Monday evening, Thursday afternoon. Jenny Robson

you heard your parents in the lounge still discussing my name. You felt a little edge of anxiety, the way you always did when you weren’t sure if you’d done something wrong.

      “Perhaps we were mistaken, Salama,” said your father. “Perhaps we should have sent her to Nural Islam.”

      “But Dad,” your big sister, Yasmiena, said. Your sister was already grown-up and out of school, much older even than my brother, Kyle. She was allowed to join in your parents’ conversations quite often. “But Dad, Mom, it’s good for Faheema to mix with all sorts of children, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m sure by tomorrow she’ll have another best friend. You know how little kids are.”

      At the sound of your sister’s voice, you relaxed and snuggled into your pillow. You dreamt about the two of us being two princesses in a huge castle filled with toys and sweets. With both of us wearing shiny golden crowns. And my hair turned suddenly black in your dream. And grew long and plaited, just like yours. But you still knew that it was me, your best friend.

      3. thalaatha

      She was totally wrong, your sister, Yasmiena. We stayed best friends all through Grade One. And all through Grade Two. In Mrs July’s class, remember? She let us sit wherever we wanted to. So, of course, you and I always sat together with our two desks facing each other there beside the window. And we got to do all our work together too. You were the one who always understood the Maths quickly so you helped me through all those sums. Especially that awful three times table. For some reason I never quite got the hang of that one. Which made you giggle.

      But when it came to English, you were the one need­­ing help!

      Yesterday I buyed some sweets, you would write.

      “No, Faheema. It’s not ‘buyed’! It has to be ‘bought’,” I would whisper.

      Yesterday I shaked my towel, you would write and then look across at me with your eyebrows pulled up high.

      We always went out to break together, lunchboxes tucked under our arms. Even when that Marcus Singer and Colin Gottschalk and their friends began walking behind us in the corridors, chanting, “Vanilla milkshake, Milo milkshake …” I don’t think we ever really understood what they meant. Marcus and Colin and their friends were just silly boys who were always saying silly things and annoying the girls. All through break, we sat together giggling. And breaks seemed to go on forever, out there in the Western Cape sunshine.

      *

      Grade Three began badly though. That was the first year that we were separated, put into two different classes.

      You were assigned to Mrs Dlamini’s class and I was put into the other class with Miss Twine. It was horrible for me, sitting there every day without you and your dimples. Nothing seemed much fun. I felt lost and alone, as though I was starting school all over again. I used to long with all my heart for break time to come. Miss Twine was always telling me off for looking at the classroom clock instead of concentrating on my sums and phonics.

      She shouted sometimes, Miss Twine. She was a big woman with a big voice, even bigger than Mrs Walker’s. Well, that’s how I remember her. The floorboards beneath my desk seemed to shudder and buckle. I was always terrified that they would give way altogether and I would fall down, down, down into the Art room below.

      Some time in the third week, you went up to Mrs Dlamini’s desk and said, “Please, Miss, won’t you check. There was a mistake, I think. I am supposed to be in the other class with Miss Twine, I think.”

      That was brave, I’m telling you, Faheema. I always remember that, whenever you go on about what a coward you are and how you never stand up for yourself; about how easily you give up instead of fighting for what you want, about how you never dare question auth­ority. Well, you did your best to stand up for yourself then, even though you were only eight.

      Not that it did any good! Mrs Dlamini showed you the register with your name right there in the middle.

      “No, Faheema, this is definitely where you belong,” she said.

      But that was also the year we learned to play netball. Wasn’t that fun?! And at least we could be together there. Rushing up and down the tarmac with that huge brown ball flying through the air. And jumping as high as we could. And screeching to a stop at those white lines that seemed to appear from nowhere! I can tell you one thing, Faheema, you never looked scared there on the netball court. Never! Even though you were the smallest by far.

      Mrs Dlamini was our coach and she kept blowing her whistle at us. “Louise, you’re in the WRONG PLACE again … Faheema, you’re OUT OF BOUNDS!”

      Those white lines seemed to appear so suddenly, just when we were really caught up in the game, just when we were least expecting them.

      We weren’t very good at this netball business, neither of us. You were so short, Faheema, the ball just kept flying right over your head like a UFO. No matter how high you jumped. And me – well, I just never had any ball sense. My mom always warned me: “Don’t expect too much from this netball, love. I don’t want you feeling disappointed. You have other talents, remember. Like your lovely writing.”

      And she was right. In our house, Kyle was the sports­man. Cricket, rugby, water polo, swimming. You name it, he could do it. Every prize-giving, he had to go up onto the stage when they gave out the sporting awards. You’ve seen the cabinet in our lounge full of his medals and trophies and photographs.

      *

      It was also in Grade Three that you and I started visiting each other’s houses. We were old enough now to walk the eight and a half blocks that separated us. And it was safe enough for our moms not to worry, especially with the police station right in the middle and no big roads to cross.

      You came to my house first, do you remember? Straight after school one Wednesday.

      My mom was acting a little strange about it all, whispering in the kitchen while you were in the bathroom washing your hands. “But what am I supposed to give her to eat, Louise? I mean these Muslim people have all sorts of strange laws about food. There are all sorts of things against their religion, you know.”

      By then I understood a little about what being a Muslim meant. I knew that your Sunday was on a Friday, even though that confused me. I knew your church was called a mosque and it didn’t have pews and chairs. Instead it had carpets. And I knew that there was a month called Ramadan when everyone had to stop eating if the sun was shining. But we didn’t discuss it much. There were so many other things we needed to talk about, weren’t there?

      “I’m fine, Mrs Van Rensburg,” you said when you got back from washing your hands and Mom offered you some lunch. “I had something to eat just before I came. My mom packed extra, so I’m not hungry.”

      I ate my sandwich while you watched and kept on trying to tell my mom that you were fine.

      “Cheese? Are your people allowed to eat our cheese? Or how about a tomato sandwich? Tomatoes can’t be a problem, surely?”

      But my mom wasn’t the only one acting weird that day of your first visit.

      Remember when I took you to my bedroom so we could play with my Barbie and all her new clothes? You stood at my doorway, staring at a painting on my wall. I mean, you looked really surprised, your eyes wide. A little frightened, even.

      “What’s wrong?” I asked. The painting looked pretty normal to me, a picture of Jesus with children all around him. Underneath it said: Suffer the little children to come unto me. My ouma gave me that picture before she died.

      “That’s Jesus, isn’t it?” you asked, still staring. “It’s just that we don’t have any pictures of our Prophet Mu­h­ammad, you know. We aren’t allowed to make drawings and paintings of him. Not ever.”

      Now I was staring. That sounded strange to me.

      “Yes, the only pictures we have are verses out of the Qur’an. Written in Arabic ’cause that’s the language of the