The Choice Between Us. Edyth Bulbring

on a dead person’s carpet. All our furniture comes from the Hospice shop, a lot of our clothes too. The ones that really creep me out are those with a name written on the inside of the collar. Always grimy with some dead person’s neck grease.

      Holly frowns at her toes and picks at a nail. “I might be late tonight. You’ll buy some groceries on your way home from school? I’m not sure I’ll get it together.”

      Holly and I are a partnership and the household chores are split down the middle. She does the splitting and she’s not so hot with maths. Seriously, this partnership is no longer working for me. Aunty Agony needs to stop agonising and get back to me ASAP. When I find my father I never want to see Holly again.

      I grab my satchel and my lunchbox. I’m going to be late for school. (Thanks, Holly, for coming home at three and waking me up. Lost your front door key. Again?) I scribble a note on my exam pad. Jenna woke up with a sore throat this morning and I thought she should sleep in. Please excuse her for being late. I pass the note to Holly but she waves it away. “You do it,” she says, licking jam off her fingers.

      I sign the note and tuck it into my blazer pocket. “You not working today?”

      She yawns. “Just a bit of admin and a pamphlet round. The market is totes rubbish these days.”

      If you spoke to Holly on the phone you’d think you were speaking to a teenager. There’s only one word for it: pitiful.

      Holly’s an estate agent – one of the million jobs she’s had over the past fifteen years. For now, she sells houses to families who are looking for “real homes”. Funny, that. Mostly she doesn’t sell. Just another thing she’s useless at.

      Here’s her selling pitch – it’s genius: “If you move the couch away from the wall you’ll spot the damp. Believe me, under this new paint job the walls are dripping wet. The pipes are rotten.” She beats the honesty is the best policy to a pulp. By the time her sole mandate’s expired the seller’s already lined up another estate agent he can trust to lie.

      “I can’t help it, baby. I don’t like to mislead people.” Like that crook who sold us our leaky shack eight years ago.

      I leave Holly picking at her toenails and check my appearance in the bathroom mirror. I suck in my cheeks and stare at my reflection. I arrange my hair into a messy bun and use an earbud to smudge my eyeliner. I scan my teeth. All good. I practise smiling, not just with my mouth, but with my eyes. It’s Holly’s smile, flirty but fun. I try frowning instead.

      In the lounge, Holly stretches up her arms to me. Her hugs are always fierce. “I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”

      I pull away. Hating her.

      “More than all the planets in the universe,” she says.

      Outside, the rain has stopped and the sun screams down at me from a sky washed clean and blue. This is the way of Joburg summers. This city doesn’t do things half-heartedly. You want a thunderstorm, Joburg will give you one. You want sun? Don’t forget your sunscreen.

      On my way to school I pass the For Sale signs outside the houses. Real Homes say the signs, with photos of Holly grinning at me. She’s wearing a dead person’s glasses, even though her eyesight is twenty-twenty. It was my idea: Like, get real, Holly. Who wants to buy a house from someone who looks like a cheerleader?

      The security guard outside the red brick building opens the gates and lifts the boom.

      No firearms or alcohol are permitted on the school premises. Spot tests for drugs will be conducted at the discretion of the school. Underneath this, a No Smoking sign.

      Welcome to St Virgilius. Virgins, as me and my fellow inmates call it. Not that we’d confess to being saintly or virtuous even if you beat us over the head with a crucifix.

      I hand in my note at the secretary’s office. She’s on the phone but raises an index finger. “Camp fees, Jenna. They were due last week.”

      “I’m sure my mom already paid.” Ha! No chance of that. People who can’t sell houses don’t have a lot of cash. “I’ll get her to call you.” I duck out.

      I fetch some books from my locker, head for the classroom, and run a hand down the side of my dress. I shortened the hem last week and it’s halfway up my thighs. I’ve got good legs. Holly’s legs. I open the classroom door and try to slip past the teacher in front of the whiteboard.

      Andile Skhosana turns around as I reach my desk.

      “Nice of you to join us.” The heat rises in my neck and into my cheeks. Someone sniggers.

      “See me after class.” He turns back to the board.

      See me after class. See me after class. The words beat a tom-tom in my chest. He said it like it was a date. Sort of.

      After class, I hang around at my desk. My hands are damp and I have this terrible urge to scratch my left eye. I rub like mad and, too late, I remember the eyeliner.

      Panic!

      My knuckle is smudged black, so I rub the other eye to balance out the weird panda look. Andile glances up and beckons, his finger crooked. The last girl leaves, shutting the door behind her.

      It’s just Andile and me. Alone.

      “I’ve got a note from my mother. It’s this flu that’s being going around, I haven’t been able to shake it.”

      He riffles through a pile of papers, his head down, not looking at me. His hair is thick and springy, overdue for a cut. He’s not one of those men who’s going to go bald when he gets old.

      Maybe I could touch it. Just softly.

      “It made me late for class. I’m sorry.”

      He looks up and smiles. There’s only one word for him: snack. No, scratch that. He’s a full meal. Andile Skhosana is hot. Sizzling. On a scale of one to Michael B Jordan, he’s an eleven. Think Chadwick Boseman meets Childish Gambino – without the boep – and you get the idea. His teeth are straight. But not in that fake way from wearing braces. So I guess he didn’t wear them as a child. And the scar on the side of his hand tells me he cut himself, maybe with a knife. It’s an old scar, though, and probably happened when he was a kid.

      “Oh no, it’s your essay I wanted to talk to you about. I handed them back at the beginning of the lesson.” He finds my essay and passes it to me.

      His voice is Morgan Freeman and his accent murmurs private school. I haven’t found out which one. He tends to end his sentences with a question mark, even when he isn’t asking a question, as though he’s interested in my response, even when I’m not expected to make one. It’s like we’re having a real conversation.

      “It was good, Jen. You really seemed to go the extra mile.” He smiles again. This time his mouth is closed, so I don’t see his teeth.

      I clutch the essay. He calls me Jen. I like the way his tongue touches the top of his palate when he says it. Like a caress.

      Jennnnnnnnn.

      “What do you mean, extra mile? I ran a marathon for this essay.”

      He laughs and shakes his head. “Funny girl, Jen.”

      I look down so he can’t see the stupid grin on my face. I made him laugh! I’m funny girl Jen. Not needy, whiney, pissed-off Jenna. I’m different when I’m with him. Brilliant, funny.

      “It was like you got inside their skin. It’s a real talent.”

      I shrug. “I love history.”

      I love you.

      “If you ever want to read more on the Second World War, I’ve got loads of books at home I could lend you.”

      Andile lives in a flat in Killarney. I saw this on his phone bill while snooping through his classroom desk last month. And I’ve gone round to the block to check it out. His fifth-floor view of