Nothing really happened last time.

All through school on Wednesday, Zinzi kept telling herself that.

So what if the extra lessons with Mr Mase made her uncomfortable? They were worth it if they got her good marks. Her family would go on being pleased with her, and she’d get to continue playing soccer.

“I’m pleased to see you chose right, Zinzi,” Mr Mase said when he saw her hesitating at the classroom door that afternoon. “Come in and close the door.”

Zinzi’s heart was banging in her chest. She pretended to close the door, but left it open just the smallest crack. Then she walked slowly towards the teacher’s desk, where he had a second chair ready in place for her.

“Get out your maths book,” he said when she had sat down.

This time she was careful to keep her school bag on her lap, so she didn’t have to lean over and bare her upper thigh. She was starting to feel a bit relieved. He sounded so businesslike – like a teacher with work on his mind, and nothing more.

She just wished he wouldn’t keep wetting his lower lip with his tongue. Every time he did it, she saw the pinkish inside part of his lip. If his lips were so dry, why didn’t he get something to put on them? He was a teacher, he got a salary, not a lot but more than either of her parents earned, so she’d heard. He could afford a lip balm or Lip Ice or something.

She was even more relieved when he gave her the first question and then got up from the desk to pace around. No more heavy breathing close beside her. No more of that stale smell.

“In an exam, this question would be worth three marks.” His soft voice drifted back to her.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, beginning to understand which parts of the question the marks would come from.

It was going to be all right! This was just a maths lesson, an ordinary old maths lesson. He was nowhere near her.

As she began to write out her workings, she was aware of him still walking around, near the classroom door now.

A click.

He had closed the door.

It was still all right. It didn’t mean anything. He just hadn’t liked the door not being properly shut. It was like how Ntombi kept closing the lid of the body lotion that Zinzi always left standing open.

She bent her head again, but she couldn’t stop her eyes sliding sideways, checking on Mr Mase.

Why was he fumbling in his pocket? Part of her knew even before she saw him pull out the key on its ring with a bright green plastic tag.

She watched him lock the classroom door.

“Now no one can disturb us.” He was smiling as he turned and walked back to the desk. “It’s just us … You like that, Zinzi? I’ve been thinking about you a lot, how you’re growing up, getting so pretty. A girl like you, you know how to be nice?”

Zinzi couldn’t look at him. She felt sick, beginning to panic. She was locked in here with him. What had he done with the key? It wasn’t in the door. He must have put it back in his pocket.

“No, sir,” she mumbled. “I don’t … know …”

“Not to worry.” His voice sounded even thicker than usual. “I can show you. There are things every young girl needs to learn, I’m not talking maths here, and it’s good to have a man teaching them to you, not some impatient boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing – No, stay there.”

Zinzi had started to stand up. She sank back on to the chair with her pulse hammering. What must she do? He was an adult and a teacher; she was supposed to respect him – obey him.

Yes, but this was wrong.

Then she couldn’t think any more because she was drowning in the horror of feeling his hands on her, on her clothes, in the soft, secret places no one ever saw, let alone touched.

She was frozen, with her eyes closed, but in her mind she was seeing his dirty fingernails, the same fingernails that were scratching over her most sensitive skin.

He was moving her around, pulling her out of her chair, pushing her against the desk, and it was as if she was dumb, because she couldn’t make a sound. She opened her eyes and saw how her skirt was pulled up and twisted round her waist.

“No!” She found her voice at last, urgent and shaky.

“Don’t be afraid, Zinzi,” Mr Mase wheezed, breathing heavily. “You just need to get to know me better … Like this.”

Now he was trying to kiss her, and that was almost worse than his hands on her body. His mouth was wet and his breath was hot. She turned her head away violently –

“I have to go!” She was frantic, trying to wrench herself away from him.

“Calm down, my little Zinzi.” He kept hold of her with one hand, stroking her with the other. “I’m guessing you’re a virgin, so we’ll take things nice and slowly, one lesson at a time. Some maths now, I think?”

But she couldn’t focus on the maths questions. She just sat there like someone in shock, seeing and hearing nothing.

At the end of the lesson, Mr Mase leaned towards her, with his eyes on the way her small breasts lifted the material of her school shirt.

“No need to tell you this has to be our little secret, my dear,” he said.

“I didn’t want …” Zinzi began in a dull voice.

“No lies, please. This was your choice. You chose to come for this lesson. I didn’t force you.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Our next lesson is Friday afternoon.”

Then he went to unlock the door. He didn’t even look at Zinzi as she stumbled past him.

Shame and guilt scalded her like boiling water. He was right. She knew what she was doing when she came for the lesson. She had known what might happen and had fooled herself into believing she could handle it.

The reality had been worse, more sickening, than anything she had imagined.

She walked home, desperate to wash, to scrub the memory of the teacher’s touch off her skin. She felt so dirty.

She was the first one home. She rubbed herself all over with a soapy facecloth, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t wash her mind.

When Mama came home, Zinzi barely greeted her.

“Don’t you have soccer practice?” she asked.

“Don’t feel like it,” Zinzi said, the words sounding somehow dead, all the usual passion and excitement gone from her voice.

Mama looked relieved, or possibly hopeful. “Maybe you’re growing out of it.”

Zinzi shrugged. She couldn’t stop thinking about the maths lesson. How could such a thing have happened to her? How could she have let it?

Was she being punished? She hadn’t always been the nicest person in the past. There was that time she’d tried to cause trouble in Ntombi’s relationship with Olwethu.

“Turning into a lady at last,” her father teased when he came home and Mama told him Zinzi hadn’t felt like soccer, but he seemed stressed, probably from work.

She realised that neither of her parents noticed how troubled she was. In one way, she was relieved about that, because it meant she didn’t have to answer any awkward questions.

At the same time, she couldn’t help resenting it. If they cared about her, wouldn’t they notice and ask what was wrong?

She stood up from where she’d been sitting in front of the television. She picked up her school bag and moved tiredly towards her and Ntombi’s room.

“Homework?” Dad asked.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Good girl.”

Zinzi saw the look Mama and Dad exchanged, as if they were congratulating themselves on suddenly having such a quiet, hard-working person for their younger daughter.

***

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