Strawberry lips
Jacqui smoothed the duvet cover against the bed as flat as she could get it. Then she folded … once … twice … tucked the edges in tight under the mattress, smoothing her hand along as she went. A well-made bed mattered to her mother, and these days what mattered to her mother mattered to Jacqui. The kak would hit the fan soon enough and the more she did to sweeten the inescapable journey through hell, the easier she’d make things on herself.
The floor she could never get clean enough. Besides that, it really ruined the whole room. It simply didn’t match. She had no idea how something as concrete as a floor could be out of place, since all the other bits either had to work around it or ignore it completely. But this one did its best to piss her off. She didn’t know much about styling yet, but one day she definitely would. One day, when she was an interior designer, or just a designer, period, knowing and being known for having cutting-edge information on such things would be her effing biznas! Cool would radiate from her in waves and people would envy her taste. She’d have closets bursting with top-notch stylish clothes that her friends could borrow without bothering to return. Her super-expensive convertible would have spinning rims and her mansion would be full of pimped-out shit–
‘Sherbet,’ Jacqui corrected herself out loud. ‘Sherbet, sherbet, sherbet! Never say shit, say sherbet!’ she ranted, scraping the broom over the ugly floor. No one would ever respect a designer with a foul mouth or covet her fashion advice. But then again, she knew for a fact that arty people were always pumped to the eyeballs with drugs and screwed around carelessly, swearing being one of their more normal habits. This new ‘afterlife of her eternal soul’ thing kept getting harder and harder to live up to.
Okay, fine, it wasn’t too bad. The socialising part of being born again was actually kind of fun: the youth meetings, braais and parties, the study groups where they did more gossiping than homework. Later on, though, after she made it big, how would all of this conflict with her image? Separate and part of a personal life was one thing – it could be easily packaged as a no-go area and even lend a bit of mystique to a star personality. But part and parcel of a public image, unless you were a gospel icon, was plain uncool. It soured quickly and could end up looking like a cheap publicity stunt, and there wasn’t much picking yourself up after that. She’d seen it happen too often: big break, the dazzling rise, media darling … then poof! Some stink rose from the grave and there went all your hard work. Back to eating pap en vleis on your ouma’s stoep. A girl had to be careful. Image was everything.
‘Jacqueline!’
‘Yes, Mum!’
‘Don’t shout at me when I call you! And that room had better be spotless before you even dream of going anywhere!’
Jacqui bit back a slew of curses and kept sweeping. She was practically out of the house; all she had to do was hold her tongue a little while longer. Once she was done, she turned her hand to finishing touches, adjusting the carpet in front of the door and lamps on the side tables, opening the curtains to let in the light. Her mother hated open windows and rudely gaping curtains, especially since the flimsy red material Jacqui had insisted on didn’t hide much without the heavier ones drawn over them. A young woman undressing with nothing but saucy voile between her and the leering eyes of pervers-by, candles flicking their glow onto the windowpane, a soft breeze drifting past …
A teasing smirk lifted Jacqui’s lips. Okay, sometimes it was obvious she hadn’t worked the poison of too many girlie movies out of her system. But if only they knew … If only she could get it through to both of her parents, without actually having to tell and crush them, that it was too late to headache over spilt milk. All she could do now was stay on the mostly straight, annoyingly narrow and often boring. Well, she could do her best. No doubt her mother would be up here after she left, yanking the curtains shut, snooping through her things while trying not to leave obvious signs that she had, doing her best to preserve their humble home’s dignity. It was worth a try.
Jacqui checked the time and threw the rest of her look together in the last few minutes. It was cool and cloudy outside, showers threatening to come through later, so she stuffed her hair under her favourite red knitted cap. Saturday tennis wasn’t as big a deal as basketball training but still counted as an outing, and outings, thanks to her mum, were as rare and precious as gemstones these days. Every outing meant dressing up.
She zipped the tracksuit top of her school kit over a plain, loose T-shirt, liking how it worked with worn blue jeans and battered Bata tekkies. Saturday girl: scruffy chic, effortless. All her cool, new gear was zipped away, only to be worn during practice, and maybe after, depending on how brave she felt. No point inviting more questions when escape was so near.
Jacqui slung her gym bag over a shoulder and took one last look in the full-length mirror. She made a face. Too plain. She unzipped a side pouch of the tote and fished around until she found her make-up bag. Couldn’t hurt if she dotted on just a bit of her favourite lip gloss. Fruity and rose-red, just the way she liked it. Her lips gleamed as she smeared them together. She pulled a few curls out of her ponytail, rounding off the cute messiness effect.
Much better. Jacqui lifted her index finger, licked the tip and then pressed it down onto her jutting bum, hissing air out of her teeth like the sound of a cigarette going out on something wet. A sway of hips and a giggle propelled her out the door.
Oh, behave.