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 Qur’an. They look nice though. Arabic letters have beautiful shapes.”
So I opened my drawer and took out my Children’s Bible. Another of my ouma’s gifts. We sat on my bed, looking at the pictures in it together: Jesus being born with the sheep standing next to him, Jesus in the temple when he was twelve and then in the desert when he was grown-up, Jesus riding on a donkey. I didn’t show you the picture of Jesus dying on the cross though. I tried never to look at that one myself. You kept shaking your head.
Then my mom’s head appeared around the side of my door. She seemed worried again.
“Louise, love. Why don’t you rather show your friend your new Barbie clothes?”
So I did. And we were still playing with my Barbie when Kyle got home from school in his cherry-red Riverside High blazer. As always, the whole house seemed to light up. It always felt like that when my big brother was home.
“Hey, you two squashed-tomato noses! What are you sitting inside for on such a magic day? Come on, get your costumes on. Let’s hit the pool.”
You borrowed one of my costumes and we both laughed because you were so much smaller than me and the material bunched up all around your middle. But so what! We were ready for action!
We had a great time in the pool. Kyle picked us up, one at a time, steadied us on his shoulders and then hurled us bottom-first into the water. The splashes we made reached my mom’s deck loungers. She came out to rescue her cushions.
“Louise, are you sure this is alright? Are you sure Faheema’s allowed to swim? I don’t want her parents to be upset.” But because Kyle was home, Mom managed to smile as she watched us dive-bomb some more.
It did get easier though, didn’t it, your visits to our house? My mom stopped acting so weird and worried all the time. Sometimes I heard her talking on the phone to her friends.
“Yes, that’s Louise’s little Muslim friend. She’s coming to play tomorrow … No, it’s not a problem at all … You know me, Tina. Live and let live, that’s my motto. And Louise is very fond of her.”
But still, there were times she and Dad passed their secret eye messages when I talked on and on about you. There were times when she lifted me onto her lap and said, “You know, Louise, you must try to have more friends. It’s not good to always be with the same person, day after day after day. Always in each other’s pockets. What about Susan de Lange down the road? Or Annette Winterton?”
I wanted to answer that she was with Dad day after day after day. So how come that was alright? But of course I didn’t. It would have sounded cheeky and Mom didn’t like me being cheeky.
And you did start to feel more comfortable, didn’t you? After a while?
And you must remember, Faheema, I was quite nervous the first time I went to your home too. I really didn’t know what to expect.