Next morning and I’m at school, lined up with the teachers for assembly. Standing beside Veronica as usual.

“So, Tiny?” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth. She’s wearing some weird purple cloak today. “So how’s it going with Gordon?”

“It’s over. I dumped him,” I whisper back. I try not to show how sad that makes me.

Veronica is shocked. She shakes her dreads at me. “You can’t keep dumping guys! Soon there will be none left, girlfriend! You’ll be an old maid, left on the shelf with nobody. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

But Mrs Zondo, our Head, is clearing her throat loudly, ready to start with the morning greeting and prayer. So Veronica has to stop nagging me.

Yet I know what she says is true. Maybe I will never get my happy ending? My happily-ever-after? Maybe I’ll wake up one day and I’ll be fifty and all alone with no husband and no children. Like Miss July, our librarian. And all because I can’t bear the way my boyfriends gaze at my kid sister!

Today is going to be a long, hard day for me.

“Good morning, everyone!” I stand in front of my class, smiling, even though I am feeling really miserable now.

They smile back at me: Sanette and Thabo. And Naledi and Themma and Michael and all the rest of them. And that cheers me up a little. They are lovely children, even Thabo. And I am lucky to have a job like this. Lucky and blessed.

I say, “Get your maths books and your pencils and rulers. Today we are going to learn measurement – outside!” At least I can make life fun for them, even if my life is a disaster.

And yes, there on the soccer field in the sunshine, my class has a great time: measuring blades of grass, measuring leaves. And the soccer posts. And each other. Carefully they write down the measurements, like little scientists.

“Miss!” Thabo yells. “Miss, I’m trying to measure this cricket, but he won’t keep still.”

I go to kneel beside Thabo.

“Miss Maswabi!”

I hear my name called out. I look up from where I am kneeling on the grass. And there is our Head. Beside her is a tall man in jeans and an un-ironed, washed-out T-shirt. I can’t see his face. It is hidden behind a large, expensive-looking camera.

“Miss Maswabi, this is Mr Tom Dube from the newspapers. He is doing an article on local schools.”

Mr Tom Dube lowers his camera. He reaches out his hand and lifts me to my feet.

He says, “This is stunning, children having fun while they learn! I have some great shots. I wish I’d had a teacher like you back in my school days, Miss Maswabi.”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer!

I leave my hand where it is, in his hand. And I am gazing at him the way my ex-boyfriends gazed at my sister. Like he is the Eighth Wonder of the World.

***

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