Juffrou du Plessis would be waiting, with all the righteous wrath of the Afrikaner nation. I’d rather she unleashed it without an audience. I was not that lucky. I had to sit in my desk and endure the stares and remarks of the rest of the class as they trickled in. While The Sunday Times would have done well to sell ten copies in Leopold, there was no doubt that everyone would have heard about it. Elmarie marched up to me. ‘My dad says, he says –’ ‘I don’t care what your father says,’ I cut her off. ‘Leave me alone.’ Xanthe was nowhere to be seen. Juffrou arrived, and made a point of ignoring me as she distributed a pile of excercise books. My palms were sweaty. There was a ringing in my ears. Juffrou was now at the top of our row. Elmarie and Esna turned around in anticipation. As Juffrou reached my desk, Xanthe appeared and sank down next to me, out of breath. ‘Jammer[*], Juffrou.’ Xanthe attempted an apology in stuttering Afrikaans. But Juffrou only had eyes for me.
