The Choice Between Us. Edyth Bulbring

man tissues – the ones that don’t disintegrate after the first blow.

      The bottom drawer is stuck. I tug at the handle. Come on, open! Drawers often stick when it rains, but this one seems to be locked. I glance at the open door. It’s a risk, but a locked drawer has never stopped me.

      I look around, grab a paper clip, straighten it, and slip it into the lock. I kneel down, twist my head to be eye-level with the drawer and poke at the lock.

      A door shuts. I prod about as I calculate: twenty stairs at an old person’s pace. Thirty seconds max. I reach inside my satchel for my nail file.

      When Aunt C-C appears at the door, I’m standing, duct tape in hand, sealing the fifth cardboard box.

      “Well, you’ve made a start, at least. You’re going to have to work a little faster next week.” Her eyes glint and she has a wobbly smile. As she walks me to the door, she stumbles and puts a hand against the wall.

      “Oopsie-daisy!” There’s a grim giggle as I steady her. She allows me to hold her arm as we walk down the passage together.

      The sun is dipping behind the koppie, the sky a swatch of pinks from a Dulux paint catalogue. In a few minutes it’ll be dark. Joburg draws the curtains closed when you least expect it, shutting out the light.

      Aunt C-C stands at the gate, looking edgy. “I don’t like you out here on the pavement. Perhaps you should call your mother and tell her you’re ready to be picked up.” Aunt C-C holds a hand to her mouth. I swear she burped.

      “It’s no problem, I’m walking. My mother’s busy at work.”

      “Holly? Working? That’ll be the day. What’s she up to this time? Still temping at that hairdressing salon? Surely not!” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “She shouldn’t allow you to walk these streets after dark. Most of the streetlights aren’t working, you won’t be safe.”

      There’s no chance I’m calling Holly. She doesn’t even know I’m here.

      “Look, Holly’s not a taxi, okay? She can’t spend her time running around after me. She knows I can look after myself.” I sling my blazer over my shoulder and walk down the pavement, leaving Aunt-C-C at the gate.

      I head for 37 Klip Street. Holly’s been trying to sell this place for ever. It’s a corner house close to the highway, which gives it two black marks on the property questionnaire. The advert says: Beautiful family home. Close to all the best schools.

      What the advert doesn’t say is that the beautiful family’s home was robbed three times last year. Apart from brilliant thunderstorms, crime’s another thing Joburg’s good at. I’m not really boasting.

      The first time, the thugs got in over the wall of the next-door house. So the beautiful family had bits of broken glass put onto the top of the wall, and an electric fence installed. The next time, the thugs lifted the automated gate off the tracks and waltzed up to the front door. Then the beautiful family put a lock and chain on the gate. But late one night, the thugs hid behind the bougainvillea outside the wall and waited. Her car idling in the driveway, the beautiful wife got out and unlocked the gate. Click. Holding a gun to her head, the thugs escorted her inside.

      None of this is in the advert. I only know about it because Holly told me. She tells prospective buyers too, so the house isn’t in any hurry getting sold. No one wants a badluck house.

      The beautiful family has abandoned their home near all the best schools and relocated to a rented flat where they’re playing Candy Crush, waiting for the house to be sold so they can emigrate to Ireland and live in a house without burglar bars, electric fences and visits from unwelcome guests.

      The first rule every estate agent knows is that people seldom buy empty houses. The rooms echo and don’t smell like home. So the beautiful family left the house pretty much as it was, minus a few suitcases. They’ll pack up once the sale goes through.

      Guards from Stallion Security Company stand outside around the clock to make sure the thugs don’t come back a fourth time and clean the house out.

      It’s Obvious who is on duty today. I’m not kidding, that’s his name. He’s from Zimbabwe. The guy who does the night shift is Looksmart from Malawi. On their days off, Truelove from Mozambique stands in for Obvious and Looksmart. When Stallion Security gets their guys together for briefings it’s like a meeting of the African Union.

      I wave at Obvious and he smiles back. He’s seen me at the house with Holly and thinks I’m legit. I know the security code and I’ve got a spare set of keys. Holly keeps them in her office (aka the kitchen) and never notices when I borrow them. Yes, my bad.

      There are some people (shrinks, social workers, suckers) who blame bad teen behaviour on upbringing – it’s always the parents’ fault. Especially the single moms. They’d say that if Holly had given me a father, I wouldn’t break into other people’s homes to find out what it’s like to be part of a family that’s not made up of me and a person who doesn’t want to be called Mom. Poor little Jenna Moore.

      I’m happy to go along with this psychobabble if it gets me off the hook. I’m probably just a weird snoop. Let’s keep the verdict open on this, okay?

      I slip into the house, punch in the code, and pass the framed photographs of the beautiful family in the hallway: Robert and Dianne Fram, and Katy and James – I’ve come to know them all by now.

      James is eight, and his favourite colour is blue. He’s crazy about crocodiles and thinks he’s Spiderman: posters of his superhero cover his bedroom wall, stuffed toy crocodiles lie on his blue duvet, with blue cushions on the window seat.

      It’s James’s birthday tomorrow. A folded note in Mr Fram’s study drawer says: Dear Dad, for my birthday I want a cat or a bog, love James. I suspect James might be dyslexic. I don’t think his parents know about this yet, it can be our secret. Sorry, James, we’re not allowed to keep an animal in the flat. In any case, it’d be hard leaving it behind when we go to Ireland.

      Mr Fram’s a great father. He’s the kind of dad who does stuff with his kids. Families that play together, stay together. He always wins at rummy, says the score pad – but he’s useless at Monopoly. He, Katy and James have been competing in a family Monopoly tournament for a year. Katy’s won nine games to James’s three. Mrs Fram doesn’t play Monopoly, but she’s happy to be the bank.

      Katy has privacy issues, she’s at that age. The sign on her bedroom door says: PRIVATE. KEEP OUT. THAT MEANS U JAMES!!!! Katy’s thirteen, and she’s got a crush on a boy called Terence de Villiers. She’s written Terence and Katy inside a big red heart drawn on the first page of her school atlas. She’s also scrawled Katy de Villiers and Mrs T. de Villiers. Seriously adorbs! But she’ll get her heart broken. The photo stuck on the wall by her bed shows a good-looking boy with eyes set too close together. I know the look: Terence is no good. He’ll never look at Katy the way Andile looks at me. The way he looked at me yesterday after class.

      I take a book out of my satchel and put it on the shelf among the others: The Enormous Crocodile by Roald Dahl. Inside I’ve written: Dear James, with lots of love on your birthday. Jenna. I punch in the alarm code, let myself out.

      Back home, I unlock my cupboard drawer and take out a shoebox. The strand of hair is undisturbed. My guard against snoopers. (Note the irony.) It’s filled with all kinds of stuff. Katy’s hockey badge from when she made the first team. Mrs Fram’s perfume bottle. It’s empty, but it still has a smell. Cinnamon. I put a fingertip on some things from 3 Frazer Street and 9 Grant Avenue – my other homes.

      A shrink could really milk this: Poor little Jenna Moore steals mementos from other people’s houses. She is a sad and seriously disturbed child because she doesn’t have a father and her mother is hopeless and a liar.

      Guilty. I am a thief, your honour.

      I dig around in my satchel for the pile of papers I snatched from the locked drawer in Pembroke Street. An autograph book. So retro, I love it. Maybe I’ll get Andile to sign it. I shove it back