FIFTEEN MINUTES MINUTES later, we park outside the NG Kerk cemetery. JP grabs a bottle of wine out of a bag on the backseat and saunters through the gates, like coming here is as easy as going to the Spar. later, we park outside the NG Kerk cemetery. JP grabs a bottle of wine out of a bag on the backseat and saunters through the gates, like coming here is as easy as going to the Spar.

"Come on, boet. The ghosts won't bite."

I haven't been here since Mom's funeral. I can't. I don't want to be here. "Please, just take me home."

"Nope. I've got a bottle of merlot, Mom's favorite. I missed the anniversary, so we're going to go share a dop dop with her now." with her now."

"I can't."

"You will."

I try to get back into the car. The doors are locked, and JP's holding the remote.

"I will drag you if I have to." That's no idle threat, coming from a rugby forward.

"I haven't been here...." The words catch in my throat.

"That's part of your problem." His tone softens, and I catch a glimpse of the protective big brother I used to know. He loops an arm around my shoulders, and I let him guide me through the cemetery gates.

Treasa

GABRIEL IS IS a saint. I don't think too many guys would've let some girl bawl on their shoulder like that. I'm amazed he agreed to meet my parents after my magnificent display of emotional restraint and all the alien weirdness. At least he seems to get me and didn't call the men in white coats. a saint. I don't think too many guys would've let some girl bawl on their shoulder like that. I'm amazed he agreed to meet my parents after my magnificent display of emotional restraint and all the alien weirdness. At least he seems to get me and didn't call the men in white coats.

For all his pretty words about Jordan, it still feels like this whole thing is my fault. No, I didn't know Hannah would retaliate like that or that she'd take it out on Jordan instead of me. That doesn't make me feel any less guilty.

"Want some coffee?" Mom pops her head into my bedroom.

"Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Something wrong?" Mom settles on the bed, and Riker leaps onto her lap.

"It's just...." I abandon the French Revolution essay I should've finished by now. "I don't understand girls."

Mom c.o.c.ks her head and gives me a peculiar look. "How so?"

"Well, like Hannah. She's always been deliberately nasty to Jordan. I just can't figure out why."

"Teenage girls are catty."

Catty seems a little euphemistic. "Do they ever grow out of it?"

Mom puffs air into her right cheek, which means she's thinking hard. "As you grow up, you'll learn how best to deal with people in the least damaging way. That doesn't mean people won't be petty or nasty, but handling them will get easier."

"Mom." My throat closes up, making the words razor blades on the back of my tongue.

"What is it, Resa?"

"I invited Gabriel to lunch on Sunday." Better to change topic. Mom will be mortified if she knows I was part of the rumor mill. I owe Jordan an apology first, and that's a conversation I'm not looking forward to.

"This Sunday?"

"You said you wanted to meet him."

"Just wish you'd checked with me before inviting him."

"I can cancel." Relief.

"No, don't." She's adamant. "We'll braai. Three o'clock." The oven alarm sounds in the kitchen, and Mom hurries out of my room after transferring Riker to my lap.

If a bunch of half-starved peasants can storm the Bastille and overthrow the powers that be, then I should be able to pick up the phone and talk to my best friend. I dial and hang up twice. What would Resa do? He would've fixed the painting with a wave of his hand. Despite my best efforts, particle manipulation seems a bit beyond my possible alien genetics at the moment, so an apology will have to do. Sheryl answers after three rings.

"You know she's grounded and not supposed to take phone calls."

"This is really important. Please. It's about what happened to her painting," I say.

"Fine. You've got five minutes."

My palms are so slick with sweat, I almost drop the receiver.

"Hey, Ree, what's up?"

"Jordan, I...." Deep breath, count to ten. "There's something I need to tell you."

"I'm listening."

"That thing about Hannah's nipples." I lower my voice in case Mom hears. "About her being a s.l.u.t. That was me."

Silence.

"I heard it from Dirk, and I just thought that after all she'd said about you, she deserved some of her own medicine. I thought she'd come after me, not you. I'm so sorry." The words tumble out of my mouth and I keep apologizing, a broken record stuck on sorry.

"Treasa. Stop it," Jordan finally b.u.t.ts in. "I know."

"Know what?"

"Know that the rumor started with you."

"You didn't say anything." I squeeze Riker's tail too hard and receive a scoured hand as punishment.

"Because I knew you had good intentions. Also, what difference would it have made?"

"Did you find out why Hannah even took it so far?"

"That girl has some mega issues. Her mother is hysterical in the unfunny and totally crazy kind of way. I almost feel sorry for her."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine. Catching up on homework. Hearing's on Monday. I'll see you back at school on Tuesday."

"Okay, Treasa, time's up." Sheryl picks up another phone somewhere in their house. I say my good-byes and hang up. So Jordan doesn't hate me for what I did, not that it makes me feel much better. I almost feel like I owe Hannah an apology too. Almost. If only Hannah and Jordan had had this dustup months ago and gotten it out of their systems, maybe they wouldn't both be facing expulsion.

I don't know what I'll do if Jordan gets expelled. I love Sibo and Lethi, but we only have two cla.s.ses together, and they have each other. I'll just become a third wheel without Jordan. Without her, surviving St. Bridget's will be a nightmare.

Gabriel

CEMETERIES SHOULD SHOULD be eerie, replete with the blackened boughs of gnarled winter trees providing perches for croaking ravens. It should be overcast, preferably with drizzle, and cold. Cemeteries should have the decency to be somber. Not this one. Here the tombstones lie dotted between rainbow flowerbeds. Pansies and marigolds, geraniums and daffodils-all alive with the constant hum of bees. There are even b.u.t.terflies flitting between the blooms. It doesn't seem fair to the bodies rotting below us, providing the fertilizer for the flowers. be eerie, replete with the blackened boughs of gnarled winter trees providing perches for croaking ravens. It should be overcast, preferably with drizzle, and cold. Cemeteries should have the decency to be somber. Not this one. Here the tombstones lie dotted between rainbow flowerbeds. Pansies and marigolds, geraniums and daffodils-all alive with the constant hum of bees. There are even b.u.t.terflies flitting between the blooms. It doesn't seem fair to the bodies rotting below us, providing the fertilizer for the flowers.

JP leads the way; I can't actually remember the exact location of Mom's grave. The sun glints off a vase of white lilies next to the tombstone bearing the simple inscription: Katherine Marlena du Preez, Beloved Daughter, Wife & Mother.

"Who brings the flowers?"

"Dad."

JP drops into a crouch at the edge of the grave, demarcated with a border of white daisies, and pops open the wine. He takes a generous swig before pouring some onto the gra.s.s and handing the bottle to me.

"To Mom," he says, and I echo it. I crouch down beside him and pick at the brown petals of a sun-dried daisy. We stay in silence for a while, feeling the wind against our faces. There's a storm coming.

"I can't believe Dad brings flowers," I say after another gulp of merlot that tastes like vinegar. How did Mom ever drink this stuff?

"You think he only goes to church every Sunday?" JP squints at me.

"It doesn't make sense."

"Why? Because he gives you a klap klap when you deserve it?" JP studies my face. when you deserve it?" JP studies my face.

"Did Dad tell you?"

"Ja. Told me he's been drinking too much and that you've been giving him a hard time." He shifts into a sitting position, elbows on knees, and I do the same. I haven't spoken to my brother like this since before Mom died. We were never that close, but we'd talk. Mostly he'd talk and I'd listen.

"He won't let me study music."

JP closes his eyes against the glare. He looks so much like my father.

"He won't even listen to me playing piano, practically ignores my very existence, and he says I'm being difficult?"

"Gabriel." JP runs a hand over his shaved head. "Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you just get a b.l.o.o.d.y haircut already."

"You're going to tune me about my hair now? Why does it even matter?"

"You're seriously thick." He rips up one of the daisies and shreds the petals onto the gra.s.s.

"Does having longer hair make me moffie too?"

He shakes his head. "You look like her." His words are barely audible over the cacophony of hadedahs hadedahs in flight. The birds pa.s.s over us, their squawks fading. in flight. The birds pa.s.s over us, their squawks fading.

"Look like who?"

"Like Mom, you dipstick." His gaze strays to the tombstone and stays there. "I'm not the most sensitive oke, but even I can see Dad's hurting. I know I couldn't stand it."

"Stand what?" My heart beats jackhammer syncopations as I wait for the answer.

"You. Being in the same house when everything you do reminds me of Mom. And you only look more and more like her. Same eyes and smile, and the way you play that b.l.o.o.d.y piano. It was a relief, getting out of the house. Did you ever stop and think what it does to Dad that you still play those pieces Mom wrote for you?"

I open and close my mouth. Words fail me as my chest constricts and my stomach flips painfully.

"You think you're the only who loved her, who grieves?"

"Of course not." My voice is hollow.

"Well, then, give him a break. He's a single Dad, and you're not making it easier." JP hops up and dusts gra.s.s off his baggies. "Dad's making us bobotie bobotie tonight." He offers me his hand, but I get up on my own. He walks back to the car, leaving me alone with the ghosts. tonight." He offers me his hand, but I get up on my own. He walks back to the car, leaving me alone with the ghosts.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper to the bees and flowers and to whatever's left of my mother beneath my feet.

Treasa

WHAT THE THE h.e.l.l do I wear? I stare into my cupboard, hoping an outfit will leap out at me and look perfect. I could do baggy shorts over my boxers and a T-shirt over my chest-flattening sports bra. I'd be more comfortable like that, but I don't think Gabriel would be impressed, and I need to impress him. h.e.l.l do I wear? I stare into my cupboard, hoping an outfit will leap out at me and look perfect. I could do baggy shorts over my boxers and a T-shirt over my chest-flattening sports bra. I'd be more comfortable like that, but I don't think Gabriel would be impressed, and I need to impress him.