“You know, Lamulile, you’ve put yourself in this position.” Mrs Mzimbe isn’t giving me the chance to finish my complaint. “This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t seen fit to … expose yourself in such a shameless way.”
“I made a mistake.” Rage is boiling up inside me, but I make a huge effort to sound humble. “One mistake, and I’m sorry for it, but … why do I have to keep on paying for it like this? Being mocked, and groped, and … and …”
“Boys will be boys.” The look she’s giving me is as merciless as her voice. “You can’t expect them not to react after you flaunted yourself so publicly.”
“Privately.” I can’t stop myself correcting her. “That photo was for Dambisa’s eyes only. He betrayed me.”
“Then you were stupid to trust him.”
“Yes, I was stupid.” The bitterness I feel is choking me. “And now I’ll regret it all my life. But how does my mistake excuse what’s happening because of it?”
“Enough.” There’s thunder in her voice now. “Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?”
“Sorry ma’am, sorry,” I mutter, and feel the hot prickle of tears behind my eyes.
She doesn’t say another word, just turns and goes on her way. I should rather have gone to Ms Zwane, but the school rule is that girls with problems go to Mrs Mzimbe.
I say a few angry swear words to stop myself from crying. Then I bend to pick up my bag from where I put it on the ground while I was talking to Mrs Mzimbe.
“Hey, Lamulile.”
It’s Ramano from my class, smiling at me.
“What do you want?” I demand, so tired of it all that I picture myself slapping him, or pushing him. “To tell me I’m a … bitch is today’s word, isn’t it? Or ho? I suppose you took a good look up my skirt when I picked up my bag.”
His face turns serious. “I guess I can’t blame you for thinking that. But I just wanted to ask if you were okay? I heard what that boy did.”
“Right, like I should believe you? When, what did Mrs Mzimbe just tell me? ‘Boys will be boys’. And now I suppose you’re going to come with not all boys?”
“No. Just not me.” He stands his ground.
“Sure, when you’re part of that WhatsApp group of Unandi’s.”
“I left the group as soon as I realised what it was about. I’m just sorry I only looked at my phone very late that night she created it and added me.”
“You still saw the photo. Of me.”
“It wasn’t you.”
What’s he talking about? “It was me,” I insist.
“It was a photo. There’s more to you than what was in that photo.” He shakes his head like he’s impatient with himself, trying to find the right words. “I mean, you’re more than a photo.”
I stare at him, noticing the warmth in his eyes, and the way they stay on my face, not dropping to my breasts or the rest of my body. He has zigzags cut into his short hair, and he’s a bit taller than me, but not too much. He’s the first boy I’ve liked the look of since all this trouble started, but even more than that, I like what he’s saying.
***
Tell us: What does Ramano mean when he says Lamulile is more than a photo?