17 February 2013 / 18:02
Noah’s room is hot. The temperature’s been rising ever since morning, the beginning of another Cape Town heatwave. He opens the window, but it’s even warmer outside. He won’t be needing his duvet. He walks back to the bed, rolls it up neatly and tries to put it on the top shelf of his cupboard, but it doesn’t fit properly.
He’s still alone in his room. The bell will ring for supper at 6 p.m. That’s what Mr Bill told him and that’s what Noah is waiting for now.
Noah’s room is clean and tidy. The charts on his wall look strange. There are odd gaps. These he will fill, once he learns all the new routines here. But for now he’s done all he can. There’s nothing left but to wait for the suppertime bell. Then he will make his way to the dining room. But Noah doesn’t remember where the dining room is. Follow the crowd, Mr Bill said. They’ll all be going that way.
Noah doesn’t like the sound of that. He likes to walk by himself. How else can he time his journey to the dining room? That in itself looks like a problem he is not going to solve easily. And when he gets there—
A shrill noise interrupts this last thought. Noah glances at his clock, which is accurate to the last second. 18:03:42. The supper bell is late. Noah sighs. Is this how it’s going to be here? His schedule thrown out by minutes and seconds that will need to be—
And then he hears it. The rumble of feet outside his door, a swell of voices. He has to open his door now, step out into the corridor and follow the herd to the dining room.
Noah wishes he were at home. No surprises there, no confusion outside his bedroom door. No one telling him to make his way to the dining room and find a seat.
Where is he supposed to sit when he gets there? Will there be separate chairs? Will he have to squash himself between people he doesn’t know? Noah thinks hard. The dining room. Yes, definitely benches, not chairs. And now, when he gets there, he’ll be one of the last to arrive.
He steps out into the corridor. There’s only one person there now, a girl with a bright yellow flag of hair. She turns to look at him.
‘Hey, Noah?’
Noah stops, but only for a second.
‘Juliet Ryan,’ she says. ‘We’re at the same school? I’m in Grade 11.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘You don’t know who I am?’
Not only does he not recognise her, he can’t afford the time for introductions.
Keep moving, Noah. You don’t have time for this.
‘You’re not just being polite?’ she asks.
He shakes his head, his feet itching to move.
She laughs. ‘You must be the only person who doesn’t know about the Notorious Juliet Ryan. That’s amazing.’
Not that amazing, Noah wants to say. He doesn’t really notice many people at school. Making it through each day there without losing track is enough of a mission.
He looks at his watch and starts to walk. He’d count his steps if he could, but the girl’s still there, still talking.
‘My father works for the same firm as yours,’ she says, ‘gsg. Goodson, Stander & Groome. Right?’
Noah nods and quickens his pace, but that doesn’t stop her. She just skips to keep up.
‘My father’s Bart Ryan. Middle management, that’s him. My mom’s Monica. Bart and Monica, good ole Mom and Dad, and their shitty marriage and their mess of a daughter. No doubt Ellen’s going to want to know all about them. Ellen Turner. Are you seeing her too?’
Another nod.
‘I can’t believe we’ve landed up here together.’
She’s talking and talking, this girl called Juliet. There’s no stopping her. Her words are gushing out, like someone turned on a tap and forgot about it.