“Cresta, Johannesburg,” Lebz explains impatiently. “They lived there before coming here, so people started calling them the Cresta Crew.”
I’m not allowed to read the minds of my friends, but I take a quick peek just to see if she really believes there’s something off about these guys. I barely have to scratch the surface to sense her unease, even though it’s mixed up with a good deal of excitement. “OK. I’m listening.”
We’ve reached Syringa, and we make our way to our bench. Wiki, our third musketeer, is already there, going over yesterday’s Business Studies homework.
He glances up at us, round glasses magnifying his eyes. “Hello, ladies. What’s new?”
“Lebz is convinced that Kelly’s latest conquest is a member of a gang of freaks,” I report, slumping onto the bench beside him.
“Ah,” he replies with a nod, and goes right back to his homework.
“So this is the story,” says Lebz, warming to her subject. “These six guys all decided to leave South Africa together. They arrived about a week ago and they’ve been flirting their way across town. Now Spencer – that’s Kelly’s man – is the hottest. He met Kelly at a party and they’ve been inseparable ever since. This morning she emailed me his photo – that’s why I got to your place late – and I nearly died. I’d never actually seen one of them until now. Connie! I’m telling you, my heart stopped.”
“So what are you thinking?” I reach into my bag for my water bottle and take a sip. “They’ve taken some kind of potion that makes them gorgeous?”
She shrugs. “You’re the expert. I just think these guys are too good to be true. And Kelly has dated a lot of incredible guys. She’s not easily impressed, but Spencer has her completely under his spell – not that I blame her.”
“Hmm,” I reply, in my no-nonsense supernatural detective tone. “I’ll look into it.”
“Be careful,” she warns me. “Rumour has it that those guys can make any girl fall in love with them.”
I laugh. Unless they’re duplicates of Rakwena, I don’t think I have anything to worry about. Not that I’m in love with Rakwena. I just mean… Never mind. The point is I’m glad to have a potential mystery on my hands. Time to put all those months of practice to use. With any luck, the Cresta Crew will turn out to be nothing more than a bunch of boys with good genes and even better game. But if they’re not, I’ll find out.
**
“So what do you think?”
I follow Rakwena up the steep cement road that twists from the quarry to the top of Kgale Hill. I’m out of breath, but it’s a vast improvement to how I felt the first time I let Rakwena drag me up the hill. I don’t know how he convinced me to make this hike a Sunday morning ritual, but we hardly ever miss a week.
“I think you should do more walking and less talking,” he replies impatiently.
“Come on, help me out here. Do you think Lebz is being paranoid about these guys?”
“Lebz is being Lebz.” The disdain in his voice is palpable, and a little offensive. I thought he liked Lebz. He stops to open his bag, hands me a bottle of water and takes a swig from his two-litre bottle of barely diluted Oros. “She thinks her garden shed is haunted, remember?”
OK, he has a point. Somehow Lebz sees ghosts where the rest of us see rats. “Maybe you’re right. She can be a bit of a drama queen, especially where Kelly’s concerned.”
I slip into silence as other hikers pass us on their way down. I’m not an exercise fanatic, but I’ll admit that it has its benefits. I’m stronger than I was last year, and have much more stamina when it comes to supernatural mind games. I’m not yet action hero material, but watch this space.
We reach the flat slab of rock near the top where most hikers stop, and Rakwena immediately starts doing push-ups. Show-off. I lie back on the rock and watch him. I still don’t understand why he bothers working out. Rakwena’s metabolism is ridiculous – he burns so much energy that he never gains weight, despite eating enough for ten people. The amount of sugar he consumes in one day would kill anyone else.
I still haven’t figured out why his body works so differently from the rest of us. He’s gifted, like me, but my body is 100% flawed human. His body is perfect. Maybe it has something to do with the blue sparks that pour out of his skin, or the chemical imbalance that requires him to inject himself with medicine every day. So many things about Rakwena are still a mystery to me.
“Should I take my shirt off?” He pauses and looks at me with a cocky grin.
“It’s not that hot.” I raise an eyebrow. “And neither are you.”
“Your lingering gaze says otherwise.” He lowers himself to the ground and lies on his stomach, resting his chin on his hands.
I look at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re the biggest freak of nature I’ve ever met, you know.”
He laughs. “Thank you.”
I inch closer to him and reach out to touch his hand, and my fingers tingle. I can’t explain this thing that happens when we touch – it doesn’t happen with anyone else. It’s as if the power in me calls to the power in him, and he can’t help but respond.
“Aren’t you even a little curious?”
His eyes narrow. “About Kelly’s boyfriend? No, not really.”
“No – about yourself.” I take a wary glance around. The other hikers aren’t close enough to hear us, but I drop my voice to a whisper. “Your gift. Your body.”
Rakwena sighs. “I’ve been living with it all my life; the novelty has worn off.”
“But you’re so…strange,” I persist. “I’ve never heard of a gifted person who is as different as you are. Look at me, look at Ntatemogolo. No weird cravings, no chemical issues, and definitely no blue sparks. I mean, how does your body even produce all that energy without damaging itself?”
Rakwena gets up with an exasperated grunt. “How many times do we have to go over this? I can’t explain these things. They just happen. You’re the one with a biologist for a father – you tell me.”
“I wish I could.” I sit up and study his face. There’s an angry little twitch in his jaw that tells me to drop it, but I’ve never been one to pay attention to subtle signals. “I’m no scientist, but I know enough about the human body to know that yours is different. Like a comic book mutant. Are you sure you’ve never been exposed to – ”
“Gamma radiation?” He rolls his eyes. “You’re like a skipping CD.”
“I can’t help it! You’re so interesting.” I bat my eyelashes at him, hoping the flattery will win him over. I suppose I’d get annoyed if someone kept pointing out my weird traits, but I don’t bring it up because I want to fix him. I just want to understand.
He shakes his head. “Come on – we’ve rested long enough. Wanna go to the top or head back down?”
“Let’s go back.” I stretch my arms and yawn, then get to my feet. “I have a lot of studying to do.”
Rakwena stares at me in mock amazement. “Studying? What, for exams?”
“Yep.”
“Final exams?”
I sigh. I know where this is going. “Yes, Lizard.” I only call him Lizard to annoy him, but it never has the desired effect. I suspect he finds it amusing.
“The exams that are starting in three months?”
I roll my eyes, grab his arm and pull him towards the path. “Yes, Lizzie.”
He laughs. Not his usual chuckle – a proper burst of doubled-over laughter. I’m not impressed. “I thought you had a last-minute cramming policy,” he says, once he’s recovered from his giggling fit.
“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
He snorts. “Woman? Wow, your ambition knows no bounds!”
“You’re supposed to be proud of me for changing my ways. Aren’t you the one who’s always saying I should take my school work more seriously? We have one week of school left before the holidays – I want to make it count.”
Rakwena’s arm snakes around my waist and he pulls me close, planting a kiss on the side of my head. “I am proud of you, Connie. I always knew there was a smart, hard working girl underneath all that slothfulness.”
I stick my tongue out at him, but as he releases me and starts the descent, my attention is on the faint tingle on my skin where his lips touched me. I’ve been a reasonably understanding girlfriend for the past few months. I’ve asked questions, I’ve nagged a little, but I haven’t gone overboard in trying to figure out the secrets of Rakwena’s powers. Nevertheless, I can’t stop thinking about it. I love the blue spark. I love the fact that with one touch I can keep him from losing control and he can make me feel invincible, but I want to know why.
“Connie, come on,” he calls, a few steps ahead of me. “Pick up the pace – we need to keep our hearts pumping.”
“Yes, Captain!” I call back with a mock salute.
He turns to look at me over his shoulder, his scar facing me. The scar his father gave him the night he died – or pretended to die. We still don’t know for sure.
Apart from the odd eating habits and blue spark, Rakwena is also telekinetic. When his mother left his father and took young Rakwena along, his father hunted them down. A terrible fight ensued, with Rakwena’s father using his own telekinesis against his five-year-old son. It’s unthinkable, but from what I’ve heard, Rakwena’s dad was a monster.
As a child Rakwena’s powers were fearsome and erratic, and when his father struck him he reacted instinctively. The result was an apparently lifeless body lying in front of him – but since his father’s body was taken away and Rakwena never saw him again, there’s no way of being certain he’s dead. He could be out there, waiting for an opportunity to come back and take his revenge.
Rakwena doesn’t want to talk about it; it’s yet another mystery he’s happy to leave unsolved, but I’m not the kind of girl who lets things go. I want answers, and one way or another I’m going to get them.
