This vacation I found them repentant. They did not argue, but they were hardly at home either and I was glad for the silence. My father stayed at work; my mother in her church. I thought of Damola. Once or twice, I crossed out the common letters in my name and his to find out what we would be: friends, lovers, enemies, married. We were lovers.
“This house is like a graveyard,” Sheri said.
“My parents are out,” I said.
“Ah-ah? Let’s go then.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. I want to get out of here. I hate my lessons and I hate my lesson teacher. He spits.”
“Tell your father.”
“He won’t listen. All he talks about is doctor this and doctor that. Abi, can you see me as a doctor?”
“No.”
She would misdiagnose her patients and boss them around.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Walk-about,” I teased.
She flung her hand up. “You see? You’re morose.”
I thought she was going home so I ran to the front door to stop her. She said she wasn’t angry, but why did I never want to do anything? I pushed her up the drive.
“I’ll get into trouble, Sheri.”
“If your parents find out.”
“They’ll find out.”
“If you let them.”
Sheri already had a boyfriend in school. They had kissed before and it was like chewing gum, but she wasn’t serious because he wasn’t. I told her about Damola.
“You sat there not talking?” she asked.
“We communicated by mind.”
“What does that mean?”
“We didn’t have to talk.”
“You and your boyfriend, sha.”
I poked her shoulder. “He is not my boyfriend.”
She forced me to call him. I recited his number which we found in the telephone book and my heart thumped so hard it reached my temples. Sheri handed the receiver to me. “Hello?” came a high-pitched voice, and I promptly gave the phone back to Sheri.
“Em, yes, helleu,” she said, faking a poor English accent. “Is Damola in please?”
“What’s she saying?” I whispered.
Sheri raised a finger to silence me. Unable to sustain her accent, she slammed the phone down.
“What happened?” I asked.
She clutched her belly.
“What did she say, Sheri?”
“He’s not... in.”
I snorted. That was it? My jaw locked watching her kick. She threatened to make another phone call, just to hear the woman’s voice again. I told her if she did, I’d rip the phone from its socket. I too was laughing, from her silliness. My stomach ached. I thought I would suffocate.
“Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to go home, Sheri.”
“Wh-why?”
“My mother hates you.”
“S-so?”
We slapped each other’s cheeks to stop.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t phone your boyfriend again. You can communicate with him, unless his mind is otherwise occupied.”
She went home with mascara tears and said it was my fault. The following Sunday, she appeared at my bedroom window again. This time, Baba was burning leaves and the smell nauseated me. I leaned over to shut my window and Sheri’s head popped up: “Aburo!”
I jumped at least a foot high. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you use the door?”
“Oh, don’t be so morose,” she said.
“Sheri,” I said. “I don’t think you know the meaning of that word.”
She was dressed in a black skirt and strapless top. Sheri was no longer a yellow banana. She could easily win any of the beauty contests in my school, but her demeanor needed to be toned down. She was gragra. Girls who won were demure.
“You look nice,” I said.
She also had the latest fashions: Oliver Twist caps, wedge heels and flares. Her grandmother knew traders in Quayside by the Lagos Marina, who imported clothes and shoes from Europe.
She blinked through her mascara. “Are your parents in?”
“Out.”
“They’re always out.”
“I prefer it.”
“Let’s go then.”
“No. Where?”
“A picnic. At Ikoyi Park. Your boyfriend will be there.” I smiled. “What boyfriend, Sheri?”
“Your boyfriend, Damola. I found out he’ll be there.” Tears filled my eyes. “You rotten little... ”
I resisted the urge to hug her. As she tried to explain her connection to him, I lost track. I wore a black T-shirt and white dungarees. In the mirror, I checked my hair, which was pulled into two puffs and fingered the Fulani choker around my neck. I picked a ring from my dressing table and slipped it on my toe.
“Boogie on Reggae Woman,” Stevie Wonder was singing. Sheri snapped her fingers and muddled up the lyrics between grunts and whines. I studied her leg movements. No one knew where this latest dance came from. America, a classmate had said, but where in that country, and how it crossed an ocean to reach ours, she couldn’t explain. Six months later the dance would be as fashionable as our grandmothers. Then we would be learning another.
“Aren’t you wearing makeup?” she asked.
“No,” I said, letting my bangles tumble down my arm.
“You can’t come looking like that,” she said.
“Yes, I can.” “Morose.”
I was, she insisted. I wore no makeup, didn’t go out,
