Jaz & Miguel (18 page)

And he had only been a little boy, after all. Little boys make
mistakes. Don't they?

(But he'd showed her. Oh yes he did.)

When all was said and done, and as much as he'd hated being called
The
Devil
, there'd also been a certain sense of power that came with the name,
a tinge of fear in those who uttered it. And
that
he didn't mind.
Because the name he'd been called before that had carried no fear whatsoever on
the part of those who used it; and
that
name, he categorically
abhorred!

Because if there was one thing Abbey wasn't, it was a liar.

He always told the truth.

Always
.

And that girl never called him a liar again after that day.

Boy did he show her.

They left early in the morning, two days after Elize's parents had
called.

After passing the Spurs Steakhouse and Superspar convenience store
that Jaz recognized from Elize's neighborhood, she knew their eleven hours on
the road would soon be over. They'd decided to go straight to her place and face
the music—all four of them. Miguel would drop her car off for her the next day.
Jaz was relieved. She was relieved the two days were over and that the drive
was over and that the whole lying to Elize's parents would soon be over because
Miguel seemed to have disappeared into a world where she didn't exist, ever
since that call from Elize's father. Granted, the house they'd been staying in hadn't
allowed for privacy—that she understood—but there were other places they
could've gone. It's not like they were sleeping together (or even taking their
clothes off) so they could've gone behind a rock or kissed on the beach under
the moonlight or even just behind a tree. They'd done it a few times in
Umhlanga. The whole thing had been … daring. And Miguel had enjoyed it as much
as she had—so it hadn't been because of embarrassment or fear that he'd stopped
touching and kissing her as passionately as before.

Heck, they could've even asked Sandile and Elize to go out for a
walk for a while like they had done for them.

The whole thing with Elize's parents had obviously just been too
much for him. So, soon it would all be over and done with and they could all
just move on with their lives!

Growling dogs scraped their nails against the concrete fencing of
Elize's neighbors' houses when they arrived. At least Elize had no dogs. Her wrought-iron
gate squeaked as she opened it, and the three of them followed her in.

They were thirty minutes early—and two days late.

Jaz turned to close the gate and heard Elize's front door opening.
For a moment, she had a flash of some of those western films she'd seen and
imagined a man standing with a gun at the door asking,
Who goes there?
But this was no western. Something about not knowing what they were
about to face had kept Jaz quiet for most of the trip.

When she turned, Miguel, Elize and Sandile were frozen still,
looking at the two figures standing at the door, backlit by a golden light.
They seemed less angry than Jaz had expected.

Elize's father had made her nervous the first time she'd met him—and
also now. He was a big man in both height and width. He had a thick, white
beard which was well-trimmed. Her mother, on the other hand, was a petite brunette
who kept her hair in a bun and who dressed plainly. When Jaz had come to their
house, Elize's mom had been in the kitchen, and she'd served the drinks.

They were traditional people, and Jaz could respect that.

Elize's father's eyes glowed with anger, but her mother held onto
his arm at the door and ...
smiled
? Yes, she was
smiling. It was a faint smile, but unmistakably friendly.

"You must be Sandile," she said, extending her hand out to
him.

As the four of them climbed the steps of the porch and approached
the door, Elize's father's voice boomed at them, saying something Jaz could not
understand. Miguel's hand tightened against Jaz's. "Jaz," Elize's
father then said, his eyes frowning down in disappointment, "you will also
wait outside while we talk to Sandile and to our daughter. Alone."

Jaz felt a pang of thick guilt inside her. She swallowed and nodded.

Sandile looked back, his eyes wide with surprise. He did not grab
Elize's hand, but stayed by her side.

"I will bring you both something to drink," said Elize's
mom quietly once the rest had gone inside.

When the mother went away, Jaz said, "I feel like a slime ball."

"Why?" said Miguel.

"They're obviously not—"

"Here you go," said Elize's mom, carrying a tray with a
pitcher of orange juice and two glasses.

Miguel thanked her in Afrikaans, but that was a word Jaz could never
bring herself to use because it literally sounded like
donkey
when she said it. So she just thanked her in English.

"I was saying, they're obviously not going to ... I don't know
...
do
anything to them," she said when
Elize's mom was gone.

Miguel shrugged and drank a full glass of orange juice in one swig,
licking his lips at the end. "Who knows? And if not them …." He
gestured to the neighborhood.

Jaz was angry. She was about to tell Miguel that he was as
prejudiced as he'd accused this family of being when they both heard the
booming voice of Elize's father come from inside.
Jaz stared at Miguel for a moment, then both got up to go to the
nearest window and look in. They crouched underneath it so they wouldn't be
seen through the white gauze curtains.

Elize's father was standing, talking down to Elize and Sandile,
pointing his finger at them.

"Fucking racist," said Miguel. "When this is over,
they'll probably be staying at my place."

Jaz said nothing. She saw Elize's mom ease over toward her husband,
pulling him gently by the arm and sitting him down. Then Sandile, who had his
back to the window, leaned forward and shook his head. He looked at Elize and
was talking. Elize's father's eyes glared at him, but he listened, his wife
caressing his arm as if to ease his tension.

"They look like they're just ... talking," said Jaz.

Miguel had slouched with his back to the wall and his legs stretched
out, but he jumped up and poked his eye through the window again on Jaz's
comment.

He frowned, as if also realizing what Jaz had just realized.

The father's eyes flicked over to the window and they both shot down
below it again as if a bullet had been fired from inside.

Jaz's chest pounded as she looked at the door on her right,
wondering if someone was going to come through it and crap them out for
listening in (although they couldn't hear much of what was being said anyway).
Miguel gestured with his head that they
should go back to the stairs. She crawled on all fours, under the window and to
the stairs. They sat in silence for at least twenty minutes. Then the door
clicked behind them and Jaz gave a jump.

When they turned, there were Sandile and Elize. Elize was smiling,
and Sandile was wide-eyed with surprise.

Elize's mom was also there. "Mr. Van Zyl and I would like to
talk to the two of you now," she said.

Oh ... shit
.

Perhaps it had been that they'd waited two days and so things had
simply calmed down. Although, ultimately, it had become abundantly clear that
color had little to do with their anger—but lying did. Elize's parents told Jaz
and Miguel that so long as Elize was happy, so would they be. Her father said
that—black, white, green or orange (cliché, but sweet of him to say it)—whoever
dated his daughter would need to be, first of all, a
man
, and in that regard, Sandile had failed.

And so had Miguel.

As for Jaz, they had expected more of her and they'd felt, well,
betrayed.

"So, there you have it. Now, in my eyes," said Mr. Van Zyl,
"you are in debt to this family—for lying. And you somehow need to pay
that debt. You need to gain our respect back. But if you do, we will be more
than happy to accept you as friends of our daughter."

Jaz looked at Miguel and wondered what was expected of her.

"So?" asked Mr. Van Zyl.

Miguel shrugged. "I don't know ... sir. What would you like us
to do?"

"Well, my garage needs cleaning. And if I had only asked Sandile
to do it, I might be accused of being a racist. But if
all four of you do it, I will be accused only of being a genius."

Miguel smiled. "You want us to clean ... your garage?"

"Do you have a better idea?" asked Mr. Van Zyl.

Miguel shook his head.

"And then our fence needs painting, and our garden needs a few
flowers—which I believe you have decided to give to us as a gift. Is that not
correct, Mr. Pinto?"

That was clearly a hint.

"Uh—right—of course."

"Yes, that's what my wife told me." He smiled. Mrs. Van
Zyl just sat next to him, saying nothing, her arm interlinked in his. "As
for our neighborhood. Well, people are murdered every day in Johannesburg,
isn't that so? If my daughter truly loves this Sandile, then no one will even
dream of trying anything with us. I would like to think that we have
some
respect
from our community. I don't know what happened with that boy and his girlfriend
any more than you do. For all we know, it could've been an interrupted robbery."

"R—right," choked Miguel.

There were no smiles when they left, but a mutual respect. For
moments of the drive back, Jaz wanted to attack Miguel and Sandile for having
been so ...
racist
. That was the only word to describe it.

A Nickelback CD played on the radio—an old song written when she was
only a kid. She turned the sound up, hoping the heavy rock guitar would push the
tumult of thoughts out of her mind. Miguel eyed her briefly as she did it.

She could tell something was on his mind—just as it had been for the
last few days.

After dropping Sandile off at home and giving each other a handshake
and a half-hug (something Jaz never understood about men), Jaz tried to make
small-talk. "So it went pretty well, don't you think?"

Miguel said nothing, just shrugged.

Jaz looked away from him and back to the road. "Wanna tell me
what's on your mind?"

Miguel heaved in a deep breath, like he was getting ready to say
something important—or arguing with himself as to whether or not he
should
say it. "It's nothing," he finally uttered.

Another few seconds.

Jaz played with her cuticles.

"It's not nothing. What is it? You can tell me."

The track changed—a despicable song about having something in
someone's mouth. Jaz shook her head and crossed her arms. She didn't know if
she'd been aggravated by the lyrics or by the silence.

Finally, Miguel spoke. "Where are we going with this, Jaz? I
mean, you and me."

Her heart stopped.

Suddenly, all the sound she could hear was the sound of the whirring
hum of wheels turning on the road below her, and the wind through her slightly
open window. It was as if the music had disappeared out to nowhere and all that
was left was the yellow light of the highway, Miguel's face lightening and
darkening with each lamppost as they drove past it.

"What ... do you mean?" she asked.

"You're leaving soon. Why should we put ourselves through this?
If it's going to end, why not end it now?"

Jaz felt the world begin to spin. The lampposts in the median
laughed at her, looking down at the inevitability of what was being said inside
Miguel's Toyota.

"Jaz?"

But she wasn't listening any more. Not really. She was just looking
out the window now, her chin beginning to tremble.

"Jaz."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. I just ... don't know what you're trying
to say to ... me." The words felt like clotted blood trying to get out of
a cholesterol-filled artery.

Miguel sighed and she felt the back of her seat push against her as
he pressed down on the gas.

Why hadn't she seen this coming?

Or had she?

"Just like that? You're breaking up with me ...
in the car
?"

"You know my ... history. I just can't bear to lose you if—"

"Fuck your history! This is about me and you—
now
!
" She regretted it the moment she
said it.

He sighed and looked away.

She had no defense. She had nothing to say that would make him
confident they'd stay together—that would make
her
confident.

Had it been the threat of what had happened with Sandile and Elize?
Had the whole thing been too strong a reminder for Miguel of what had happened
to his mother and sister?

And, in truth, was Jaz really willing to live in a country where these
things happened—and where they happened
all
the time?

She knew her answer.

She wasn't.

If anything, Miguel was doing her a favor. Ending it later would be
worse than ending it now. He was right about that.

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, not a single gasp or sound accompanying
them.

Another ten minutes of silence.

Then Miguel said, "Jaz, it's for the best. You just have to
trust me on this."

His voice sounded like the sound of a seagull in the distance. Yes,
a seagull: Durban, Mozambique, just another bunch of dreams.