There’s no time to go back to res for lunch so I shoot off to Kaif to grab a Tab and a salad roll. I’m too nervous to be hungry, but I’ve got that jittery, headachy feeling that tells me my blood sugar could do with a boost.

I keep my head down and try not to make eye contact with anyone. The last thing I want is to start chatting to someone. I have this horrible fear that I might suddenly start blabbing everything to the first person I meet. Like that feeling you get when you’re standing on a cliff and a little voice in your head tells you to jump. And the more your brain says what a really bad idea it would be, the more the little voice urges you to try it anyway.

All in all, the best thing I can do is get back to the Admin Block as quickly as possible before I have the chance to do something stupid. So even though there are still ten minutes of the lunch break left, I hurry back to Room 301. The door is standing slightly ajar. I’m not the only one who came back from lunch early.

Professor Ashton-Smith, Mrs Wilson, Farouk, and the sound-recording technician are all sitting around the table drinking coffee from plastic cups. I’m about to go in and join them when I hear Mrs Wilson say my name. They’re talking about me.

Hmm.

Okay … I know that listening at doors is a big no-no, all right? On the one hand, it’s rude, and on the other hand, everyone knows that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves.

But still, that doesn’t stop me from creeping up to the door and standing there with my ears flapping.

‘How could you have failed that poor girl on every single essay?’ Mrs Wilson is scolding Farouk. ‘Surely you could have found something good in them?’

‘There was plenty of good in them,’ Farouk protests. ‘They were just sloppy and disorganised, and approximately a quarter of the length they needed to be.’

‘But she seems like such a bright little thing.’

‘She is bright,’ I hear Farouk say. ‘She likes to pretend she doesn’t have a brain, but she does. And it’s a good one too. She just needs to dust it off and use it occasionally.’

I hear the deeper rumble of Prof. Ashton-Smith’s voice.

‘… hard to believe that the child of two such prominent parents can be such an under-achiever.’

‘I think that may actually be part of the prob—’.

‘Ahem …’

I nearly jump out of my skin. The lab rat has sneaked up behind me and scared the living crap out of me.

‘Listening at doors, Miss Luhabe?’ he says, smirking. ‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ Still grinning, he pushes past me and goes into the room. I follow with my tail between the legs.

As I sit down and switch off my phone, my mind is in a whirl. So Farouk thinks I have a good brain, does he? But that I need to dust it off and use it occasionally?

Bloody cheek! I shoot him the dirtiest look I’m capable of.

He looks completely mystified to see me looking so fierce and gives me a tiny, palms-up shrug.

‘You know,’ says Mrs Wilson who has been watching us with bright interest. ‘Even if you two haven’t been in a relationship before now, you should really think about getting it together when this is all over. There’s an amazing chemistry between you. I’m very intuitive, you know, and I can always tell.’

‘All right, that’s enough!’ huffs Professor Ncuba, bustling into the room. ‘This is a disciplinary hearing, not a Mills and Boon novel. Let’s get on with it. Mr O’Malley – you may proceed.’

Everyone settles down and the lab rat turns his nasty little pink eyes onto me.

‘So, Miss Luhabe!’ he says, giving the table a bang. ‘You would have this inquiry believe that nothing has ever happened between you and the respondent?’

‘I …’

‘And that the concerned witness we have heard from who claims she saw you and the respondent kissing, hugging and holding hands on several occasions in public places is completely deluded?’

‘She …’

‘And that it is a total coincidence that the respondent decided to switch you to a different tutorial with such furtive haste. And furthermore, that you and the respondent haven’t exchanged so much as a single SMS this entire year!’

I am so startled by his aggression that for a moment I can’t think of a single thing to say. Then Farouk’s voice cuts into the silence.

‘Is there a question buried in all that bluster?’ he asks with mild interest.

‘Quite,’ Professor Ncuba agrees. ‘Mr O’Malley, don’t rant at the witness. If you have a question to ask, ask it.’

‘Yes, sir. Miss Luhabe, I put it to you that we have an eyewitness who sat in this very room and described how she had observed you and the respondent kissing and canoodling in public on several occasions. What do you have to say to that?’

‘If your witness goes by the name of Sophie Agincourt, I’d say she’s lying,’ I say crossly. ‘And I can tell you exactly why too.’

‘We’re not interested in your personal opinion of other witnesses.’

‘But this is really important, sir,’ I say, turning to Professor Ncuba. ‘It’s the whole reason we’re here. If I can just explain it to you, you’ll understand where this ridiculous case comes from.’

‘You may proceed, Miss Luhabe. But no mudslinging, please.’

‘Okay, sure. Thanks. You see, Sophie and I have been at school together since we were six years old. And we’ve been feuding since we were eleven. She’s never forgiven me for winning the Miss Sandton title when we were kids.’

‘The Miss Sandton title?’

‘It was this kiddies’ beauty pageant thing. It might not seem like much now, but it meant a lot to us then. Sophie couldn’t handle being made First Princess while I was the actual winner. So she launched a dirty tricks campaign against me. And over the years, it’s just got worse and worse. That’s what this accusation against Farouk is all about. It’s her latest attempt to get back at me.’

‘But this is a serious matter,’ Prof Ncuba says, looking concerned. ‘Lying to this hearing is tantamount to perjury. Why would anyone do such a thing?’

‘It’s been a very nasty feud,’ I say vaguely. ‘On both sides.’

To be honest, I’d rather not go into the whole sugar-in-the-petrol-tank thing unless I absolutely have to. It wasn’t my finest hour, and it’s not something I’m proud of.

‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think that if Farouk and I had been getting cosy in public all year long, there might be just one other person in the whole of Grahamstown who saw us?’

‘The mere fact that nobody else is testifying at this inquiry doesn’t mean that you weren’t seen,’ the lab rat says repressively.
‘Then I guess it boils down to this. Who are you going to believe – me or the bitch from hell?’

Mrs Wilson muffles a giggle, but Professor Ncuba looks stern.

‘There’s no need for that kind of language, Miss Luhabe. This inquiry is perfectly capable of making up its own mind about the credibility of witnesses.’

‘The part I’m really struggling with,’ says the lab rat. ‘Is this idea that nothing has ever happened between you and the respondent.’

‘We have never been involved in any kind of relationship besides that of student and tutor,’ I say stubbornly.

‘So you are prepared to swear under oath to this inquiry that your feelings for this man are completely platonic?’ He makes a sweeping gesture towards Farouk, whose face is set like stone.

‘I …’ I hesitate.

Scenting weakness, he moves in for the kill.

‘You’re under oath, Miss Luhabe. Remember that.’

I look desperately around the table for help. But not even Mrs Wilson is smiling at me now. Is this what it’s come down to? Can you really get into trouble just for having feelings?

‘Could you answer the question please, Miss Luhabe?’

‘No,’ I say at last.

‘No, what?’

‘No, I’m not prepared to swear that.’ I slump a little in my seat. ‘Because it isn’t true.’

As I watch, the prosecutor’s face breaks into a big, self-satisfied smile.

******

Oh God, I am so tired.

I’m more tired than I have ever been in my life. The temptation just to lay my head down on this desk right now, and nod off to dreamland is so strong it’s like a compulsion I have to fight.

My eyes are bloodshot. My skin is sallow and pasty. I barely recognised the person I saw in the mirror this morning. I’ve been downing Red Bull like it’s Liqui-Fruit for the last three weeks. The heart palpitations don’t even scare me any more.

Day and night have got all jumbled up in my mind. I sleep when I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, regardless of what time it is.

But right now it’s 8.30 am. And when I get out of this chair again, it will be 11.30 am.

There’s a lot of sniffing, coughing, and shuffling going on as the last papers are handed out. If these people don’t settle down and shut up soon, I may just have to kill someone.

In front of me are three pieces of paper – stapled together and turned face down. My fingers itch to turn them over, but I have to wait for the signal. I look up and catch Steph’s eye. She is sitting two rows to the right of me, and looking as fresh as a daisy. I guess I would be too if I’d spent last night soaking in a bubblebath with a paperback, before getting my ten hours of beauty sleep.

She gives me a discreet little thumbs-up, and I smile wanly back.

Kealiboga is sitting a few chairs behind Steph. I’m pleased to see that she, at least, looks almost as bad as I feel.

‘That’ll do, ladies and gentlemen!’ Professor Ashton-Smith’s voice booms out from the front of the Great Hall. The noise dies down instantly. ‘You have three hours, starting from now. You may turn your papers over. And good luck!’

I scrabble at the exam paper. My fingers are shaking so badly, I can hardly turn it over. Finally I manage it, and my eyes leap to the first question.

‘Discuss Yeats’s use of aphorism in the first two stanzas of the following poem.’

Yeats again.

He’s been following me around all year.

Okay. Deep breath.

I recognise the poem. That’s got to be a good start, right?

But what the bloody, fucking hell does ‘aphorism’ mean? Did I miss a memo? Or, more likely, a lecture? Why couldn’t they have asked about metaphor or alliteration, or one of the other words I have managed to cram into my head in the last few weeks?

Little flutterings of panic are beginning to beat against my chest. My lips are trembling and my eyes are filling with tears. I swallow hard and pick up a pen in my clammy hand.

Then I put my head down. And I start to write.

Tell us: How do you think Trinity will do?