Four days later I’m back in res and it’s like the holidays never happened.

The first thing I see when I walk into my room are those reading packs I was supposed to tackle over the vacation. I quickly dump a pile of magazines on top of them, but not before a tiny niggle of guilt has time to get hold of me. Maybe they weren’t quite as optional as I convinced myself last term. Still, I won’t be the only person who hasn’t got through them.

I can hear the clink of teacups being set out on the lawn downstairs and immediately decide to unpack later. It’s a lovely, sunshiny winter’s day and I can’t wait to get outside and catch up on all the news.

I run a comb through my hair, put on a slick of lip-gloss, and head downstairs at a gallop. I never used to be much of a tea drinker, but now I’m a total addict. It’s just so civilised to have tea served in the garden every afternoon at exactly the same time. Coffee hits the spot when you need some raw volts of energy, but for refreshment you just can’t beat a nice cup of tea.

To get to the Somerset House lawn you have to go through the common room and out by the French windows. The very first thing I see as I breeze through on my way to the tea table is a huge poster stuck up on the notice board with my name scrawled in big letters all over it. I screech to a halt to take a closer look.

Trinity Luhabe is very proud of her June exam results!

They’re the best marks she has ever got and she couldn’t wait to share them with you.

Read and enjoy …

This is all written in swirly calligraphy, with lots of loops and twirls. And underneath it is what looks like an actual printout of my exam results. I know without checking that they’ll be absolutely correct. And so they are, right down to the last percentage point.

Bloody Sophie Agincourt and her bloody well-connected father.

My dad may have access to password-protected information at the Department of Statistics, but Sophie’s dad can hack into any database in the country.

Plus she can twist him around her little finger.

I can just imagine the scene: ‘Oh, please Daddy won’t you hack into Trinity’s exam results illegally?’

‘Of course, darling. How soon do you need it?’

Bitch!
I rip the poster off the notice board – sending drawing pins flying – and tear it into about a million little pieces.

Not that it helps. Everyone will have seen it already. And those who haven’t will have been told about it in great detail. I look up from my frantic ripping to see a group of first-years standing around on the lawn. They’re showing each other something on their cellphones and giggling.

Stupid cellphone cameras.

My exam results are probably being MMSed all over campus as we speak. And come to think of it, my poster-ripping tantrum may just pop up on YouTube this evening. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?

I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down. I pick up all the pieces of the poster and put them carefully into the bin. I smooth down my clothes and shake out my hair. Then I step out onto the lawn with my head held high.

Some jokers start up a slow handclap as I approach the tea table. I force myself to smile broadly in their direction and raise my hand in a royal wave, like the Queen on a walkabout.

This is the stuff to give them – I can see that immediately. The moment they think I’m not embarrassed by the poster, they start to lose interest. The whispering and the giggling die down, and everyone starts talking in normal voices.

The little group of girls clustered around Sophie and Tyler tries to keep the drama going for a bit longer, but even they soon realise that it’s getting old.

I’m bending over the urn, filling up my cup, when a very welcome voice speaks in my ear.

‘I guess this means that you and Sophie are now officially quits.’

It’s Steph.

I’m so pleased to see her I almost drop my teacup on the table because I can’t wait to give her a big hug.

‘Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re here!’ I squeal. ‘I thought you hadn’t arrived yet.’

‘I’ve been here for hours. I was waiting for you to arrive.’

‘Let’s find somewhere to sit. I’ve got tons to tell you.’

But by the time I’ve poured myself a new cup of tea and we’ve found a quiet spot under a tree, I start thinking about what she said about Sophie.

‘You said something about me being quits with the devil woman,’ I say, taking a sip. ‘What did you mean?’

‘I meant … that,’ she says, gesturing towards the notice board. ‘The bitchy poster. I’d have torn it down myself, but I thought you should see it with your own eyes. That was such a low thing to do. Doesn’t that pay you back for the sugar in the petrol tank incident?’

‘I wish!’ I say with a hollow laugh. ‘If only it were that simple.’

‘What – you mean that after all that you’re still not quits?’

‘Not nearly, my friend. Not even nearly. Sophie will not see this as the equal of what I did to her. I attacked something she loved, you see. That Porsche is the apple of her eye. Putting sugar in its petrol tank was practically the equivalent of poisoning her newborn baby.’

‘Yes, but she’s done some really mean stuff to you this year. And this latest trick was the worst.’

I shake my head regretfully. ‘Sophie knows I don’t care that much about exams. I never have. She’s waiting for something that really means a lot to me.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I wish I did. I keep expecting to go up to my room one day and find my Stella McCartney trench coat slashed into ribbons or something.’

Steph’s eyes are like saucers. ‘You don’t think she’d really do that?’

‘Why not? I vandalised her property, so why shouldn’t she vandalise mine?’

‘I just wish you’d tell her that you’re paying off the damage.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference. I know how Sophie’s mind works. She’d still have to get her revenge.’

‘You don’t think …’ Steph stops, swallows, and starts again. ‘You don’t think she’d target … me? Because I’m your friend, I mean.’ She gives an involuntary glance over her shoulder.

I think about this for a moment.

‘It’s a possibility,’ I admit. ‘Lael used to come under fire at school just because she was a friend of mine. But she quite enjoyed feuding with Sophie. In fact, she was even worse than me. She used to stir things up just when I was trying to let them die down a bit. You should ask her about it – she’ll give you a lesson in special weapons and tactics.’

‘But I’m no good at that kind of thing!’ Steph wails, looking totally terrified. ‘You know what a pushover I am. Mean girls always walk all over me.’
We put our empty teacups on the table and walk back into res. Steph keeps shooting nervous glances in Sophie’s direction as though she’s expecting to be attacked at any moment. It’s hard not to laugh at her, but I know what a gentle soul she is so I don’t.

‘I really don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about,’ I try to reassure her as we climb the stairs. ‘Sophie’s a bit intimidated by you, to be honest.’

‘Me! Why?’

‘Because you play chess online, and solve Sudokus at the speed of light, and do Maths in your head. Haven’t you noticed Sophie and Tyler sukkeling with their Sudokus in the common room every evening? They’re both addicted. And it drives them crazy that you’re better than them.’

I catch Steph’s eye and we start to giggle.

‘You’ve got nothing to worry about from those two,’ I say. ‘They probably think you’re some kind of witch. They’d be much too scared to play a trick on you.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘I know I am.’

We’ve reached our respective doors by now. ‘We should probably start unpacking,’ Steph says gloomily. ‘Although I really don’t feel like it.’

‘I know, me too. Unpacking is the pits. Let’s go and get it over with.’

******

I step into my room and shut the door. Then I fling myself down on my bed and close my eyes. A moment later I open them again.

Nope. The fairies haven’t miraculously unpacked my bags yet.

Damn.

I haul myself to my feet and get started.

As I open an empty drawer and start loading T-shirts into it, I suddenly realise what this reminds me of. It feels weirdly like the beginning of the year, when saying goodbye to my dad was enough to reduce me to tears.

It’s amazing what a difference a few months can make. Now the thought of bursting into tears is the furthest thing from my mind. Somehow, Somerset House has started feeling like home, and home has started feeling like a place to visit in the holidays.
This is where I belong now, I realise. This is where I feel most comfortable.

Then I catch a glimpse of those vacation-reading packs peeking out from under the huge pile of magazines on my desk. A squirmy uneasiness ripples through my tummy.

This could all end in November, a little voice in my head reminds me. On some level I’ve always known this, but it has never felt real until now.

This could all end in November.

When I pack up my room to go home at the end of the year, it could be for the last time ever. Instead of wishing my friends a happy Christmas and saying stuff like, ‘See you next year,’ I might be saying, ‘Have a nice life and see you possibly never.’

And then what? What exactly would I do next? A secretarial course, maybe. Become an au pair, perhaps. I’d be good at it, that’s for sure. I’d be a brilliant au pair, and probably get snapped up really quickly.

But that’s not the point.

Baby-sitting was always something I did on the side. To make extra money. It was never supposed to be my career. Looking after other people’s children was meant to be practice for looking after my own children one day. The children I was going to have with my glamorous, successful husband. The one I’d meet during my exciting, fun-filled university career.

I can’t quite bring myself to believe that the whole dream is on the verge of collapsing.

If you hang around certain people long enough you start believing you’re entitled to what they have. When I was growing up I used to watch the parade of sleek, ultra-groomed corporate wives doing the school run in the mornings. They all had immaculate French manicures, designer clothes, and brand new SUVs. I thought their lives were perfect and couldn’t wait to join their ranks.

And now that I’m at varsity, I hang out with students who pass their exams first time around and get distinctions for their assignments. I’m on a first name basis with staff members who have postgraduate degrees and get invited to deliver memorial lectures. And now I’ve start thinking that I can do this too. That I’m one of them. That I might actually graduate one day.

Who am I trying to kid?

I’m nothing like them. Nothing. I scraped through matric by the skin of my teeth, just as Dad said. Mainly thanks to a combination of good luck and good study guides.

But am I really ready to give up the dream? To go back to Joburg with my tail between my legs and admit that my parents were right all along – that I never really belonged at university?

Am I ready to go out and get myself some mediocre qualification so I can join the ranks of the poorly paid? And forget that I ever associated on equal terms with people who do long division in their heads and get invited to give guest lectures?

God, I’m depressing myself. And I’m starting to go around in circles.

What I need to do right now do is SMS Tyson and see if he wants to go out tonight. That’ll put me in a better frame of mind. No one can stay depressed for long when they’re with the Fun Doctor.

Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Tell us: What do you think of Trinity going out instead of studying?