Here Comes the Sun(10)

“Promotion?”

“Yes. A promotion.”

“To be what? Head servant?”

Delores’s derisive laugh drives Margot back into Thandi’s hair. But even her sister, in her stiff-backed silence, seems to be agreeing with their mother. Margot turns Thandi’s head this way and that way like a rag doll.

“Ouch! Ouch! Margot!” Thandi yells. But Margot doesn’t oblige. This time, as exquisite pain courses through her, propelled by her mother’s disdain, Margot pulls at her sister’s hair. The last thing she wants is to hurt Thandi. But Thandi’s pain is different—the type that comes with relief like a balm over a scab, a needle drawing splinter from skin. Margot’s stays. Delores’s voice rushes at her, flogging her with its taunt: “Tek care of what? Bettah yuh go set up shop as a market vendor at craft market than tell people yuh work in a hotel.”



They stare at her when she walks into school wearing the oversized sweatshirt, her hair newly straightened. Thandi ignores the attention, seeking the refuge of her desk in the back of the classroom. Heads turn as she makes her way down the row. Along with the speculation she hears her classmates whisper.

“Why is she wearing that dreadful sweatshirt? It’s like she has AIDS or something.”

“Or hiding a you-know-what!”

“No way!”

“Well, yuh know what they say. It’s always the quiet ones. Even her hair change. They say when you swallow, it’s extra protein. Good for the hair and skin.”

“Says who?”

“I read it somewhere.”

“But you think she has a man giving it to her on the regular?”

“Like I said, it’s the ones you least expect.”

Not since Kim Brady got slapped by her mother in front of the entire school for insulting one of the nuns has there been anything as gossip-worthy. Thandi keeps her head down during devotion in the hall where Sister Shirley, the headmistress, leads the school in worship. Sister Shirley’s voice soars above the collective: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit by thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Thandi makes the sign of the cross and focuses on her polished black shoes. The girls are ushered out of the hall under the direction of the prefects, older girls who have been given duties as disciplinarians. Before each class exits the hall in orderly lines arranged by height, the prefects march down the lines like army generals, holding notepads. They mark down the names of girls who have disobeyed some cardinal rule in attire—girls who aren’t wearing slips underneath their uniform skirts, girls wearing hair clips that aren’t black and inconspicuous, girls with any form of jewelry, girls wearing braids or any ethnic hairstyles outside of the accepted bun or neatly plaited ponytail, girls with ties that aren’t tied properly around the collars of their blouses with the short end of the ties tucked away or pinned down, girls with skirts that are too short or socks that are too long, girls with heels that are over two inches, girls with the waistbands of their skirts not showing.

When Marie Pinta, the assigned prefect for Thandi’s class (whose real name is Marie Wellington of the Wellington family in Jamaica, but who got her nickname because of her height), gets down the middle of the line to Thandi, she pauses. “Are you sick?”

“No.” Thandi replies.

“Well, take that off. It’s not allowed.”

Thandi hesitates. Her homeroom teacher, Sister Atkins, did not complain before devotion. In fact, she marked Thandi present after seeing her wearing the sweatshirt. Marie Pinta’s request is followed by a hushed silence in the corner of the devotion hall where Thandi’s class is lined up. The watchfulness of Thandi’s classmates makes her swallow a verbal plea. Instead she pleads with her eyes, hoping Marie Pinta will reconsider. Marie Pinta, whom Thandi has observed on many occasions during devotion wearily gazing out the window, her eyes focused on some elusive thing.

But Marie Pinta stands firmly next to Thandi. “I said to take it off.”

Thandi’s arms remain at her sides, her eyes trained on Marie Pinta’s mouth. “Are you deaf?”

Thandi tugs at the base of her sweatshirt, aware of her classmates blinking rapidly as though gearing up for something to happen. Though fear pulls at her nerves, her body erupting in tremors she hopes aren’t visible to their eyes, she lets her hands fall back to her sides. “I can’t,” she says, her whisper like a shout in the hushed hall. By this time the other classes have filed out of the hall, leaving only Thandi’s class. They are being held back because of her. She knows that she’s in deep trouble. She has never been singled out after devotion for not adhering to the uniform rules. Delores and Margot make sure that Thandi looks her best each day. They make sure that she doesn’t look like she lives in a shack, worlds away from her classmates.

Marie Pinta glares at Thandi and then writes something down in her notepad. “I’m assigning you a demerit. Go to the principal’s office. Now.” Marie Pinta points directly at the door as though direction is needed. The other girls are giggling, cupping their hands to their mouths. Thandi’s face grows warm. Marie Pinta whips around to face them. “Shut up!” There is a level of terror in Marie Pinta’s voice that Thandi doesn’t understand. She appears distraught, her small body shaking under the martial uniform the prefects wear—double-breasted blazers and pencil skirts.