Chain Reaction Read online

  You are on the debating team, but you’re not the team leader. You’re a good chess player, but you did not get chosen to go overseas with the national team. You did well in the Maths Olympiad, but you did not get a gold medal. (You got silver.)

  You are not very sporty, but you are not so bad that your name gets called last when teams are chosen. You made the under-16C hockey team, but so far your team has lost most of its games. (Not because of you. You hope.)

  You are not pretty and you are not ugly. You are not fat and you are not thin. You are fifteen years old.

  On this particular Monday morning you wake up already tired. You do all the boring things you have to do every morning. Bathroom – Kitchen – Bedroom. You see too late that there’s a big yellow stain on your white school shirt. You have no idea how that happened. You look for another shirt but you can’t find one. You wet the corner of a towel, rub some soap into it and scrub at the stain. It works, mostly. But now you’re a bit late, and you have a big wet spot on your shirt.

  You kiss your mom goodbye. Your dad has already left for work. Your sister and your brother are arguing about something stupid. You ignore them. Their school is just around the corner and they have lots of time to get ready.

  You run all the way to the bus stop, hoping you won’t be too late. You’re not too late. You find a seat, for a change, and you stare out the window for most of the ride. You like to see Table Mountain getting bigger and bigger as you get closer to the city.

  You get off at your stop and you walk the last few blocks to school. All around you children are being driven to school by their parents. Most of the cars are new and shiny and German-made. The traffic, as usual, is terrible; you easily outpace the Porsche that’s driving in the street beside you. You wonder if that’s an example of irony.

  When you get closer to the school gates you see Stephanie Adolphus leaning against the railing. She and her friends have surrounded someone; they are laughing and screaming and making all kinds of personal comments. You look down and you walk faster.

  You don’t like bullies. It’s not a moral thing, not really, nor is it a carefully thought-out position. You simply don’t understand the impulse. You find cruelty repulsive.

  Stephanie Adolphus is the biggest bully in the school. It is clear to you that she has some sort of problem. Every­body here is scared of her.

  You’re not too sure why people at this school are so afraid of her. She only ever uses words to hurt her victims: embarrassing them in public, spreading nasty rumours, tormenting them on social media, that sort of thing. She also seems to have some strange power to turn people against each other – girls who have been friends for years start to hate each other under her influence. You find the whole thing very odd, but not particularly scary. (In the school your sister and brother go to, a bully once shot another child through the foot. Just for fun. On the school premises.)

  You are not scared of her but that’s beside the point really, because she never picks on you. Sometimes you wonder why people like Stephanie never pick on you, but you don’t think about it too much. Mostly you just try keep a low profile, and get on with your life.

  You look at your watch. The bus made good time: there are perhaps five more minutes before the bell rings. You walk closer to the gang of bullying girls ahead of you. You have no choice; they are blocking the pedestrian entrance.

  Today’s victim, you see, is Krystle Thomas, a grade 11 girl. You know her name because everybody knows her name. Krystle Thomas is the most beautiful girl in the school. No competition. She might even be the most beautiful girl in Cape Town. You’re surprised that the bullies have ganged up on her today. Usually they don’t pick on pretty, thin white girls. You walk past them, keeping your head down. But you catch her eye in spite of yourself. Her eyes are begging you to help her. She is trapped and scared and desperate.

  For a moment you hover, uncertain. You have to make a decision.

  Krystle Thomas is older than you, and she’s rich and beautiful. But her eyes are like those of a frightened little rabbit.

  You linger a moment longer, trying to decide.

  Stephanie Adolphus and her friends, you notice, have completely surrounded Krystle Thomas. Every time she tries to make her way out of the circle, one of them shoves her back. Lightly, almost playfully, just enough to keep her in her place. After touching her they wipe their hands on their clothes, as if getting rid of something dirty. Stephanie is waving a magazine under Krystle’s nose. When she tries to take the magazine, Stephanie whips it away, holds it just out of reach.

  There’s something about the scene that you find disturbing. You decide to hang around a little bit longer. You stop a few feet away, pretend to tie your shoelaces. Nobody takes any notice of you. You listen to what they’re saying.

  “Oooh! So you’re famous now.”

  “And far too good for us, obviously.”

  “I’m really disappointed in you, Krystle. You’ve hurt my feelings.” Stephanie looks deeply unhurt. “Why didn’t you tell us you were going to be in Fairlady? You never even told us you were a model!”

  Krystle sounds close to tears. “I didn’t think –”

  “Oh, now she’s thinking!” says one of Stephanie’s sidekicks. (You don’t know her name.) “Better stick to looking pretty, sweetheart. Nobody will ever be interested in what you’re thinking.”

  Stephanie sniffs a page of the magazine. “It’s a good thing this isn’t one of those scratch-and-sniff adver­­tise­ments!”

  All four girls hold their noses and start waving the air in front of them. Krystle, you notice, has gone as white as a sheet.

  “I . . . I don’t smell bad . . .”

  “Yes, you do! You stink!”

  “Just like your mother.”

  Stephanie laughs. “She might be a shm-o-d-e-l,” she draws the word out mockingly, “but she smells like an alcoholic! Just like her mom!”

  Krystle tries to say something, but chokes on her words.

  “Ooh! Now she’s crying!”

  “Good! Maybe that’ll wash away the stink!”

  The girls’ laughter is high and shrill and completely joyless. They remind you of a pack of hyenas. You notice that even though Krystle is not making a sound, tears are running down her face.

  You make your decision.

  You walk closer.

  “Hi Krystle,” you say, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. “Mrs Salie is looking for you. She said you have to come to the office immediately.”

  All of the older girls turn to stare at you. You look back at them, keeping your face completely blank.

  “Okay,” Krystle says as she begins to edge away from the group.

  The other girls slowly, reluctantly move aside as she makes her escape. When she passes you her eyes are full of the purest gratitude.

  You’re congratulating yourself on your smooth handling of the situation when you hear Stephanie yell: “Wait!”

  Both you and Krystle continue walking.

  “I said, WAIT!”

  You stop. You turn around. You have a bad feeling.

  “You just came through that gate!” Stephanie says, frowning. “There’s no way you could’ve spoken to Mrs Salie yet.”

  You don’t say anything. You keep your face expressionless. Next to you, Krystle is starting to shake.

  “So, why would you lie about that?” Stephanie asks. She taps her chin, pretending to think. Then she looks triumphantly at her minions, as if she’s solved a riddle. “You were trying to help her, weren’t you Scholarship Girl? You were trying to save poor, innocent little Krystle from my evil clutches.”

  You don’t see any point in arguing, so you stay quiet. You wish the bell would ring. You’re really not in the mood for a fight.

  The bell doesn’t ring.

  “Ooh,” says a girl, whose name you don’t know. “I think Scholarship Girl is in love with stinky Krystle!”

  “They’re in lu-u-u-rve!” Stephanie scre
ams, clapping her hands gleefully.

  The idea is so ridiculous that you laugh. You can’t help it. You find it genuinely funny.

  Stephanie narrows her eyes. You don’t think she likes being laughed at.

  “So,” she says. “You think I’m funny?”

  You shrug. “Not particularly, no.”

  “Then why did you laugh?”

  You really don’t want to be dragged into this, so you stay quiet. But you nevertheless meet Stephanie’s gaze, refusing to look down.

  “Are you looking for a fight, Scholarship Girl?” Stephanie asks, almost disbelievingly.

  You shake your head. Why won’t the stupid bell ring?

  “I mean,” she continues, “are we going to have a problem?”

  You shake your head again. You stay quiet, but the truth is you’ve just about had enough of this.

  “Answer me!”

  You don’t say anything. You find this whole conversation absurd.

  But Stephanie is clearly looking for a fight. “Are you ignoring me?” she asks. She walks closer to you, until she’s right inside your personal space.

  You just look at her. Next to you, Krystle is crying silently again.

  “I said,” Stephanie repeats, louder this time. “Are. You. Ignoring. Me?” Then she shoves you lightly.

  That’s it. You decide you’ve had enough. You look her straight in the eye, answer her loud and clear.

  “It’s difficult to ignore you, Stephanie. But I usually find it’s well worth the effort.”

  There’s a collective hiss as the girls around you draw in a shocked breath. Stephanie herself seems stunned. It takes her a moment to recover.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” Your voice is calm and clear. “If you want to make an issue of that, go ahead. But hurry up, would you? I’m getting a little bored here.”

  There’s a horrified silence. For a moment you see something very close to fear in Stephanie’s eyes. But then she visibly pulls herself together, and falls back on what she does best.

  “Ooh!” she begins, her voice high and taunting. “Scholar­­­­ship Girl is so brave! She must l-u-u-r-ve Krystle so very, very much.” The last bit is said in baby language, so that the words “very, very” sound like “veddy, veddy”. You think this is supposed to make you feel childish and small. You do not feel particularly childish and small.

  Her sidekicks laugh a bit uncertainly.

  “Admit it!” she yells. “You love her.”

  “Well, I could agree with you,” you say calmly, shaking your head at her stupidity. “But then we’d both be wrong.”

  Stephanie takes a few seconds to process this. You get the idea she’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “You’re only in grade 9,” she then sputters, outraged. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “This is a free country. It doesn’t matter what grade I’m in. I can talk to anybody I want,” you answer evenly.

  She glares at you, her eyes now full of hate. “I think the problem is that you don’t know your place, little girl.”

  You sigh. “And I think the problem is that you’re mistaking me for someone who cares what you think.”

  Stephanie flinches, drawing her head back like she’s been slapped. Her friends, you notice, are staring at you with their mouths hanging open. Then they look at her. This is a bad situation. Stephanie can’t back down now; she has too much to lose. Which means that you’ll have to outsmart her somehow.

  “Listen,” you begin before she can say anything, “I have no idea why you feel you have to pick on people who are not as aggressive as you are. I assume it’s because you’re insecure in some way, but I’m not really that interested in your personal problems.” You place your hand in the pocket of your school jacket. “Whatever. We all have to do what we have to do. But I’d appreciate it if you don’t drag me into these silly little spats in future. I find it both sad and childish.”

  Then you turn around and start walking.

  Stephanie, of course, cannot let you get away with this, not if she wants to keep her position of power. So she grabs you by the shoulder, and starts yelling in your face. You keep absolutely calm. Over the next few minutes you are forced to listen to a rant of epic proportions, the language so violent and disgusting that even you are secretly a little shocked. She calls you the most revolting names; she swears at you viciously and often; she makes the most foul remarks about your race, your background and your culture; she threatens both you and Krystle; she spits at your feet.

  “Are you quite finished?” you ask when she finally runs out of steam.

  She glares at you.

  “Because if you are,” you continue, “I just want to say that I have recorded that whole little speech you just made.” You lift your hand out of your jacket pocket to show her your phone. Then you press a button. “And I’ve now sent that recording to our computer at home.”

  Stephanie opens her mouth to say something. Then she closes it again.

  “So, if I ever see you or your friends” – you look each of them in the eye, all the while smiling politely – “bullying someone again, I will immediately post this recording on Facebook.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Of course I can. And what’s more, I will send the link directly to the principal. And your parents, and anybody else who might be interested.”

  The group of girls stare at you, absolutely quiet.

  You turn to Krystle. She’s looking at you as if you have just descended from the heavens.

  “If they’re mean to you again, just let me know,” you tell her.

  Then the bell rings, and you walk away without another word. Your class is at the opposite side of the school, and you’ve wasted enough time this morning.

  You just hope you won’t be late for your algebra test.

  First Link

  More than a century ago Leo Tolstoy, a famous Russian writer, wrote that happy families are all alike, while every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Now this statement might have been true in Russia at that time (before the internet and television made everybody just like everybody else), but it was certainly less true in the affluent Southern Suburbs of Cape Town during the early part of the 21st century. Krystle Thomas’s family, for example, was unhappy in a pretty average, depressingly typical kind of way. There was the dad: a successful journalist-turned-TV producer who increasingly believed that the world had to jump whenever he snapped his fingers. There was the mom: a pretty, bored housewife who grew increasingly bitter with every new wrinkle that appeared on her face. There were two kids: children who both, disappointingly, turned out to be girls. There was the big, soulless house, the succession of underpaid nannies, the constant arguments, the muttering domestic worker, the painful family dinners, the late nights spent at the office.

  And then there were the firsts. The first screaming match that disintegrated into actual physical violence. The first mention of the dad’s pretty new intern. The first time the girls found their mom drunk at three in the afternoon. The first night the dad did not come home at all. The first family holiday that was cut short, the girls crying silently in the back of the Land Rover during the long drive home.

  The divorce followed soon after that, accompanied by all the usual, run-of-the-mill drama and unhappiness. The monthly fights about maintenance money and school fees. The awkward Sunday outings to McDonald’s, where the girls were expected to chat politely to their dad’s new girlfriend while their mom lay in bed crying. There were the interrogations when the girls got home; the angry text messages sent in the middle of the night; the tearful, drunken phone calls and the long, painful silences. There was the dad’s second wedding, the new wife’s stiff smile, the brand-new stepbrother, the cancelled Sunday visits, the dad’s move to Joburg with the new wife and child.

  And then, predictably, things got worse.

  Over time the mom’s penchant for a couple of glas
ses of wine every night started to change into something more worrying. A couple of glasses became a bottle, a bottle became two bottles, and then it became three, and then everybody stopped counting. She found a new set of friends, a young and trendy crowd who introduced her to recreational drugs and the delights of the all-weekend party. A crowd who – while she was footing the bill – couldn’t care less about her rapid descent into alcoholism and drug addiction.

  And why shouldn’t she have some fun, after all?

  Why shouldn’t she get a chance to enjoy herself?

  Think about it: that pig of a husband had taken her best years, made her pregnant and fat and then left her for a sexier, younger version of herself! So who can blame her for wanting some fun, because nobody loves her – he never loved her – and she’d sacrificed everything! She’d lost her figure after the babies, those bloody ungrateful kids, and really, they ruined her marriage and it was the boredom and all the responsibility of taking care of a family and what happened to personal freedom and people may think she’s selfish but she deserves a little fun and who cares what they think anyway and she hates that bastard and why is it that she feels so lost and alone and God help her but who can blame her for wanting a bit of a buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Because their father had pretty much lost all interest in his first family, it was up to the two girls to deal with their mother’s increasingly chaotic behaviour. The youngest, Alexis, developed a tough outer shell to protect her against the pain of living with an addict. A smart-mouthed little fighter of a girl, she learnt to laugh when she felt like crying, and to attack when she felt like running away.

  But this is really her sister’s story.

  Krystle Thomas was deeply affected by her family’s troubles. A quiet, serious girl who dreaded conflict and disliked any type of aggression, she handled the constant tension and chaos at her home by turning deeper and deeper inward. In order to cope she lost herself in stories and daydreams, and later she developed a particular love for mathematics. She liked the logic of it; she found the order inherent in numbers soothing and restful.