Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
I hate Thursdays. They’re such a tease, so close to the weekend and yet so far. Thursdays seem to go out of their way to be as boring and drawn-out as possible, just to punish me for hating them. They are also really lousy luck.
All the bad things that ever happened to me happened on Thursdays. It sounds crazy, but I’m serious. My mother died on a Thursday, eleven years ago when I was five. I broke my leg on a Thursday and got mugged while coming home from school on – yes, a Thursday. So naturally whenever Thursday rolls around I get a little anxious.
On this particular Thursday I’m sitting at the dining table, drinking a massive mug of Milo and feeling like Nancy Drew after one of her run-ins with a chloroform-soaked handkerchief. My body aches and my head is full of mist. It’s barely six a.m., but I’m dressed for school already because I can never sleep through my father’s alarm.
“Dad, I’m sick,” I groan.
“Nice try,” my father replies, rummaging in his pockets for his office keys. “If you were that sick you’d still be in bed.” He gives me a knowing nod.
“Eish. You saw right through me.” Even with heavy clouds swelling in my head, I have the strength for sarcasm.
My gaze drops to the keys lying on the table right in front of him. I contemplate putting him out of his misery, but his panic is rather amusing so I sip my Milo and watch. My dad, Dr. Raymond (Ray) Bennett is a super-nerd – you can tell he’s a scientist just by looking at him. He’s been teaching at the local university, UB, for as long as I can remember. Despite living in Botswana for two decades he’s still pasty white, with mousy brown hair that goes limp in the heat. He’s tall and thin, and today he’s wearing grey trousers and that striped brown shirt I keep trying to throw away. I must take after him, with my long arms and skinny legs, though the freckled caramel skin and wild hair is all me.
“Effing hell,” he mumbles, going through his pockets for the third time. “I could have sworn I had them in these trousers. And I have all that marking to do…”
The “effing” is for my benefit. He promised my mother he’d never use four-letter words in my presence and he’s still true to his word. I sigh, drain my mug and study the ring of chocolate powder in the bottom. “On the table, Dad.”
“Huh?” He looks up, sees the keys, and grins. “Oh. Ha! I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” As always, he seems thrilled by this discovery. “Right – I’m off. Say hi to Malebogo.”
“I will.” My best friend Lebz, aka Malebogo, lives just around the corner.
“Don’t forget to wait for Lydia. And be home by seven.”
“Yes, Dad.” Damn. Looks like I’ll have to cancel all those glitzy social events I had planned.
Suddenly my eyes start to sting in an all too familiar way. Ag, not again… My body tenses and through the fog in my head a vague image appears. Mangled metal, broken glass, sirens wailing and traffic snaking all the way up the road. A wave of horror hits me, then fades. “By the way,” I tell my father, “you might want to avoid the flyover by the bus rank.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
He always does that, as if he doesn’t know what’s coming. I get up and carry my mug to the kitchen. “An accident. It’s bad.” I wash my cup and return to the dining room.
Dad dismisses me with a nervous laugh. “Honestly, Connie – what nonsense. I need to stop by Sam’s place to pick up some papers, so I’ll go via Broadhurst.”
I watch him leave and shake my head. He still can’t get his head around the idea that I have premonitions. I suppose it would freak me out too, if I hadn’t been able to do it all my life. Sometimes I have visions and sometimes it’s just a vague feeling, but it’s only ever in connection with people I know or people near me. Take the one I just had – it wouldn’t have happened at all if Dad didn’t take the flyover to work every morning.
It’s genetic, I suppose, inherited from my maternal grandfather. He’s a full-time historian and author and part-time paranormal consultant. You know, a shaman, traditional healer, exorcist, whatever. My dad’s not so keen on that career path. It’s one of the reasons he and Ntatemogolo hate each other. That and the fact that I bonded with my grandfather instantly even though I didn’t know him until he moved back to Botswana three years ago, after travelling the world.
I go into the sitting room and turn on the TV. I already know nothing good is on – and I don’t need a premonition for that – so I go through our DVDs. Lebz calls just after I settle on watching Red Eye for the twentieth time.
“Hey, Lebz.”
“Ha, I knew you’d be up,” she chirps. “What are you watching? No, let me guess. Mean Girls.”
I smile. “Nope.”
“The Notebook.”
“Uh-uh.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re watching something that doesn’t have Rachel McAdams in it – oh, wait! Red Eye! I always forget that one.”
“And we have a winner!” I drag the phone to the sofa and sit down with my feet curled under me. “You want to come watch it with me?”
“It’s not exciting if you know what happens,” she reminds me. “What are you doing after school? Let’s go hang out somewhere.”
I wait patiently for the rest of the request. “Somewhere” only means one thing to Lebz – wherever her idol Kelly and her friends are. It’s based on sound logic – after all, Lebz’s second favourite thing after Kelly is boys, and wherever Kelly and her D-cups go boys
