The Choice Between Us. Edyth Bulbring

He studied to be a lawyer at university but the law and him didn’t work out. From what he’s told us, I guess he had a problem defending crooks and bastards. History’s his passion now.

      The whole class is in love with him, me most of all. He’s twenty-eight and he’s got two hundred and fifty-three friends on Facebook. I’m not one of them, but his security settings are rubbish – like most people’s.

      “Everything all right at home, Jen? You’re looking a bit dark around the eyes. Nothing troubling you, I hope?”

      I shake my head as the door opens and a girl shoves her face inside the room. Xoliswa is my ride-or-die homie. We’ve been as tight as a pair of True Religion denims since nursery school. Her hair is a giant afro. No more pretty corn-rows or braids. Natural, she calls it, and refuses to tie it up, even when threatened with detention. She does shave her legs, though. There are limits to natural, obvs. I flash her my death stare: Go away. She gives me a stink eye and ducks.

      “Don’t be late for your next class.” Andile walks me to the door, his hand poised above my shoulder. Not touching, but nearly.

      Please, please, touch me – but he never does.

      Soo Ling is waiting for me in the corridor. She’s the third wheel in my friendship with Xoliswa. She balances us out, but sometimes slows us down. Soo Ling and Xoliswa are pretty much my only friends at Virgins. I’m picky about who I hang with, okay?

      “C’mon, Jenna, what did Randy Andy want?” Soo Ling says. “Tell me, tell me!”

      We hurry towards the maths class.

      “He likes me. He says I’m smart and I make him laugh. He sort of nearly touched me.” I give a slow nod. Oh, yes. “And I almost stroked his hair. It’s springy and soft. Gorgeous, like a poodle’s.”

      Soo Ling slaps me on the arm and giggles. “Hey, girlfriend, don’t let Xoliswa hear you say that. Andy’s not a dog, you know.” She glances over my shoulder at Xoliswa, who is collecting her books from the locker. “And then what happened?”

      “Xoliswa kind of interrupted us just when things were getting interesting.”

      Soo Ling rolls her eyes at me and pokes the side of her mouth with her tongue. “Yeah, yeah,” she says.

      I can’t help noticing the pores on her chin. I’m sure they’ve always been there, but for some reason they irritate the hell out of me today.

      “What’s ‘Yeah, yeah’? He invited me around to his flat. This weekend.” So, I lie. It’s not a biggie. He did sort of invite me round to borrow some of his books. Sort of.

      “Shuddup! He never did. You’re such a liar!” Soo Ling nibbles at her bottom lip.

      “Suck my hairy balls, biiitch.” There are some days when I think our friendship has reached a dead end. It’s like the longest-running soapie on TV.

      “Well, are you going? That’s if he really asked you?”

      “Maybe. Just don’t say anything. Especially not to Xoliswa.”

      Xoliswa’s developed a God complex lately, always judging. Last week when she saw me giving the security guard my school sandwich she’d picked a stupid fight about it.

      “What’s this, Jenna? An attack of white guilt?”

      “Jeez, man, take your head out of your arse. He’s poor and hungry, he appreciates it, okay?”

      “Really? Have you ever asked him? Why do you people always make assumptions about people of colour? It’s so patronising. If he was white you’d never dream of doing it.”

      For some reason I’d become “you people” instead of Jenna, her best friend. And she was one of them, the “people of colour”. Like part of a rainbow that didn’t allow white. Things were awkward between us. Everything I said was wrong. We danced around each other, mostly out of step.

      Soo Ling and I reach the classroom. But before I open the door I whisper, “So don’t tell Xoliswa, okay? It can be our secret.”

      Secrets. I knew how to find them and how to keep them.

      Holly’s still home when I arrive back from school. She’s curled up on the couch with MasterChef Australia. Those who can’t cook watch the food channel. It makes them feel better about being unable to boil an egg.

      “You just caught me, baby. I’m off in a couple of minutes.”

      I’m no longer in the mood to play nice with Holly. “Why haven’t you paid the camp fees? If you don’t pay, I can’t go.”

      Holly pulls her mouth down and makes her eyes wide like a puppy. “Ag, sweetie, I’m strapped for cash at the mo’. It’s been a tight couple of months.” She flips herself off the couch and slips on her heels. She still hasn’t got around to taking the price sticker off the sole.

      “Come on, Jenna, who wants to go on a school camp? Bo-ring!”

      Andile’s one of the teachers taking the Grade Tens to the Magaliesberg next week. I want to strangle Holly for messing this up for me. Not just camp – my life. Everything.

      The conversation doesn’t end well. Holly rushes off on her date with a blotchy face, slamming the front door. “I’m a useless, terrible mother and I don’t blame you for hating me. But really, baby, I try so hard …”

      A few weeks ago I’d have been more understanding. But I’m done with this woman. I clean up the kitchen (how many coffee cups can one person use in a day?), and load the washing machine.

      The telephone rings. Yes, we have a landline. Holly’s Plan B for when she breaks/loses/drops her phone in the bath. It will go straight to voicemail and Holly will deal with it when she gets home.

      Nope, this is not how it happens. Setting up voicemail to take her business calls is just another small detail Holly will get to when she has time. If it’s not someone trying to sell me an insurance policy from a call centre in Pondicherry, it’s one of Holly’s clients with questions about a house. It stops ringing, and a few minutes later, rings again. I answer.

      “Hello, may I speak to Holly Moore?” The woman’s voice is hoarse. It belongs to a life-long smoker or someone who’s got a chesty cough.

      “She’s not available right now. This is her daughter, Jenna, speaking. Can I take a message?”

      “Jenna? What sort of name is that?” She says this with a snort. “Would you tell her that her Aunt C-C called and she must ring me back? Let me give you my telephone number.”

      I’ve never met Aunt C-C or spoken to her on the phone before. Getting a call from her is about as rare as spotting a black rhino in a shopping mall, or a game park. She’s somehow related to my great-grandfather Frank. When Holly was fourteen, her parents were killed in a car accident. My mom was a little short on relatives, so she got dumped on Aunt C-C. After Holly got pregnant and dropped out of university, the two of them argued. They’ve only seen each other a handful of times in the past fifteen years.

      Tapping her number into my phone, I say, “Are you sure there’s nothing I can help with?”

      “I simply wanted to inform your mother that I intend to put the old house in Pembroke Street on the market. I still have a few of her belongings and I require some assistance with packing up.”

      Not so interesting. Packing up is grunt work. I’ve done it for Holly’s clients a couple of times and it’s something I try to avoid. But I just have to be on that bus to the Magaliesberg next week.

      “I’m your guy. But I don’t come cheap.”

      “Excuse me, who’s ‘your guy’? Do you have to speak like some cliché out of a movie?”

      Sheesh! Talk about a humour by-pass. It takes a few minutes to agree on a rate. Aunt C-C drives a hard bargain and doesn’t allow our blood ties to influence the arrangement.