“I caught Richard B hitting Darnell for fun, and I hit Richard B till he wasn’t having fun anymore. Darnell never forgot.” Her smile flashes bright in the semidarkness. “Last year, Darnell left a honeycomb on the windowsill of the big dorm room where I lived. Wasps found the honey and we couldn’t open the window for days. Poor Darnell. The idea was nice, but the details were all wrong. I hope he was friends with Bosman’s daughter. It would have been a sweet thing for the both of them.”

“I’m sorry he died,” I say and I leave it there. No words will fill the hole that Darnell’s death has left inside Lottie. I don’t even try.

“Good night, Adele. Sleep well,” she whispers, and the subject of Bosman closes for now. The two of us have more urgent business to attend to. Tonight we will fight our demons in our dreams, and tomorrow morning we will rise up from our cots, tired and wrung out, and get on with the day. And the next day. And the next fifty-six days till the end of term.

I stare at the ceiling and conjure up memories of our house in Manzini. My bed. Clean sheets and thick blankets. Milk tea and sugar biscuits. Ripe mangoes in a bowl on the kitchen table. Even the memory of walking to the telephone box at the end of Live Long Street takes on a sweetness. I will soak in the bathtub for hours and sleep late during the holidays. I will become Adele Joubert again.

Not Lottie. Lottie has to fight for what little she has, and how tired she must be. Each day is a struggle, yet still she has space in her head to think about finding justice for Darnell.

“Good night,” I whisper back, and lie awake wondering how to make things different.

26

Fast Post

The late bus to Manzini, a dusty brown behemoth with the name Lord Have Mercy painted on the side, passes us on our way from afternoon study hall to the senior-girls’ dorm. Dinner is in half an hour, and we have just enough time to wipe the dust from our shoes and wash our faces. Mrs. Vincent has decided that it’s time for Lottie and me to “reintegrate” into the student population, so no more private dinners.

I comb the knots from my hair and drop the brush onto the chest of drawers. My hand stills, and my mind spins. I pull open the drawers and search them one by one, and then I drop to the floor and sweep my hands over the floor while my heart goes flip, flip, flip.

“What is it?” Lottie asks.

“The letter to my mother. It was right here on top. Right here. Did you take it?”

“No. I’ve been with you the whole time, remember?” Lottie runs a plastic comb through her short-cropped hair, and it’s true that we are a society of two. We eat together and walk from blue classroom to blue classroom together, all the while pretending that being outcasts doesn’t bother us one bit.