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      Monday Evening,

       Thursday Afternoon

      By Jenny Robson

      Tafelberg

      Special thanks to Mr Saadiq Davids and Mrs Faheema Hassiem of Cape Town for their guidance and advice.

      1. waghied

      Am I crazy, Faheema? Am I mad for even trying to do this?

      I wish you were here so I could ask you. But of course, the whole reason I’m doing this is because you AREN’T here. Because I CAN’T ask you. If you were here, there wouldn’t be any need for me to write this.

      Well, I now have a whole pile of notebooks that Dad brought me from his office. And how many notebooks will I fill before I’ve written down all I need to say? It’s going to take a long, long time. And after all that, will it be worth the effort? But no, I mustn’t think like that. I have to have faith. I have to believe it will make things right, the way they were before.

      I miss you so much, Faheema. I’m willing to try anything.

      Almost every afternoon after school I come here to the river, here to Gap Falls, hoping and hoping that just maybe you’ll be here waiting for me. But no! It’s been three weeks now and still no sign of you.

      So I sit all alone on our favourite rock below the waterfalls. They’re crashing down like never before, Fa­heema. On both sides. I’ve never seen so much water! Sometimes it floods right over the rocks in the ­middle and you can’t see where the one side stops and the other side starts. Remember how we used to argue about the waterfalls, about whose side looked more impressive and whose side had a better rainbow? I can’t even remember how we decided whose side was whose. Well, now there’s often a single rainbow stretching way across from one end to the other. Unbroken.

      It’s a silly thing to say, but most of all I miss arguing with you, Faheema. It was always such fun. There is no one to argue with now, no one to talk to. Not properly. No one to laugh with. Not the way we used to laugh. Sometimes I get really lonely. But I’m not going to stop hoping.

      That’s why I’ve decided to write it all down, every­thing I remember about us being best friends. I wonder how long it will take. There’s lots to write – all the way from that first day in Grade One. That’s the day we became best friends. At least we never argued about that!

      And I’m telling you, Faheema, I remember clearly how it happened. It’s no good arguing about this. And since I’m the one writing this down, it’s MY memory that counts!

      I remember all the confusion and terror of that first morning at Proper Big School. It wasn’t a very good start to my school career. But life’s not perfect: that’s something you and I both agree about too, don’t ­we?

      That first day in Grade One! My mom had disappeared, suddenly and without warning. One minute she was kneeling beside me with her arms around me so I could smell the sweetness of her familiar perfume. She was saying, “Louise, I’m so proud of you! What a big girl you are! And don’t you look smart in your uniform? You’re going to have a lovely day, doing all sorts of exciting things. You can tell me all about it when I come to collect you. Okay?”

      And the next minute she was gone, melting into the too-bright pictures along the walls. Clowns and rabbits and shiny fruit that hurt my eyes.

      Meanwhile my big brother, Kyle, had already disappeared. Hours before, or so it seemed to me. In through the dark iron gates of Riverside High, into a crowd of huge, pushing, loud-laughing, red-blazered boys. All of them turning their backs to me until I couldn’t work out which back belonged to my brother.

      And now here I was, alone and abandoned in this classroom filled to bursting with strangers in blue: girls in blue-checked dresses, boys in plain blue shirts. Blue wasn’t a colour I was used to. Back at preschool, I’d always worn bright reds or cheerful yellows.

      I remember staring down at my legs sticking out of that dull checked material and they didn’t seem like my legs at all. Especially with those white socks and black buckle-shoes clamped on at the bottom. I don’t think I’d ever worn white socks and black buckle-shoes before either. They made my feet look like alien beings from some far-off planet, creeping up on me, threatening to slowly devour my whole body.

      And then there was the strange, terribly tall woman who stood at the front of the room or who walked in front of the too-bright wall-pictures, speaking in a voice that boomed and made the windows rattle.

      “I am Miss Walker, children. I will be your teacher for this year. I hope you are all going to LISTEN WELL and WORK HARD now that you’re in BIG SCHOOL.”

      Listen well? How could I listen well when I could barely make out the words she was saying in the midst of all that booming and rattling? And what did she mean about this year? Was this going to go on for a year? That was about as long as for ever and ever!

      The chair was the worst part of that morning. Such a hard chair that dug into my back and made my legs numb! At preschool mostly we’d sat on cushions or on a soft, fluffy mat. Yet, it seemed, here I was supposed to sit STILL and not wriggle around or fidget. And WORK. And NOT get out of this chair.

      “Louise! Louise Van Rensburg! Is that you wandering around again? Sit down, dear. Get on with your colouring. It’s almost break!”

      Break? What did the tall lady mean? What was about to get broken?

      “Don’t forget, everyone, the clown needs a red nose. Green pants and a red nose.”

      That was when my heart finally thudded to a stop. Red! My clown needed a red nose and I needed my red crayon! But my red crayon was nowhere to be seen. Not on the table, not under the table, not under my chair.

      “Louise! Louise Van Rensburg! Please stop fidgeting, dear.”

      Tears were prickling my eyes. Very, very soon, I knew, they would plop over my eyelids and come flooding down my cheeks like twin waterfalls. And all these strange boys and girls would stare and point and laugh. I thought seriously about rushing out of that alien room and running back to the safety and familiarity of my home. Or my old preschool. Or even trying to find the dark, terrifying doorway that had swallowed up my brother. Kyle would help me. He would know what to do.

      But at that moment, that very moment, you spoke to me for the first time, Faheema. I’m absolutely sure of this. I hadn’t even noticed you sitting there across the table from me. You had just been part of the blue blur.

      “You can use my crayon if you want.”

      Yes, those were the first words you ever said to me. I’m telling you!

      I saw you clearly for the first time as I clutched at that red crayon you were holding out – like some magical lifeline. You were small with huge, dark, shining eyes and the longest, thickest plaits I had ever seen! They hung down from your ears to way below the edge of the table, twin braids that ended on your tummy in smart white ribbons.

      “Stupid clown,” I muttered, attacking his fat, ugly nose with your crayon. Struggling to keep the red from straying outside the thick black lines.

      “Yes! Stupid ugly stupid clown,” you answered. I looked up and you were smiling at me. And you had dimples! Well, back then I didn’t know that’s what they were called: those funny little dents at the sides of your mouth that made me want to giggle.

      That was my first happy moment of that first day in Grade One. I wanted you to be my friend more than anything in the world.

      “Louise Van Rensburg! Faheema Majait! Let’s have A LITTLE LESS TALKING from you two, please!” Beside me the window rattled again. She really was a bit of a dragon, that Miss Walker, now that I think of it. Strange that she was assigned to Grade One.

      But you still managed to whisper to me when her back was turned: “Will you sit with me when break comes? Please will you? ’Cause I don’t know anyone here to sit with.”

      And I thought then that maybe school wouldn’t be such a horrible place after all. Despite the blue haze and my alien legs and the hard chair. Despite wondering

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