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To be honest, I’d rather keep my regards to myself. With my freckled caramel skin, mass of unruly curls and preference for English, I don’t quite fit in with my grandfather’s people, and they never let me forget it. But it doesn’t hurt to be polite. I wave as Ntatemogolo gets back into his death-trap car.
The house is quiet. Auntie Lydia, our house help, is long gone, and Dad must be at his office at UB (aka the University of Botswana), where he teaches Biology. I doubt he’s working on university stuff, though – lately he’s been absorbed in research for the Salinger Biological Institute.
I close the front door behind me and turn on the lights. I don’t mind being home alone. It doesn’t really feel like I’m alone when I’m here, surrounded by Dad’s stuff and things that remind me of my late mother.
My stomach is growling, so I head to the kitchen. Auntie Lydia has taken out yesterday’s leftovers. I pop them in the microwave and reach into my pocket for my phone. I’m tired, but not too tired to talk to Rakwena.
Hey. I’m home. Feel free 2 drop by
Sender: Conyza
Sent: 19:23:45
I’m at the petrol station around the corner. Ten mins
Sender: Lizard
Sent: 19:24:01
Talk about perfect timing. I can’t help smiling. I haven’t seen him all week because he’s been busy registering for his first semester at UB, and my grandfather has been monopolizing my free time with these training sessions. I miss Rakwena. I miss his cocky grin, his freshly ironed clothes, the badass scar that runs down the left side of his face, the black lizard tattoo on his left forearm and the way he always pushes my buttons. Technically he’s my boyfriend. Actually he is my rock-steady magic touch, my hero, my superstar sidekick. Rakwena is too cool for school.
The microwave emits a shrill PING! I retrieve my day-old potato wedges and steak. I wolf the food down, wash the plate and bolt to my room to make myself presentable. I swap my dirty cargoes and T-shirt for pyjama pants and my favourite Snoopy shirt, which is so old it’s stretched to twice its original size. I pull my hair out of the black scrunchie keeping it tame, run my hands through it and shake it out so I look like a seventies disco-diva.
The trick with Rakwena is not to get dolled up. No lip gloss, no subtle mascara, no Wonderbra. I want to look like I couldn’t care less that he’s coming over. It’s not enough to look relaxed and casual; I must look as if going through the trouble of putting on proper clothes and combing my hair never occurred to me. I’m going for a cavalier, don’t-give-a-damn kind of attitude. I wear the pants in this relationship. I can be as scruffy as I want but I expect him to show up looking as fresh as a kiwi and lemongrass smoothie.
I sprint to the living room, rifle through my Rachel McAdams DVD collection and select something at random. The Notebook. I snicker – he hates that one. I put on the DVD, go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of Milo, then settle down on the sofa with my legs curled under me. Just in time, too – I hear his car pull up outside. I’m itching to run to the door and watch him walk up the driveway, all tall, dark and mysterious, but I have to play it cool. I wait an agonising three minutes for him to knock on the door, then wait till he knocks a second time before I get up to let him in.
I sneak a peek at the time on my phone and fling open the door with a mock scowl. “You’re six minutes late.”
I’m tall and skinny, but he’s taller, with the lean, muscular physique of a runner. He offers me an apologetic grin and leans over to plant a half-hearted kiss on my cheek. He seems a little preoccupied. School stress already? “Where’s Dr Bennett?”
“Out.”
“Good.” He steps into the house, closes the door behind him and sweeps me up into a movie-worthy smooch.
Well, so much for playing it cool. I melt into his arms, losing myself in the sheer pleasure of being with him after five long days. Sigh! Rakwena’s energy seeps into my skin, sending delicious tingles through my body. When he touches me, sparks fly. Literally. How many other girls can say that?
“I missed you,” he says, pulling away to look at me. His eyes are bright with earnest emotion, a look so intense that my heart plays a two-second game of hop-scotch in my chest.
“Of course you did.” I think I need to kiss him again. Five days is a long time.
He runs a finger down the side of my face, and out of the corner of my eye I see blue light dancing on his fingertips. I pull him towards me and kiss him. Ah. Much better.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Can I assume you missed me, too?”
“That would be pushing it,” I tell him happily. “Hungry? We have leftover steak.”
He holds up an anonymous white plastic bag. Through it I can see several chocolate bars and three fizzy drinks. “I came prepared. What are you watching? Not The Notebook again!” He rolls his eyes. “Can’t we watch the Discovery Channel?”
This is what happens when all the men in your life are super-smart. “I just spent all afternoon working – I want to give my brain a break.” I reach into the plastic bag for some chocolate and settle down on the sofa. “So. Tell me all about your escapades at UB. What did you register for?”
Rakwena sits next to me and opens his own bar of chocolate. “You don’t really want to know about school. Let’s talk about you.”
“It’s not school, it’s university.” I bite into the chocolate and let it melt in my mouth. Thank God for Rakwena’s sweet-tooth.
He sighs, and I pick up a hint of impatience. “Well, I’m taking all the sciences for first year – Bio, Chemistry, Physics and Maths. I’ll have my hands full.”
“What about work?” His job at RikaElectrics isn’t the most exciting gig in the world, but he enjoys it and the money’s good.
“I’ll still work on weekends and holidays. I have Thursdays free, too. But how have you been?”
I finish off the chocolate and rest my head on his shoulder. “Form Five sucks. I’ve never worked so hard in my life!”
“Aw, poor Connie,” he teases. “Your system must be in shock after all those years of sheer laziness.”
I poke him in the ribs and he jerks out of my reach with a chuckle, then reaches into the plastic bag for one of the drinks. He opens it and downs it all in one go, then goes for the next one, drains it and goes for the third. I shake my head, smiling. Rakwena’s insane appetite is one of the many not-quite-normal things about him. One of the things I admire most about him is the fact that he flies his freak flag high. I’m not quite there yet, but I think his confidence is rubbing off on me a little.
“I know I’m pretty,” he says suddenly, “but that doesn’t mean you should stare.”
I roll my eyes and shove him. Confidence? I meant conceit. His laughter tapers off, and again I notice that there’s an anxious edge to him today.
“You OK?”
“Sure.” He flashes me a big smile. “What’s new? Any gossip? Meet any new people?”
“Where would I meet new people?” I counter. “I go to the same places all the time.”
His shrug is nonchalant, but that anxiety has crept into his voice. “You know how you attract trouble.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. So, nothing? Business as usual?”
“Business as usual.” I study him through narrowed eyes. “What’s your story? You seem nervous.”
“Of course I’m nervous,” he replies, a little brusquely. “I’m going to university and leaving you alone with all those idiots at Syringa. I’m allowed to be worried.”
Ah. I can only assume that by “idiots” he’s referring to one idiot in particular. Thuli Baleseng was my crush for all of three dazed years before he finally deigned to notice me last year. I was thrilled that my perseverance had paid off, until he lured me into his room during a party and tried to have his way with me. It turned out that the brilliant, somewhat seedy Thuli was only after one thing – my gift. As soon as Rakwena and I became friends, Thuli realised I had to be different from other girls, because Rakwena wasn’t exactly Mr Friendly.
Thuli is a freak hunter, an ungifted obsessed with discovering the magical secrets of the gifted and using them for himself. Whether this is possible is debatable, but it didn’t stop the psycho from trying to get into my pants in the hope that my powers were contagious.
It was Rakwena who found me running madly through that huge house, and took me home. Ever since he has kept a special place for Thuli in his dark dungeon of hatred, and Thuli is too clever to risk life and limb by coming near me again.
“Thuli isn’t a threat anymore,” I assure him.
“Maybe, but who knows? There could be others out there like him, others that just want to manipulate you, and I won’t be able to protect you as easily as before.” He looks at me, his brow creased in concern. “Maybe I should cut down on my classes.”
I gape at him. “Are you crazy? I don’t need a babysitter! I was fine all year while you were working!”
“Yes, but it’s different now.”
“Why?”
He purses his lips and slumps against the cushions.
“You’re overreacting,” I tell him gently. “I’m fine. And Lebz and Wiki are there to keep an eye on me.”
“Right.” His smile is strained. “Just stay out of trouble, OK? Promise me.”
“It’s been really quiet over the last few months; I really doubt – ”
“Promise!”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay out of trouble. I promise.”
He pulls me close, squeezing me a little tighter than necessary, and I frown against his chest. Usually I’m the one who has premonitions, but suddenly I’m getting the feeling that Rakwena smells trouble.
**
It’s still dark outside. I’m sitting at my desk in my room, freshly showered and dressed for school. I couldn’t sleep after seeing Rakwena. His worries infected me, and I kept having funny dreams about alien sock puppets and evil garage bands. Finally I decided to get up and get some work done. Not schoolwork, though. The other kind.
The File lies open in front of me. It’s an ordinary yellow file, the type a lot of students use to keep their notes in order, but it’s filled with research on the supernatural, myths and folklore and any magical snippets that might come in handy. The File was my friend Wiki’s idea, inspired by the onset of my telepathic powers, and he’s been updating it regularly ever since. Normally it stays with Wiki, but I borrowed it to add some information on telepathy.
On the right-hand page is a rough identikit sketch from the front page of The GC Chronicle. The man in the sketch is thin, in his forties, with a distinguished air about him and a pair of round spectacles perched on a broad nose with flared nostrils. It’s John Kubega, the man we call the Puppetmaster. Last year he turned five schoolgirls into a gang of super-freaks and had them roaming the city of Gaborone, leading me on a merry chase. Rakwena and I managed to break the spell, but the Puppetmaster got away. Well, we broke the spell in four cases, anyway. I’m still not sure where one of the girls, Emily, stands.
I still remember the last time I saw her at the mall. She had a wicked, smug look on her face, as though she knew I knew her secret and didn’t care. It terrified me. She’s just a kid – thirteen or so. Once it became clear that she was still under his control, I made it my mission to save her, for real this time. But her family moved suddenly, and no one has heard from her since. I hate the idea that she might still be working for the Puppetmaster, but the scariest thing is the knowledge that she might not even be doing it under duress. I never got to find out for sure. She could be a puppet…or a willing servant.
I turn my attention back to the sketch. I don’t know how many times I’ve stared at it since the Puppetmaster disappeared. It’s as if I’m expecting to find a clue to his whereabouts hidden in the lines. I bite my lip as I look at the picture. The memory of his eerie house in Kgale Siding still haunts me. The house where he kept Rakwena and me trapped overnight, testing us. The house where Rakwena lost his senses and kissed me as though the world was about to end and salvation was hiding somewhere on my body. The house that vanished before our eyes when morning came…
I shake my head. This isn’t helping. I’m obsessing over this, and the truth is I’m probably never going to find the Puppetmaster. His face was plastered all over town for a few weeks, but more interesting scandals erupted and the story faded. By now he must have a new face, a new name, and a new plan.
So far there are no clues. Well, nothing but the premonition I had back in February, and it’s August now. In the premonition I saw an army of bewitched ungifted far more powerful than the girls we rescued, an army he is building for some unknown purpose. I know he’s out there, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, but I’m just a kid who can read minds. How on earth can I go up against a seasoned sorcerer with a magical army?
I’m startled by a sudden buzzing noise coming from the other room. I exhale; it’s only Dad’s alarm. I hear a muffled groan, a creaking noise and then footsteps.
I turn my attention back to the File. “Where are you?” I whisper to the sketch.
I suppose part of me expects a reply. He’s a sorcerer after all – he could speak to me through an identikit image if he wanted to. But the picture is silent and still, so I turn the page and skim through the notes I’ve been adding over the past few days. They’re just brief points I’ve gleaned from my grandfather, tips for telepaths, interesting little insights and so on. They’re handwritten, but reasonably legible.
I read for a while, making a few changes here and there, and then close the File and turn to the wooden chest at the corner of my desk. It was a birthday gift from my grandfather, a miniature version of the chest he keeps in his house. I pull it towards me and lift the heavy lid to reveal the contents. The small clay jar, bronze bell and beaded anklet came with the box. Beside them is a folded note.
The jar works a little like a supernatural vacuum cleaner; when I’m plagued by negative energy I put my hand over it and it sucks out all the dirt. I’ve only used it twice – both times after particularly trying sessions with Ntatemogolo. The bell makes a wonderful sound and is supposed to clear my head. The anklet is about a century old, and I can’t help worrying that if I put it on it will fall apart.
I take it out of the box and examine the faded design on the chipped and scratched wooden beads. There’s something humbling about holding a piece of history in my hand. Ntatemogolo promised he’d tell me the story of the girl who first wore it, but we’ve been rather busy.
I put the anklet back, close the box and put it back in its place. I glance at my phone and gasp; it’s almost six-thirty. I jump up and shove the File into my school bag; I’m giving it back to Wiki today. Then I head to the kitchen for breakfast.
Dad is standing over the counter, gulping down a cup of coffee. His shirt is slightly rumpled, his brown hair is standing up at the back, his milky skin looks flushed, and behind his glasses his eyes are half-closed.
“Morning, love,” he says with a sigh, dragging himself over to kiss my forehead.
“Hi, Dad. You look terrible.”
He gives me a weak, lopsided grin. “Just tired. I was up most of the night working on a report for Salinger.”
I open the fridge and take out the milk. “What time did you get home?”
“Late. After eleven, I think. Was Rakwena here?”
“Ja; he left around nine.” I make myself a bowl of muesli and eat it standing up, watching him. “Are you almost done with the report? I think you need a break.”
He yawns and puts his empty mug on the counter. “I’m done, but they want me to oversee a big project they’re starting soon. I have to hire research assistants from the university before then. God, I’m knackered.”
I frown at him. “Let me at least make you a proper breakfast, Dad – you can’t survive on coffee.”
He shakes his head and goes to fetch his briefcase from the dining room table. “I have a meeting at eight – got to prepare. See you later, love.”
I frown as he heads out. After breakfast I turn on the radio while I wait for Lebz. Auntie Lydia comes in at quarter to seven, her petite frame buried under bags of sewing material. She runs a tailoring business on the side, but I can’t remember the last time she brought this much work with her. I hurry to open the door for her.
“Wow,” I marvel as she dumps the lot on the dining table. “Are you opening a shop?”
She laughs. “I have a lot of orders this week. Is your father gone?”
I nod. “You just missed him. Any messages?”
“It’s nothing…” Her sigh says otherwise. “He forgot to pay me yesterday.”
I rummage around on the dining table where Dad usually leaves Auntie Lydia’s pay, but there’s no sign of an envelope. “He must have forgotten all about it. He’s been really busy. Should I call and remind him?”
She shakes her head and pats my arm. “I’ll call his office later. Aren’t you going to be late? Where’s Malebogo?”
“I don’t know.” I reach into my pocket for my phone and check the time. “She’s usually here by now. I’m sure she’s on the way.”
Auntie Lydia goes off to clean the kitchen and I stand on the doorstep, watching the road. Finally I see Lebz hurrying towards the house, scarlet braids flying behind her. Students at the Syringa Institute of Excellence aren’t allowed “unnatural” hair styles, but the teachers can’t seem to agree on how to define “unnatural”, so people like Lebz get away with anything.
She lifts the latch on the front gate and pushes it open, then runs up the driveway, leaving the gate wide open behind her as usual. The gate, I tell her silently. She comes to an abrupt stop, turns around and goes back to close the gate. Being a telepath comes in very handy sometimes.
“News!” she squeals, almost knocking me over as she bolts into the house.
Only a boy could get Lebz this excited. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Can we go? We’re late already.”
She dashes into the kitchen to say hello to Lydia, then runs back and grabs my arm. Her nails are blue today, but I bet not a single teacher will notice. “Connie, oh my God! You will not believe Kelly’s new boyfriend.”
Oh, a double whammy – a boy and Kelly, Lebz’s buxom, brainless role model. I drag her towards the road. “Let me guess – his father owns half the country.”
“I have no idea who his father is, but who cares?” She sighs and releases my arm so she can clasp her hands together in rapture. “Connie! He’s so hot. I mean…so, so, so hot. Damn! I have never seen anyone so cute in my whole life. And get this – there are more of them!”
“More boyfriends?” I arch my eyebrows. I thought Kelly was more of a serial monogamist, but I’m always looking for new reasons to dislike her.
