"China, who is she?” Barend sat on the top row of the primary school’s sports pavilion, sucking on a green Fizzer.
“What are you talking about?” Pete asked, sitting two rows down, reading the facts on the inside of a Chappies wrapper.
“You came fifth, china. Fifth! I’ve run and lost against you in the hundred metres since we were eight, but I have never seen you run like today. Never! Not even that time in Standard Four when we played open-the-gates just before the race and you twisted your ankle. That day you came third, with one leg. So, what the hell is going on, china?” Barend lowered the Fizzer and gave Pete a dispirited glance.
“That’s why I’m asking: who is she? Who is this mysterious girl making your legs malfunction?” Barend scratched his head. “Come to think of it, you’ve been all over the place since the start of the year.” Pete felt a pinch in his heart. Did Barend suspect something?
“First, you drop me to go and sit on the senior bus,” Barend continued, full steam ahead. “Then you nearly kill that arsehole Devon, and today you run like a girl. You could have won that race with one leg tied behind your back. Now Brett thinks he’s Carl Lewis. As if he wasn’t a real prick already, just imagine him now. He ran 11.3 seconds, Pete. I could have beaten him!” Barend’s cheeks glowed with that familiar pink hue.
“Easy, tiger. Remember, when you run the hundred metres, they use a calendar to measure your time, not a stopwatch.” Pete smiled and blew a large bubble with his chewing gum.
“Funny. But I’m not the fast one, you are. Now Brett is going to rip us all year long with his stupid rock-spider jokes.”
Pete clicked his tongue. “We’ll just double tackle him at the first rugby practice. That’ll shut him up.” Pete opened another Chappies wrapper, intent on avoiding any eye contact.
“Maybe, but still.” Barend looked out over the patchy athletics track and rugby field. In the distance, two young boys were kicking a rugby ball about.
“Something’s wrong.” There was a seriousness in Barend’s round face. His light-coloured eyebrows stood to attention and the side of his mouth twitched. This was Pete’s best friend, had been since the day Barend was introduced as the new kid in class when they were eight. Barend had his previous school’s uniform on and looked like a stuffed sausage. His cheeks were pink and his hair was shorter than that of most soldiers. Kids laughed at the chunky kid with the silly red uniform, but Miss Thomas forced Pete, as the class captain, to make friends with him. And so he did; he couldn’t help it. It was impossible not to like the freckled fat kid with the squeaky voice who ruined the punchline of every joke he ever told. Pete looked at how that little round boy had grown. The freckles were mostly gone, as was the baby fat. All that remained of that boy was his round face, pink cheeks and the superpower to ruin jokes. Barend was the reason no one ever solved the mystery of who broke the magistrate’s window, and the reason that no one dared bully Pete in Standard Six. The gentle giant was his safety net in times of need.
Barend’s eyes refused to let go of him. A contorting, burning pain filled Pete’s chest. He was lying to his best friend. Couldn’t he just sit next to Barend and tell him every sickening detail of that night?
“It’s Standard Eight, man,” the words stumbled out of Pete’s mouth. “This is the big one. Senior rugby, choosing school subjects, girls like Renate realising they’re no longer kids and that they can get anyone they want. I probably had too much time this summer to think about it. I wish we went away like you guys did.” Pete stood up and arched his back into a stretch, without looking at Barend.
“Ha! Three weeks working like a slave for my Uncle Carel, then two weeks of non-stop rain in a caravan at Wagensdrift dam? Believe me, you had the better deal,” Barend said, shaking his head and folding his arms over his knees.
Barend turned to Pete. “So, what’s the plan for this year?”
The burning pain in Pete’s chest relented slightly and he slipped his hands behind his head and stared up at the pavilion’s rusty corrugated roof.
“Last year we planned to play for under-15A and get Renate and Philippa,” Barend said, scratching his curly black mop. “Hell, one out of two ain’t bad. Just a shame it’s the wrong one.”
Pete smiled briefly but then burst out laughing. Barend followed with an uproarious, high-pitched giggle. They laughed until tears formed in their eyes; this went on for several minutes. When their laughter subsided, Pete took the chewing gum out of his mouth, placed it in one of the Chappies wrappers and flicked it as far as he could over the back of the pavilion.
“This year we’re going to play first-team rugby,” Pete said, hands in his pockets.
“In other words, we need to pray that a lot of guys get injured,” Barend said, but Pete reprimanded him with a stern look.
“We will play first-team rugby, and before the winter holidays, Renate will be mine.” Pete gazed at the blue of the sky getting lighter in preparation for sunset.
“And ... me and Philippa?” Barend asked softly.
“Dude, if we are going to make a name for ourselves this year, it all depends on us. Whatever you are planning to do with Philippa totally depends on you. Only you.” Barend’s always joyful face faded into glumness.
“Think about this; if we’re in the first team, we can have any girl we want. Philippa will come to you; you can just sit back and watch her throw herself at you.” A twinkle flickered in Barend’s eyes.
“The key to it all is the first team. After that, everything will be easy.” Pete heard his own words as if someone else had spoken them. All he wanted to do was tell Barend. He knew he could trust him with his life. Why, then, did the words keep getting stuck in his throat?