It was Sunday afternoon, twenty to three. Pete was stretched out on his back, staring at the ceiling, Foreigner playing on his tape player, “I’ve been waiting, for a girl like you, to come into my life.” He could feel the silkiness of Renate’s legs under his touch as his hand dared to go a little higher, still safe, but higher. Something in his head started to pulse, tick-tick-tick. He and Barend had been talking about snogging girls since they were twelve, and now, in less than a week, both had crossed that magnificent bridge. It was even better than he imagined. Fantasising alone in your room has its moments, as nothing is off-limits, but the feel of a girl, her smell, her breath against you, her tongue, her skin, it was just so much better than imagining Christie Brinkley inexplicably walking into your room in her red bikini with lustful, devouring eyes.
He looked at the Christie Brinkley poster on his wall. “Sorry, Christie,” he whispered.
Just after lunch, he made his first phone call to Renate’s house. He was petrified that her dad would answer, but to his relief it was her mom. She sounded nice, a little sceptical, but nice. And it was so cool to speak to Renate, to hear that sexy huskiness over the phone. It was an awkward chat, though. He phoned without any idea of what to say to her, nor did he have anything to say. He had only called to remind her that he was still there, he was still her ... boyfriend? He wondered what the protocol was. Should he ask her out, officially ask her to be his girlfriend, or was that uncool, should they just be together? It was tricky, there was no rule book. He wanted to ask her out, to make it official, to bind her to him in a sense, but what if she thought he was some inexperienced dork?
His eyes scanned the room. On the furthest wall next to his closet was a photograph of him and Barend with the trophies they had won in Standard Five, at the end of their primary-school careers. They were both so young then; Barend still had most of his baby fat. It made him think of the day before, when Barend’s life had changed in Philippa’s arms. Part of him was happier about Barend’s first kiss than his own, but with that said, not a very big part. He started laughing out loud, recalling Barend’s blow-by-blow account of the kiss after Sunday school. He had described the way Philippa tasted, felt and smelled in so much (unnecessary) detail that Pete thought it was he who had snogged her. He chuckled, thinking of Barend’s expressive face as he talked about the best moment of his life. He had wanted to laugh then, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh in his best friend’s face during his paean about the perfect angel he had found.
“I bet she doesn’t even need to use the toilet,” Pete remarked, for which he was rewarded with a punch on the shoulder.
“You don’t talk about my girl like that,” Barend said.
“So, it’s official?” Pete asked.
“Well, yeah, we kissed.”
Pete still wasn’t convinced that was enough. It felt as though they needed something on paper, something more official and lasting than sealing it with a kiss, although it was much more fun that way.
The tape stopped. He sat up, took the Foreigner cassette out and rummaged through his tape case for something else. Now That’s What I Call Music! 3 was the winner. It was a copy he’d got from Belchie, not a great copy, but it had the whole album, so Pete couldn’t complain. “A View to a Kill” started playing. “Meeting you, with a view to a kill. Face to face in secret places, feel the chill,” Pete sang along under his breath. He thought about the song and the James Bond movie, which he had watched during the Easter holidays. Roger Moore, the Eiffel Tower – which he promised himself he would climb one day – and the evil mystery of Grace Jones. She was ugly to him, but he could see there was something about her, something that could seduce the suave Mr Bond. “But can we dance into the fire, that fatal kiss is all we need. Dance into the fire, to fatal sounds of broken dreams,” he sang a little louder this time, but not too loud to wake his parents. Duran Duran was so cool.
A wave of nausea crashed over him.
“Wild Boys,” he said aloud. He was there again. Sitting with his back against the warm rock. Rudie about to get out of his bakkie and change his life.
“Crap!” he shouted. He grabbed his watch from his desk and stared at it hoping that, if he blinked a few times, the clock would turn back. It was twenty to four, and it was Sunday. In less than twenty minutes, Sarita’s parents would stop at the shop and then the chance would be gone. If he ran, it would take ten minutes if he ran flat out. That would leave a maximum of ten minutes to see them, but there was a good chance that Sarita’s parents might be back before then. Last Sunday they had arrived at ten to four.
He put both hands on his head trying to think. He thought of Sarita, her disappointment, and Petrus – his mind hovered over Petrus. Would he have gone on his own? Would he have just left? How would he feel? Last week, there was a moment ...
He took the cassette out and searched for something else, something safe. Alphaville. As the tape started, he sat back on his bed. His eyes closed. First Sarita’s soft dimples flashed before him, then Renate’s perfect diamond-like smile. He could smell the floral sweetness in Sarita’s silky black hair, and he could taste the strawberry on Renate’s lips.
“No.” He opened his eyes and rubbed both hands through his hair. He had Renate now. Perhaps he didn’t need the other two any more. Perhaps their healing, getting over that night, was over; perhaps it was time to just move on. He had Renate now; he could move on. And he had Barend.
His nausea lingered. He felt like that time when he was six and they were on holiday in Port Elizabeth. He so desperately wanted to go on another ride at the beachfront funfair, but his pocket money was spent. His mom sat on a bench watching his older brothers go down the supertube and her wallet was lying right next to her – and it was open. A two-rand note waved at him in the breeze, and against pleas from the angel on his right shoulder, he’d grabbed it, his mom none the wiser, and gone on more rides until he’d thrown up next to a bin. Kids pointed and laughed, but his mom took him in her arms and kissed him on his forehead. Betrayal was the taste of sick in his mouth. He never told his mom, but he saved his pocket money for a long time, and one day when she was cooking, he snuck into her room, took out her wallet and put back the two rand, plus an extra fifty cents – because his dad always complained about all the interest he had to pay.
In the solitude of his room, he tried to reason, over and over again, but the only thought that kept repeating was that he had to get the two rand back to its owner. He had to, but he couldn’t today: it was one minute past four.