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  Usually it’s just me and my mom, but this morning I hear her arguing with Finn as soon as the lift opens.

  “You need to remember that I am trying to raise a delicate young mind in this house.”

  Mom is speaking slowly, pronouncing every word clearly. This is a bad sign, but Finn doesn’t cotton on, because he snorts rudely.

  “Please. Katie is about as delicate as a rhinoceros.”

  Excuse me?

  “Mr O’Reilly [another bad sign], I know my daughter likes to act like an adult, but she is only seventeen –”

  “I know how old she is, Tessa.” (Now he’s interrupting her – big mistake.)

  “Then you should know [Mom’s voice is sharp enough to shatter glass] that this is no kind of example to set for a young girl.”

  What? What are they talking about? I wait outside, because I know they’ll stop arguing as soon as they see me.

  “Holy Mary and all the disciples!” Finn groans. “You need to start realising that she’s not a child any more! A hundred years ago most women were married with two children at her age …”

  Now this is the coolest thing about Finn – he honestly believes that there is no such thing as a teenager. According to him you’re either a child or you’re an adult, and the whole in between thing is “just a load of bollocks” (his words). If only more people would get that!

  “Like it or not we live in the twenty-first century, Mr O’Reilly.”

  “Yes. I realise that. The question is, do you realise that?” (Oh dear. Sarcasm. Never a good idea with my mom.)

  Mom’s voice is cold as ice. “I cannot tell you how to live your life. I never could. But it is my duty to raise my daughter in a proper and moral environment. And if you make it impossible for me to do that under this roof …”

  This is not good. I’m not letting Mom move us out again. She’s done it twice before, [6] and I simply don’t have the strength for that level of drama at this point in my life.

  I stroll in, smiling widely, as if I’m totally oblivious to the tension. “Hi Mom. Hi Finn.”

  “Hi darling.”

  “Katie.”

  Both manage a stiff smile, but you can cut the air with a knife. I pretend not to notice.

  “So, Finn, what are you doing up so early?”

  “Nothing.” But he flicks back his hair, the way he always does when he’s feeling uncomfortable.

  (Finn has really good hair. Seriously. The kind of hair you only see on Pantene ads – black and glossy and thick and gorgeous. He knows it too, because he wears it really long, past his shoulders, and he’s forever flicking it all over the place. He can be so vain sometimes, honestly.)

  “Sleep well?” Mom asks as she puts an omelette on my plate.

  “Yes, thanks,” I answer, and I give Finn a quick, nasty glare, because I haven’t forgiven him for calling untime three times this week. “When I finally got around to it.”

  “Mmm,” Mom answers, clearly not listening, her body tense as a guitar string. And then we hear the click-click-click of high heels on marble, and suddenly I know exactly what the fight was about.

  “New girlfriend?” I ask Finn, before taking a bite of my omelette. (It’s good – light and fluffy, with lots of cheese.) “Already? What happened to … whatshername?” (Linda. I remember perfectly well, but I’m trying to sound disapproving, hoping to show Mom that Finn’s loose morals aren’t rubbing off on me.)

  “Darling,” Mom starts, “I think it’s better if you don’t take any notice of Mr O’Reilly’s private life –” and then her mouth drops open.

  Oh boy.

  The woman who walks in looks like she’s escaped from The Girls of the Playboy Mansion. Only skankier. Rock of Love, maybe. (I mean, stilettos with a bikini? Why? Why?) She shakes her masses of blonde extensions, and I notice that her hair hardly moves. Something about that hair rings a bell.

  The damsel in distress. Of course.

  “Hiya!” The woman gives a girlish finger wave at Mom and me. “I’m Misty.”

  Of course she is.

  My mouth is full of food so I give a quick wave, but she ignores me in any case and turns to Finn.

  “Hi handsome,” she purrs (seriously, purrs) as she totters towards him on those heels. “I missed you, baby.”

  Then she plops her bikini-clad bottom on his lap and, rather alarmingly, tries to remove his tonsils by sucking on his face, Electrolux-style.

  In the silence that follows I do a quick calculation:

  Hair extensions: R2 000

  False nails: R250

  Bikini and stilettos: R1 000

  Boob job: R30 000

  Mom’s face: priceless

  * * *

  Now I know a lot of people believe that it is only the lowest class of loser who hangs out in the library during break. My view on that is: Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. See, when your choices are:

  1. listening to Lelicia’s inane chatter for half an hour straight (I don’t want to sound bitchy, but there’s a good reason why her type makes friends with the new girl); or

  2. hanging with Asanda, that funny, clever girl you sit next to in history, and being glared at by a bunch of girls whose names you can never get right (too many a’s and u’s – Ayanda, Lusanda, Luyanda …); or

  3. standing around hoping someone will talk to you, and trying not to notice how the boys are checking you out; then,

  4. eating your sandwich in peace while reading the paper invariably becomes a good idea.

  Trust me on this one.

  So, for the last week or so I’ve been hanging out (read: hiding out) in the library whenever we’re supposed to be socialising outside. What I do is this: I grab the Cape Argus, find a nice quiet spot, and wait for the bell to ring. Simple. No stress, no fuss, no thinking of something to say. No feeling stupid or completely alienated or trying to remember names or pretending you know who or what everyone else is talking about. Plus, with all this reading the paper business I’m starting to get a pretty good “current affairs” knowledge as well.

  What’s not to love?

  Anyway, today the front page is particularly interesting because, under a huge semi-topless photo of Misty – the very same Misty I met this morning! – is the following rather enlightening article:

  DRUG BOSS CAPTURED: STRIPPER WIFE CLAIMS MILLIONS

  Cape Town – After receiving an anonymous tip off, police have arrested international drug kingpin Anatoli Visjnic along with 7 other suspects believed to be part of a cross-border drug syndicate.

  Visjnic, a known fugitive who has been on the run from Interpol for 6 years, was found at a Sea Point address where he had been living under the pseudonym Yuri Christoff.

  When police arrived at the scene, Visjnic, together with the other suspects, attempted to resist arrest. In a bizarre twist that is still baffling inspectors, the men came running out of the house brandishing bananas as weapons.

  When police spokesperson Detective AJ February was asked about this turn of events, he shrugged: “We believe it was some sort of practical joke. Why a known killer such as Visjnic would resort to something like this is a mystery to us.”

  Visjnic will be tried in South Africa and is facing 50 years in prison, without parole. After sentencing he might be extradited to Russia to face further charges.

  Visjnic’s wife, Annelie Botes, a former stripper also known by the stage name Misty Mountains (pictured above), was not at the scene. Insiders believe that she will now lay claim to his estate, estimated to be worth several million rands.

  Oh boy. Finn is such a moron.

  I bet he thought he was protecting poor, helpless little Misty, and now he’s going to find out that he’s just been drawn into the power battles of an international crime syndicate.

  Still. Bananas.

  I knew that was going to be funny.

  Anyway, so here I am, minding my own business, when Daniel van Huysteen suddenly sits down next to me. Yikes.

  Now I’
m sure you know the type; every school has one.

  Daniel van Huysteen is That Guy: good looks, effortlessly cool, clever but not nerdy, sporty but not a jock, rebellious but not a criminal, just … perfect. Casual friends with most people – even, it sometimes seems, most teachers – not worried about social status or being cool, not trying too hard, not trying at all, because he just is.

  That guy.

  So what he does, okay, is he sits down next to me – right next to me, although there are about a million open chairs – and he smiles and says: “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Daniel”

  I stop myself just in time from telling him I know.

  “I’m Katie.”

  “I know.”

  Oh.

  “Uhm. Do you want the paper?”

  “No,” he grins, but nicely. “I just thought I’d say hallo.”

  “Well, uh, hallo.” (Why why why don’t I have any social skills? Why?)

  “Hallo.”

  And now he just watches me, all relaxed, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do. He has greenish-yellow eyes, like a lion, and dark blond hair and perfect golden skin, and he just looks, I don’t know … amazing.

  I’m suddenly petrified that I’m going to start blushing. Please God, let me think of something to say. Please please please please.

  “You’re not in any of my classes, are you?” (Okay, that’s not too bad, that’s pretty normal. Pity my voice sounded a bit high.)

  “No. But I’ve seen you around.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  There’s a short silence. Then he grins at me again. “So I hear your name is Katie Holmes.”

  Oh. That.

  But then I see that he’s not making fun of me. He’s being nice, jokey, kind of.

  “Please. Don’t even start.” I hold up my one hand, roll my eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve heard it all.”

  “Yip.”

  “You’re nothing like her, in any case.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re far more gorgeous, for one.”

  What did he say????

  There’s a silence, a long silence, in which I just stare at him with my mouth open, like an idiot. Then, finally, I manage to make a sound.

  “Uh.”

  Thankfully, at that very moment the bell rings and he gets up. I can feel my ears glowing, and I know that my whole face must be beet red.

  “See you soon, Katie.”

  “Uh. Yes. Okay.”

  As soon as he disappears from sight I sink my head into my hands and groan.

  Well handled, Katie. Really suave.

  Some of the things I could say when Daniel van Huysteen tells me I’m more gorgeous than the other Katie Holmes:

  1. Thanks. (normal)

  2. Is that a compliment? (coy)

  3. Don’t be silly! (modest)

  4. You don’t get out much, do you? (dry)

  5. Do you really think so? (flirtatious)

  6. Anything in the world except “uh”.

  What kind of loser says something like that?

  The Katie Holmes kind. Obviously.

  * * *

  The rest of the school day is pretty boring until the last period, when the principal announces that we should all assemble in the quad. This, I’ve realised by now, can either be because he wants to give us some good news (“Anathi Mamani has won the Science Olympiad!”) or some bad news (“All school functions are cancelled until whoever wrote ‘wanker’ on my car turns themselves in”).

  Either way, these quad meetings are usually pretty pointless and a waste of academic time, which is exactly why I like them.

  But today is different.

  Today he tells us that another child has disappeared.

  Now I’m not sure what things are like where you live, but Cape Town is a city where crime is pretty much an everyday occurrence. As a matter of fact, according to the Cape Argus at least, this city is one of the most violent places in the entire world (“Murder Capital of the Universe” was their headline just a few days ago, if I remember correctly).

  Here in the suburbs things aren’t all that grim – the worst thing that ever happened to me is that someone once stole my purse on Camps Bay beach. Most of the really terrible things happen in the poor, neglected, “previously disadvantaged” areas nearby, where there are lots of gang- and drug-related issues, and where I am not allowed to go on pain of death. [7]

  When you live in this kind of environment, not a lot of things shock people any more. Your community eventually becomes hardened, cynical, even callous. People can only process so much, you know? But when children disappear, well, then it’s different. That still freaks everyone out big time.

  Especially when these children come from “nice” middle-class homes.

  Especially when it becomes clear that these kids are not runaways – all their possessions (money, phones, iPods, clothes …) are left untouched.

  Especially when they disappear from their own beds, in the middle of the night.

  Especially when there are no broken locks or windows, no alarms activated, no dogs barking.

  Especially when the police have not arrested anyone, and do not seem to have any clues.

  Especially when this has happened to three children in less than a month, all of whom lived in upmarket suburbs less than ten kilometres apart.

  Especially now it’s happened to someone from our school too.

  Macy Bowers, the principal tells us, disappeared from her home last night. She was only in grade 8, so not many people knew her, but some girls begin to cry anyway. The principal tells us to be extra vigilant, not to walk home from school alone, to keep our cellphones with us at all times, to report anything suspicious.

  But those are just words, as we soon discover.

  Because her dad is there to address the school and we hear that, like the other kids, Macy was taken out of her own home in the middle of the night while her parents were sleeping next door. Her cellphone was switched on, her battery full. In the morning, when her mom came to wake her, her dog was still sleeping on her bed.

  Shame, the poor man.

  Apparently he’s some sort of doctor, but standing there in front of us the guy looks like he needs some doctoring himself. His face is drawn and grey under his unnaturally golden skin, and he has that creepy energy of a man pushed beyond endurance, his eyes burning like coals of fire.

  He looks like a madman, to be honest, and he sounds like one too, asking us all to listen to our parents, to remember that they know best. To remember that when they are being strict it’s only because they’re trying to give us the most perfect life they can.

  There are tears in his eyes when he leaves the stage.

  When the bell rings everybody goes home really quietly.

  Chapter 3

  Usually Mandi and I spend the afternoons at Finn’s place because Mandi tries to avoid her stepmother at all costs. But today, for a change, we hang out at Mandi’s as I have a sneaking suspicion that things between Finn and my mom are going to be a bit tense for a while.

  Actually, I don’t mind spending time here anyway – Mandi’s room is genuinely awesome, the kind of thing I can only dream about. She has a humongous flat-screen TV with DSTV and PVR, a computer with ADSL and unlimited internet, an iPod dock, an Xbox, loads of games and DVDs, a separate sitting room with a bar fridge that’s always fully stocked, and a huge king-sized bed. She also has a walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom with a Jacuzzi, and although this modest little pad doesn’t have a sea view, it does look out over the mountain (which seems to lie right outside her room like – I admit – a big sleeping lion).

  The housekeeper cleans her room perfectly every day, so it always looks as if she’s living in a brand-spanking-new five-star hotel.

  My room, on the other hand, always looks a mess because our housekeeper (Mom) refuses to clean up after me, purely on principle. I also don’t have inte
rnet or a TV in my room as my mom believes that “anybody who uses technology responsibly won’t mind doing it in the family room”. [8]

  Sheesh.

  Mom also believes that meals should be shared, and would never dream of allowing me to have my own fridge in my room. If Mandi and I want anything to eat between meals, she always tells us we can ask “for some fresh juice or homemade biscuits and perhaps a glass of milk”. (My mom, you might have noticed, is obviously still trying to process the fact that we’re older than five.) We also share a bathroom, my mom and I, even though Finn’s house has loads of guest bathrooms that nobody ever uses. And, believe you me, our bathroom most certainly does not have a Jacuzzi.

  I even have to put my own towels in the laundry.

  Still, even if my mom is a bit of a nut, Mandi insists that we spend as much time as possible at our place. And to be honest I totally get why, because in spite of all Mandi’s stuff, their house is … I don’t know. There’s just something about the place that creeps me out.

  Anyway, so we’re in Mandi’s room, and I’m telling her about what happened with Daniel van Huysteen during break.

  “I just don’t understand it,” I sigh as I finally finish my story.

  “What’s not to understand?” Mandi’s painting her toenails a neon yellow colour, the kind that only looks good against dark skin like hers.

  “What do you mean what’s not to understand? Everything! What was he doing in the library, why did he sit next to me, why was he talking to me, and being so nice …?” I throw my hands up into the air. “The whole thing’s a mystery.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Katie.” (Mandi can say things like this without hurting your feelings because she’s so naturally cool and generous. You feel like she’s gently teasing you instead of being insulting.) “He was chatting you up. What’s so strange about that?”

  I almost choke on my Coke Zero. “What’s so strange about that??? Where do I even start?”

  “Oh come off it, you know you’re beautiful. Guys are always losing it over you. Why would this be any different?”

  I shake my head at my best friend’s stupidity. “I have two words for you: Julian Nicol.”

  Mandi waves a hand, dismissively. “Ancient history. Anyway, people at your new school won’t know anything about all that.”