course not.” I take my cone from Wiki and salvage the trail of ice cream sliding down its side. “That would mean he actually believes that people get murdered for traditional medicine, and you know how he feels about things he can’t understand.”
“I guess that means you haven’t told him about your new… um… talent,” says Wiki, sipping his milkshake.
I raise my eyebrows at him. “He still hasn’t come to terms with the old one, remember? But hey – he’s a scientist.”
“A British one,” adds Lebz, as if that explains everything.
It’s great to be talking to her again. Even though there are lots of people around, thinking frantically and invading my personal space, I’m almost content. We’re sitting at a table, people-watching. Lebz likes to come up with complex, soap-opera style stories about the people we see.
“Look at that one!” she hisses. “I would kill for those shoes.”
I follow her gaze. The woman in question is wearing the kind of shoes that no normal person should be able to walk in. They have heels like knitting needles. “Mmm. Yes, definitely worth the trouble,” I say doubtfully.
“She’s an advertising executive,” Lebz muses. “And she’s engaged to a boring finance guy, but she’s having an affair with his alcoholic brother. Every week she buys a new pair of shoes to make her feel better.”
“But shoes can never fill the void,” I chip in. “So she resorts to popping pills…”
“Painkillers,” Lebz goes on, nodding with authority. “Her fiancé doesn’t know.”
“And her lover doesn’t care,” I add.
“Why are your characters always so miserable?” asks Wiki, looking up from his book. “Can’t she be a contented, successful career woman, in love with the man of her dreams and on the path to spiritual enlightenment?”
Lebz and I shake our heads – Wiki would make a lousy writer. He blinks at us and returns to his book. I think part of the reason he likes us, besides force of habit, is that we’re the only friends in the world who would let him hang around with us while his nose is stuck in a book. He’s a little like a chaperone – present, but only just.
“Oh, no, it’s Ma-fourteen,” groans Lebz. “Look at them, walking around like they own the place. You would never catch us hanging around here alone when we were twelve, picking up boys.”
Ma-fourteen is a term for young people, especially girls, especially in conjunction with older men. Lebz has adapted it for a particular group of kids who have taken to haunting shopping malls at all hours. They dress to kill, have money to burn and leave a bad taste in the mouths of those of us who are old enough to have online profiles.
“Don’t pick on the poor kids,” I tease. I turn to take an idle peek at the trendy tweens. I only know them by reputation, and this is the first time I’ve seen them up close. There are five girls, no older than thirteen. They’re wearing short skirts and tight jeans, with expensive-looking accessories. The leader of the pack is a pretty little thing in a skirt that was probably a belt in its former life. Her expression is cold and blank.
My hands start to sweat and my skin prickles, as if I’m growing fur. I look away.
Lebz clicks her tongue and turns back to her ice cream. I take another glance at the girls, and once again I get the strangest feeling, as if the air has just gone cold. I finish my ice cream in a hurry and slide off my seat. “Let’s go. I have a curfew, remember?”
Wiki closes his book. “Are you OK? You have a strange look on your face.”
“I’m fine.” I slip my bag over my shoulder. To my dismay, it looks like there’s no way to avoid walking past the little group on our way out. They’re standing outside the CD shop, chatting and watching other shoppers. We pass them quietly, trying not to stare. As we walk by I get that feeling again, and then I notice something else.
“They’re not thinking,” I whisper in surprise.
“Hmm?” Lebz frowns at me.
“Those girls,” I say slowly, turning to peer over my shoulder. “They’re not thinking.”
“You can’t read them?” asks Wiki as we turn the corner and lose sight of the girls.
I shake my head, but I’m certain that this isn’t the same as being blocked. From where the girls stood all I got was a gap, a hole cut out of the air. They weren’t blocking me. They just weren’t thinking, and something tells me this means trouble.
I wake up early on Saturday morning, have a quick breakfast and knock on my dad’s door. He mumbles something incoherent, so I turn the handle and peer inside.
“Dad? Are you awake?”
“Mmmm.” He’s not. Good.
“I’m just going to… um… Bontleng. Be back around lunch. Bye!” I shut the door before he has time to register my words, then snatch my bag off the coffee table and hurry towards the front door.
“Connie!”
Damn. I turn at the door. “Yes, Dad?”
He emerges from his room, rumpled but very much awake now. “Did you say you’re going to Bontleng?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He hesitates. “Is he all right? Not sick or anything?”
“No, he just wants to see me.”
He frowns. “He wants to see you?” There’s no mistaking the suspicion in his voice. “About… anything in particular?”
Poor Dad. Every time I visit my grandfather he’s afraid I’ll come back with a bag full of strange-looking herbs or a mermaid’s tail. “No, Dad.” I offer him a reassuring smile. “He just wants to hang out.”
His smile is utterly unconvincing. “Send my regards. And… don’t be long, OK?”
“I won’t.” I wave and then step outside. I’ve given up on persuading Dad that Ntatemogolo is not trying to brainwash me.
I walk down to the bus stop to catch a combi. During the ride I practise filtering the thoughts of the other passengers. They approach from the direction of the thinker, like electricity along a wire. Thoughts take on the voices of people I know, but with strangers the tone is determined by my perception. Take the man in the seat in front of me; he’s worried about losing his job. His thoughts take on a weary, defeated tone, but when he calls out to the driver to stop, his voice is loud and confident. Interesting.
By the time I reach Ntatemogolo’s house I’m feeling rather proud of my progress. He’s sitting on a chair on the veranda as usual, puffing on a cigarette. I greet him politely and sit cross-legged on the floor beside him.
“Dad sends his regards.”
He grunts. “How do you feel today?” he asks, when he’s finished the cigarette.
“Good.” I smile. “I can tell the difference between different thoughts, and where they’re coming from.”
He nods. “And what else?”
I think for a moment. “I’ve noticed that I have to be quite close to the person before I can read them, about six or seven metres. It’s more difficult when there are many people, but some people’s thoughts are stronger than others, and some people think very fast, like Wiki. And you told me to find out if there were people I couldn’t read.”
He nods and leans towards me, his eyes narrowed. “Are there any?”
“You, of course. And Kelly, and… Rakwena.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Who’s Kelly?”
“Oh, just a girl.” I shrug. “One of