The postcard from Rian, the phone call from Father, and now Mother in the flesh are all proof that what she says is true. I am not alone. I have my family and . . .

“I have Lottie Diamond,” I tell Mother. “And she has me.”

Mother leans across my lap and says to Lottie, “You should come and visit us during the holidays. Stay as long as you like. We have room.”

Lottie blushes, her famous Zulu pride dented by Mother’s charm. “If Adele wants,” she mumbles, leaving the decision up to me.

At the beginning of the term, my answer would have been no way, definitely not. Lottie is trouble. Her hair is too short. Her clothes are ugly. Her mother’s a disgrace, and her manners are too close to native. Now, the idea of her in our house in Manzini makes me smile. The world is bright and sad and pressed close against my skin when she’s around.

Then a shocking thought hits me like a fist. It takes my breath away. Lottie, with her Swazi medicine and Jewish spinning top and dog-eared Oxford Dictionary, is the first real friend I’ve ever had. Lottie Diamond is, in fact, my very best friend, and, this time, I have the courage to say the words out loud.

“You’re my best friend, Lottie. I want you to come,” I say, and that’s the truth.

29

Face-to-Face

Howard’s Halt is dust and flies, and a handful of buildings huddled together under an endless sky. A stray dog limps past the one-room police station, the deserted tearoom, and the Hebron General Store, painted pale orange with green trim around the windows. Four or five houses dot the area nearby, and a farm store supplies seeds and tractor parts to outlying farms.

“Now. Where are the sweets?” Mother says when we enter the cool darkness of the general store. Rows of hessian sacks filled with sugar, wheat, flour, and rice run along either side of us, and at the very back of the store is a small wooden counter with weights and scales, and behind the counter is a dark-skinned woman with bright-red hair. Ophelia, Lottie said.

“Over here.” Lottie leads us deeper into the gloom, and I switch Mother’s overnight bag from one hand to the other and then place it safely between my feet when we reach a row of glass containers filled with black licorice sticks, hard toffees, peppermint strips, and gold-wrapped chocolate éclairs. My mouth waters.

“One sweet each?” Ophelia asks with a sour twist to her lips. Everything in the store goes bit by bit to poor farmers and poor natives, and she’ll be dead long before the candy jars run empty.