‘Sies!’ my father says on that night’s Skype call. The picture of him twitches on screen, an angry-looking face shuddering a few centimetres to the left. ‘I thought we’d left all that kak about our name behind in South Africa.’

He hasn’t got it yet. It’s not about our name. If a South African joke is about someone being stupid, that person’s always called van der Merwe. Just about nothing gets to Dad more than a van der Merwe joke. But they’re all the work of South Africans, all insiders.

‘This was different,’ Mom says. ‘They don’t know about those jokes. They were picking on him for being different, for his accent, and about the shape of boerewors.’

‘Well, you don’t go listening to mompies like that.’ Dad’s hand appears and points forcefully at the screen. ‘What a bonehead that Lachlan boy is. I wish I’d been there to straighten him out. I’m glad you stood up for yourself. Did you beat them in the fight?’

Mom goes to speak again, but I get there first. ‘There were at least four of them. I got him, though. I got Lachlan. A teacher turned up pretty quickly.’

I want to sound tough, even though Mom won’t like that. They trapped me there. That’s how it felt. I was trying to get away. But it feels stupid to say that to Dad, so I don’t. Dad’s always talked about people standing up for themselves. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a push. Lachlan Parkes would have stayed standing if he hadn’t tripped over his own feet. And he threw the first punch. But no one’s needed me to explain all that. He was way too in the wrong already.

‘The principal was good, Piet,’ Mom says. ‘He called it racism, pure and simple.’

My father nods. ‘Okay. Well, if you’re sure it’s under control for now . . . I can go in and talk to him when I’m home. I can give him a bell tomorrow if you need me to. Whatever it takes, Herschelle. We’re going to make this work.’

The picture starts to break up, with his safety jacket turning into chunky fluoro orange pixels. There’s a shudder and the pixels come together again. The ceiling light’s right above him and his messy hard-hat hair is casting a shadow down his face. He’s listening, peering at us on his screen. Maybe we’re pixellated too.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘I think it’ll be okay.’ I have no idea if it’ll be okay. I don’t know what bullies do next in this country, or what it takes to make them back off. And now I know that sometimes, whatever you do to fit in, it won’t work if other people want you to be an outsider.