Okay, it is now official. Farouk is definitely avoiding me.

I’ve been back at varsity for nearly a month now, and in all that time he’s barely said two words to me. I know it’s not unusual for tutors to have a distant relationship with their students, but I also know I wasn’t imagining the closeness that was developing between us.

So I’ve decided to do something about it. I’m going to stay behind after class one day and see if I can break the ice. Because that’s all I want – just to get back on good terms with him. I know nothing can ever come of it, but that’s fine. I just can’t stand having him ignoring me like this.

When Tuesday morning arrives, I try to be the last one to leave his class. This isn’t easy because he’s such a popular teacher. The students always cluster around his desk to chat. I pack up my things in slow motion and loiter in the background, waiting for the crowds to clear. I’m going to be late for my next lecture, but that’s just tough. I’ve been planning this for days. I’ve even got a real, work-related question to ask him.

At last everyone else has started drifting away. Tyler and Vuyo are always the last to leave, but even they have now finally pushed off. It’s just him and me.

I’m feeling stupidly nervous – as if I’m about to ask him out on a date or something. Which is ridiculous. I’m just a student asking her tutor for help. It’s no big deal – that’s what he’s there for.

But then he turns around and spots me for the first time, and I suddenly realise that it is a big deal. A look of panic comes into his face. His eyes dart towards the exit, as though he’s measuring his escape route.

What are you so afraid of? I want to shout at him. I’m not here to mug you and steal your Collected Works of Shakespeare. I just want to ask you a question.

But I don’t. Instead I force myself to smile non-threateningly and pull a creased worksheet out of my bag.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ I say politely. ‘But I’ve been having some trouble with our next poetry assignment. I’ve chosen the topic on Struggle poets, but there’s something I don’t understand about it.’

He takes a deep breath and forces himself look at the worksheet I’m holding out to him. He takes it from me with the tips of his fingers, about as enthusiastically as you might remove a stick from the mouth of a slavering boerbul.

‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘It’s this concept of “hegemony”. I’ve looked it up in the dictionary and everything, but I still don’t really understand it. And I especially don’t understand what it has to do with this essay topic.’

I smile at him expectantly, waiting for him to launch into an explanation that will make everything clear for me. But instead he reaches behind him like a magician and pulls a photocopied article out of thin air.

‘Here,’ he says, almost throwing it at me. ‘This will give you everything you need.’

I stare at it blankly.

‘Er … thanks. But couldn’t you possibly just break it down for me quickly …?’

‘No time, I’m afraid,’ he says, edging towards the door. ‘I have to be at a seminar in ten minutes. A very … important seminar.’

I know he’s lying, because all the classes start at the same time, and this one started five minutes ago. He’s just trying to get away from me.

My face falls in disappointment

‘Okay. Well, sorry to keep you.’ I stuff the article he’s just given me into my bag and follow him to the door.

His eyes soften for a moment.

‘I’m sorry, Trinity,’ he says, looking at me properly for the first time. ‘Any other time. Just … not now.’

And then he’s gone, striding down the corridor on his long legs. Putting as much distance between us as he can.

I stare in frustration at his retreating back. I know I should be feeling hurt or rejected, but what I’m mainly feeling is steaming mad. How dare he treat me like this? How dare he?

Does he really think I’m so desperate that it’s not safe to be alone in a room with me for five minutes? It’s enough to make me wish I had a boyfriend. That’d take the wind out of his sails.

My heart sinks as I remember what a disaster my last attempt at finding a boyfriend was. No way am I going through that blind date thing again.

But I don’t have to, I remind myself. I’ll just meet guys the old-fashioned way. It’s not like I haven’t had any opportunities. I’ve just been closing myself off to them. Well, that ends right here, right now. No more giving the cold shoulder to perfectly nice guys just because they don’t happen to have black ponytails and kind eyes.

I’m going to get out there and hook up with the first semidecent guy I see.

******

I don’t, of course. I’m not quite that desperate.

But I do drop my guard and open myself up to meeting new people. And I manage to stop thinking about Farouk so much. Yesterday I went three whole hours without thinking about him once. That’s got to be progress, right?

Now it’s the weekend and, frankly if you haven’t managed to score by Sunday night in Grahamstown, you’re just not trying. I wake up on Saturday feeling all energised and optimistic.

God, I love Saturday mornings.

They are officially my favourite time of the whole week. The great thing about Saturday morning is that you get to talk about what happened on Friday night. Which, in a way, is even more fun than Friday night itself.

There’s plenty of headline news to be discussed after last night, I remember happily. Like Steph getting off with a guy the whole evening. And going home with him afterwards. She is such a dark horse. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

A few of us have got into the habit of meeting for breakfast every Saturday morning at a place called the Juice Bar on High Street. We meet at eleven o’clock to try to accommodate everyone’s different biorhythms. It’s a bit late for Tyson and me – the early birds of the group – but a bit early for Steph who would sleep until the afternoon if we let her. It’s perfect for Kealiboga who usually spends the night at Bongani’s place on a Friday and is ready for some space by eleven o’clock.

Other people sometimes join us, but it’s the four of us who make up the hardcore who never miss a breakfast. Soraya and Tayla pop in when they feel like it, and even Tyler and Sophie have been known to put in an appearance.

This never fails to amaze Steph. She can’t get her head around the way Sophie and I manage to stay friends on the surface while actually being mortal enemies underneath.

I just tell her we’ve had a lot of practice at it – like our entire lives.

‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, eh?’ she said.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed after a pause.

Don’t you hate it when people do that? Just throw quotations into the conversation without saying where they come from? Personally, it drives me nuts. You know it sounds vaguely familiar, but you have no idea who said it – Paris Hilton or Shakespeare?

I glance at my alarm clock when I wake up on Saturday morning. It’s nine o’clock. Could be worse, I suppose. Only two hours to go until breakfast. Even I should be able to hold out that long.

My eyes slide towards the desk drawer that contains the snack bars I keep for emergencies. No. I’m not going to go there. If I eat something now, I won’t enjoy my breakfast later. And the Juice Bar makes the best egg-and-bacon paninis in the world.

‘Down, boy,’ I order as Simba starts to wake up and stretch. He flops down again, disappointed.

I kill some time by giving myself a face pack and a hair mask. Soon it’s half past ten, and time to kick Steph awake. I used to make the mistake of waking her up in plenty of time to get ready. But then I found out that she was just rolling over and going back to sleep. So now I burst into her room, shake her by the shoulder, and scream in her ear, ‘It’s half past ten! You’re late!’ Then I sit back and watch as she makes a dash for the showers as though her bed is on fire.

She definitely functions better under pressure.

Twenty minutes later she’s all dressed and ready to go.

My spirits rise as we head out into the mild morning. There’s a definite Spring-like feeling in the air, even though it’s only mid-August. I’m getting a bit tired of Winter in Grahamstown, to be honest. At least in Jozi the sun always shines.

I spend the whole walk trying to pump Steph for info about the guy she was with last night, but she refuses to dish, claiming she wants to wait until we’re all together.

‘Look,’ says Steph as we get close to the Juice Bar. ‘They’re already there.’

I follow her gaze and see Tyson and Kealiboga waving at us through a window.

‘Well, what do you expect?’ I say, tapping my watch. ‘We’re already – what? – thirty seconds late? Of course they’re already here.’

We both start to giggle.

Tyson and Kealiboga are punctual to the point of obsessiveness. We’re learning not to hold it against them.

‘How’re you doing, guys?’ says Kealiboga as we reach the table. Tyson jumps to his feet and gives us each a kiss on both cheeks.

The girls have finally admitted that I’m right about him. Not that they took much convincing. For Steph it was the realisation that he knows more about handbags than she does. And for Kealiboga it was the time she caught him checking out her boyfriend.

The only person who doesn’t seem to have realised it is Tyson himself. I’m starting to wonder whether something shouldn’t be done about this.

‘Those are new,’ Tyson says, indicating Steph’s shoes as she sits down. ‘Very nice.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ she says modestly. ‘They’re just local. Nothing special really.’

‘I know. They’re Froggies, aren’t they? I bet you got them in Durban at that new shop in the Pavilion. Very flattering. They give your calf a nice length.’

‘Thanks,’ Steph says, beaming. Compliments from Tyson aren’t that easy to come by.

We’re chatting away at full speed when the waiter comes up to take our orders. We haven’t even looked at the menus yet, but that doesn’t matter. We all know what we want.

I ask for the egg-and-bacon panini, Steph orders two croissants with butter and apricot jam, and Kealiboga has the full farmhouse fry-up with a stack of flapjacks and the bakery basket. And Mr Body Conscious orders a bowl of unsweetened, organic, low-GI granola, followed by an egg-white omelette.

The first time he tried to place this order the waiter looked at him as though he’d come from Mars. They’d never even heard of low-GI granola or egg-white omelettes. But Tyson had a word in the manager’s ear and now they make it for him every Saturday. It’s become one of their best-selling breakfasts.

‘And a small glass of freshly-squeezed OJ, thanks!’ Tyson says, flashing the waiter his best Aquafresh smile. The poor guy blushes visibly. I’ve been suspecting for weeks that he has a secret crush on Tyson.

After he’s gathered up our menus and left, I turn impulsively to Tyson.

‘You know, that guy would be absolutely perfect for y-…’

I manage to stop myself from finishing the sentence.

‘Perfect for what?’ Tyson asks, looking puzzled.

‘Um …’

I can feel myself blushing.

‘Perfect as a movie double for Zac Ephron?’ I suggest lamely. ‘He’s got the look, don’t you think?’

Steph and Kealiboga are biting their lips to stop themselves from laughing. But Tyson doesn’t even seem to notice. He is watching our waiter who’s now attending to another table.

‘You know,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Now that you mention it, he does. It’s the hair mainly. I wonder how long it takes him to get it like that.’

I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

I swear to God, if Tyson doesn’t come out soon, I’m going to end up a nervous wreck.

‘So!’ Tyson says dramatically as our food arrives. ‘Enough with the chit-chat. It’s confession time, Miss O’Farrel! Who was that boy we saw you schnacking on last night?’

We all sit up and lean forward. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for.

‘Well?’ I say.

But all Steph manages to produce is a strangled noise and a light shower of croissant crumbs over the table.

‘Ah, sweeeeet!’ says Kealiboga. ‘She’s blushing. Check.’

Steph’s cheeks are crimson. She finishes chewing her mouthful and swallows.

‘Stop it, you guys …’ she croaks.

‘Less of that, young lady,’ Tyson says briskly. ‘We want to know all the details. Who is he? Where does he come from? What’s he studying? Does he like to do it doggy-style?’

We collapse into giggles. Steph turns an even deeper shade of red.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she says with dignity. ‘We didn’t get that far.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Kealiboga teases. ‘We saw you lunging at him in the Rat. And again at that digs party. Don’t tell us you didn’t stay at his place afterwards.’

‘Hey! I slept in my own bed last night, thank you very much. As Trinity will testify.’

‘True,’ I confirm. ‘Disappointing, but true.’

‘He’s majoring in Maths and Philosophy,’ Steph blurts out. ‘What a cool combination, right? That’s, like, the best of the physical sciences and the best of the human sciences. He reckons he’s the only person at Rhodes taking that combination of majors. I’ve never met anyone like him before.’

I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.

‘So what’s his name?’ I ask. ‘Stephen Hawking the Second?’

‘Paul!’ she announces rapturously. ‘Paul Clarke.’ She says it the way you or I might say, ‘Johnny Depp.’

‘He’s not exactly your usual type …’ Kealiboga says cautiously.

We exchange glances. This is definitely true. Steph has always been completely fixated on looks. If a guy wasn’t a perfect ten, she had no time for him.

‘I didn’t know what my type was until now,’ she says dreamily. ‘But Paul is nice-looking, don’t you think?’

We all nod our heads up and down.

‘Absolutely!’ I say.

‘Definitely!’ says Kealiboga.

‘He has very nice … um … eyes,’ adds Tyson for good measure.

Okay, so we’re lying.

But you don’t dis your friend’s new boyfriend, right?

The truth is that when I saw Steph getting cosy with Paul last night, I thought someone had slipped something funny into my drink. He’s not exactly what you’d call a hunk of burning love. In fact, he’s tall, thin and weedy-looking with lots of thick, straight blonde hair that creeps over the tips of his ears like a thatched roof. He wears bottle-top glasses and has a mouthful of teeth that have never seen the inside of an orthodontist’s office.

But he does look intelligent. I’ll give you that. If I wanted somebody to explain A Brief History of Time to me, he’d be my number-one choice. And, yes, his eyes are brown and quite nice.

‘When are you seeing him again?’ I ask.

‘This afternoon,’ Steph says happily. ‘He and a friend are going down to Port Alfred after lunch, and he’s invited me to go with them.’

‘Three of you?’ says Tyson. ‘Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Won’t the friend feel a bit left out with the two of you sucking face at every opportunity?’
Steph hesitates for a moment. Then she says in a rush, ‘Well, yes, but he’ll have Trinity to talk to, won’t he? So I expect he’ll be fine.’

‘Um, excuse me?’ I protest. ‘He’ll have who to talk to?’

‘Oh, please Trinity!’ she begs. ‘Pretty please. It’s just for one afternoon. You know I never ask you for favours …’

I give a loud, fake cough.

‘Okay, so maybe I sometimes do ask you for favours. But this is different. This is a matter of life and death. Paul and I could have such an awesome time sitting on the beach watching the sun sink into the ocean …’

‘The sun rises out of that ocean,’ I say snippily. ‘It’s the east coast, remember?’

‘Okay, whatever! But we’ll still have the most wonderful, romantic time if you’ll only come along and keep his friend busy.’

I sigh. This is so not how I planned to spend Saturday afternoon. But I already know I’m going to say yes.

‘Who is this friend anyway?’ I ask.

Steph gives me a grateful smile. ‘He sounds like a real go-getter!’ she says eagerly. ‘Just the kind of guy you’d like to meet. Paul says he’s really dynamic and successful.’

Hmm. Maybe this doesn’t sound too bad after all. I keep forgetting that I’m trying to meet new guys. The old Trinity would have found fault with this guy in the first five minutes. The new Trinity is going to give him a chance.

I start scrabbling in my bag for my wallet.

‘Right, let’s get the bill,’ I say briskly. ‘If I’m going to the beach this afternoon, I need some more sun-block. And maybe those espadrilles I saw in Truworths.’

Tell us: Would you give him a chance?