BooksBarbecue
Back When the Ground Is Hard
Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. Acknowledgments
  35. About the Author
  36. What’s next onyour reading list?

I don’t understand Lottie at all. She could have thrashed me for touching her stuff, but she didn’t. At Keziah, students never let a slight go unpunished. Then again, Lottie doesn’t care much for the rules. This time, I’m glad about it.

9

Hello, Jane

I crack open Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre in Tuesday study hall—not for class but for myself. On the front page is a scratched-out name, which I cover with my thumb. Father brings us books from his other home in Joburg. Some books are brand-new, and others have cracked spines and notes scribbled in the margins, like the ones that Lottie lines up to collect on the first day of school. It’s stupid to compare Father’s gifts with the handouts given to the poor students, though. If the two things are the same, which they’re not, then Rian and I are third-class children too.

Stop, Adele, Mother’s voice says in my head. You have a book in your hands, girl. Stop fussing and be grateful. Be grateful! She is right.

I bend to the page and read.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that future out-door exercise was now out of the question . . .

Soon, I’m far from the sleepy south of Swaziland. I’m in windswept England, where the twilight is raw and Jane suffers from frostbitten fingers. Winter in Swaziland is cold but never freezing. In Swaziland, we have a rainy season and a dry season, and in both seasons there are long stretches of blue sky and sunshine. English weather is alien to me, but Jane’s unhappy position inside her aunt’s house is all too familiar. Jane has a roof over her head and shoes on her feet, but she’ll never be a part of the “real” family, never be anyone’s darling. Jane is stuck in the space between things. That’s how I feel when I imagine Father and the others smiling for their family photo: their pale faces glowing with a sense of belonging. Like Jane, I am a stranger at the feast.