Читать книгу The Elephant in the Room - Maya Fowler - Страница 13

Now that we’re in sub B and almost eight years old, Jane’s mom lets her take the train to school by herself. Today I’ve been invited home with her. It’s very exciting, because it’ll be my first time on a train without any grown-ups fussing over me.

We run down the hill from school. Jane’s rucksack rattles. It makes us laugh, and the more we laugh, the more out of breath we get. The laughing makes our legs wobbly until we collapse on the corner of Main Road.

Jane’s mom has given her money for lunch, so we swing in to IXL Supermarket.

“Let’s get a YogiSip,” Jane suggests. “We can share it.”

I love YogiSip, especially the granadilla flavour. Jane takes a pineapple Yogi from the fridge with the door that says “Enjoy Coca-Cola”.

“Here, you hold it while I count the money.”

I wish we were getting granadilla, but I don’t say anything, because Jane’s paying. One day, I know, I’ll be able to choose my own drink from the fridge.

We stroll along to the Indian shop because we both like the samoosas. They cost eighty cents each, so we can afford four. With the change, we get Wilson’s toffees from the jar. The man behind the counter unscrews the top and holds the jar out. I’m glad we get to choose our own, because long black hairs creep down his arms, and two of his fingers are stained yellow.

We scoff our samoosas while we wait for the train. First we crunch off a corner. These are always crispy. Then we sink our teeth into the softer pastry, which covers the spicy mince. It burns my throat a little, and by now my whole mouth tastes of onions, but it’s worth it.

Jane was right. The pineapple YogiSip is great with curry. Before we sip, we blow a puff of imaginary fire into the air, the way you frost up glass on a cold day. Two little dragons, waiting for a train.

I wipe my greasy hands on the paper napkin the samoosa man gave me.

“Train to Cape Town!” someone shouts, and here it is.

We hop into the maroon carriage. We have first-class tickets, because everyone knows that third class is only for non-Europeans. This doesn’t count for conductors, though. Jane and I sink into our vinyl seat as the train takes off, and a coloured man comes towards us saying, “Kaatchies asseblief, tickets pleece.” I used to think that this was a special branch of the police, the Tickets Pleece. Because Laetitia always says that if you’re at the wrong place at the wrong time, the police can come to you and just say “police” and then you have to show them your pass. Like on the train, you show them your train pass and then they punch it, smile and leave.

When we get to Plumstead station, Jane’s mom is already waiting for us. You can recognise her by her white hair from a long way off. I think she must be very old, to have white hair like that. Sometimes people think she’s Jane’s gran, and Jane hates that. It makes her go red in the face, and you can see her push her lips together very hard. She should really do something about her hair, that’s what my mom says. I know not to say anything to Jane about this, but I’m glad my mom’s hair is still brown and nobody ever thinks she’s my gran.

Jane’s mom gives us each a hug, which means she’s forgiven me for the Kathlix story, but I still feel all hot in the cheeks when I look at her.