Triangulum. Masande Ntshanga
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“Fine, but please be quick.”
I take a walk around the school grounds with the MD switched to record, hoping to pick up a sound from the machine. In the toilet, I kick the door closed, making sure it bangs. Folding toilet paper, I savor the shade and feel of plastic beneath my skin. I don’t bother turning the recorder off when my piss breaks the surface of the water.
I arrive home before dark, having stopped at the mall. In my room, I drop off my bag and fit a tampon. In the kitchen, I make myself a bowl of Froot Loops, eating it standing up with a teaspoon over the basin. Then I lie on my bed with the door locked.
I’m looking forward to seeing Part at the bazaar.
I remember the first time I went to her house. Her mom was in the living room, alone and giggling at a blank TV screen. Part and I were standing by the door, and I was reminded of an old tomb, or an incubator; like the light didn’t enter the room, but was painted onto the windows instead.
Part started toward her room, but her mom motioned for me to sit. “How old are you?” she said. Her brow creased, but the shadows on her face didn’t.
“Seventeen.”
“Excuse me?”
I said it again.
I watched her edge in closer to squint at me. Then she glanced at an empty sofa, taking a moment before turning back. “Did you forget to grow?”
I told her I was born premature and that all my life, I’d been trying to catch up, but she wasn’t listening. Part’s mom was counting 17 with her fingers, and when she got to 10, she paused and craned her neck. Then she looked back at the sofa as if she’d left someone there, waiting to continue a conversation. I looked over, too, even though I knew Part’s mom had vascular dementia—a side-effect from a mini-stroke.
“Part’s turning 17, next month,” she said. Then, raising her voice, she asked Part why she wasn’t at school.
From her room, Part’s voice carried down the corridor, saying she didn’t feel like it. Then Part was at the door in her underwear, arms hanging at her sides, asking why her mom wasn’t taking her medication.
Part’s mom cast another glance at the sofa, then looked down at her knitted hands. “I am taking my medication,” she said.
I didn’t speak. The two of them fell silent, too, and the light still refused, and Part said, “Bullshit,” and turned away. Then over and over again, still standing at the door and shaking her head each time: bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
I stretch my arms out. It’s a minute after 5 and the bazaar’s at 7. Like most nights, I know there’s a dinner plate waiting for me in the microwave—to eat from, and then wash with the rest of the dishes.
I pull out Kiran’s MD, place it on the pillow next to my head and switch it on. I think about the machine—about it being a message from Mom. I wait for it to arrive, but it doesn’t. I count up to 10,000. Moments before I drift off to sleep, I think of the Olympiad again, and tell myself it’s 104.
Or (102) (102).
Or √108.
Or lim (x2 + 2x + 5) if it’s rounded down.
x→9
October 31, 1999
Late one evening, during one of Tata’s sudden bouts, I knocked on his door until two of my right knuckles went numb and almost split. I waited for a bit, then opened the door to the room that had been my grandmother’s, where my aunt was lying on her back. I could tell she was awake, and that this was evidence of her being an awful person; but she was here for him, too, I thought, and here maybe for both of us.
I walked to the bathroom, where I took off my clothes and stood in front of the mirror, the tiles cold beneath my feet.
I’ve never been fucked, I thought, looking at the reflection in the mirror, parting my lips and taking in the gleam of my braces. I ran a finger over each wire.
My breasts were small, but showing. My hair was long and thick. My lower stomach caved in tight against the muscle, making my hip bones push out. There was a gap between my thighs and my shoulders were straight, my arms trim. My skin was bright and clear.
I drew closer to the mirror.
I’m beautiful, I thought.
RTR: 007 / Date of Recollection: 05.29.2002 / 5 min
Pulling a pair of black jeans from my wardrobe, I find a black halter top and a jacket that used to belong to Mom. Then I knock on my aunt’s door.
“I’m going to a school thing,” I tell her, “a bazaar. To raise funds.”
I can’t tell if she’s sleeping or not, and I make it down the hallway before I hear her tell me it’s fine. That I should make sure I’m safe.
Leaning against a streetlight two blocks up, I wait for Part’s older sister, Iris, who’s home on a week-long break from Rhodes, to pick me up in her black Corsa.
Part’s in the passenger seat when I get in, staring at the ceiling.
“I can’t believe you’re dragging me to this,” I tell her, climbing in.
Iris catches my eye in the rear-view mirror. “Is it that bad?”
“Think Vengaboys,” Part tells her.
“Think Daddy DJ,” I add.
“Think Eiffel 65.”
“Think Bloodhound Gang.”
“Think Planet Funk.”
“Think Hit’n’Hide.”
Iris slows down at the intersection on Alexandra and Maitland, indicating left. “So pretentious,” she says. “You’re teenage girls. You adore MTV.” Then she sighs. “People at the bazaar will be talking about those girls, won’t they?”
The three of us go quiet.
Then Part and I step out of the Corsa, say goodbye, and watch Iris drive to the BP gas station. For reasons I’ve never asked about, Iris never stays for more than a few days when she’s back from campus. I watch her sink into the dark. Then Part and I start walking up the hill.
“It’s warmer here,” she says.
“I know.”
I pull on my jacket, undoing the zip. In the distance, in between cheers, I make out the dull bassline of an ’NSync song.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you, this week,” she says.
“It’s everything that’s happening at school.”
“Lots?”
“It involves Kiran now.”
Up the hill, Part bends to pick up a paper plate smeared with tomato sauce and crusted mustard, dropping it in a blue bin. “Listen, do you want to make out before we go up there and listen to Space Invaders? I meant it about it being a while.”
I laugh. “I’m amenable.”
I fix my hair in the bathroom mirror afterward. Then I ask Part for her lip gloss and zip up my jacket and we head back out to the grounds, holding hands until we reach the stalls. I cough at the sharp smell of smoke from the braais.
“Is Litha here?” I ask.
“He should be. He said he’d drop in after his shift.”
“I take it you have prefect duties.”
“I won’t be long.”
“I’ll survive.”
Part smiles and leaves for the admin block. I turn and take in the stalls and the people milling under a blanket of smoke in