My name is Olive Wilmien Trighart. I am thirteen years old and I am a girl. I think Wilmien is a terrible name, so don’t ever let me catch you calling me by it, or there will be trouble! I like my first name, though. I think it’s romantic. Plus, I like olives, so I am happy with it.

I live with my father on an apple farm in the fruit-farming district of the greater Cape. We live in a beautiful mountainous area with lots of trees and little rivers. I grew up here too, and I have always loved being outdoors – hiking, climbing, exploring.

When you’re on a farm you can imagine that it is your own country, and you are the queen of it. There are loads of little places to explore.

I’m not going to spend much time describing my childhood here, because it would take too long. Lets just say it was happy. I can use a word here that I learned the other day. It was ‘idyllic’ – which means like a pretty picture in a book. Kind of perfect.

My mother died a year ago today. She was the most beautiful, cool, kind and clever mother in the world, and I’m not just saying that – it’s actually true. My mom was black and my dad is white. I don’t know if that’s important or not, but I think it’s an interesting fact anyway. Also, it explains how I look. My skin is neither dark brown like my mom’s was, nor pink and blushing like my dad’s. It’s a chocolaty mix. If you had to compare it to a chocolate, it would be caramel.

Then there’s my hair. It’s a colour in between brown and gold, is super-curly, and stands up every which way. My mom used to say it was like a wildfire, the way it stood up in points all over my head. I’ve tried to control it but it has a will of its own, so I let it do its thing these days. Plus, I think it looks pretty cool.

The story about how Mom met Dad is too cute for words. I won’t go into too much detail; it could be a whole book. Basically, they met in 1978 when there was still apartheid. My father was all set to inherit the apple farm from his father, Albert. That’s when he fell in love with the cook’s daughter.

Back then all the black people on the farms around here were servants. You weren’t even supposed to be friends with them, let alone date them. He used to take her little love notes to the kitchen door, late at night when everyone was asleep! How romantic?

When his parents found out they utterly flipped. Then the whole town found out and our family became a centre of scandal. I wasn’t born yet but I wish I could have seen it – that love that tore a small town apart.

Dad’s parents sent him away to Canada to be a clerk in his uncle’s accounting firm. They hoped he’d forget her.

He didn’t. He wrote letters using a fake name, and sent them to her mother, who was still the cook. How excited Mom must have felt, unfolding his letters!

He came back after two years and their love was strong as ever. In the meantime his parents had missed him, and regretted their rashness. When he came back it was in 1994 and for the first time South Africa was a democracy and you were allowed to marry anyone, no matter what the colour of their skin. Dad married Mom within one week of stepping through the front door. His parents realised his love was for real. They got married in the apple orchard.

I miss my mom terribly. She was really fun but also very sweet and caring. She was a nurse. She used to work at a clinic in the little town nearby, helping people with all their ailments. She specialised in something called foetal alcohol syndrome, which is when babies are born with problems because their mom was drinking too much when she was pregnant. There is a problem with that in the countryside here. I don’t know why but one day I am going to find out.

My father is getting married again. Her name is Priscilla Meiring and I hate her. She has very light blonde hair that is almost white. She wears it long and it is full of fake extensions. She says the colour is ‘platinum’ but I can see her roots. Priscilla is mean. She pretends to be lovely and nice, but she is mean.

I’m not sure if she knows that I know. When my father is around she pinches her face into a smile and pretends to love me, but anyone with eyes can tell that it’s fake. The only reason my father can’t tell is that he has started drinking a bit too much since my mother died. He’s not a drunk or anything. He just looks so tired and bored and depressed. I’ve tried to talk him out of it but nothing works. And now Priscilla is in the mix. She’s moved in.

Priscilla has a dog. It is a Dobermann and it is at least twice as big as any dog I have ever seen. Its name is Cornelius. She must have given it steroids when it was growing up. I wouldn’t be surprised. It looks more like a monster than a dog. She goes everywhere with it. When she drives she lets it sit on the front seat and calls it ‘Mr Prince’. I have to sit in the back.

I’m terrified of it and have never touched it. I’m even scared to look it in the eyes. Its eyes are darting and mad, and the pink rims around them gross me out big time. The dog is basically too terrifying to even describe properly.

And now Dad has gone away until next Saturday on a business trip, to promote our special ‘Emerald’ apples. Today is only Tuesday and I am left alone with Priscilla and her vicious dog.

I just know something bad is going to happen.

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Tell us what you think: What is going to happen now that Olive’s dad is away?