Mine. S.A Partridge

      Finlay

      LANSDOWNE, MONDAY

      I don’t believe in heroes. Or God. But Thor – now there’s someone I can respect. Strong. Angry. Invincible. The guy can control lightning. They say that when it storms, it’s just Thor fighting giants.

      I sit on the ground with my back against the vibracrete wall, the whole backyard laid out before me. My kingdom of dead grass, bare trees and disintegrating plastic lawn furniture. If it isn’t the ugliest backyard in Lansdowne, then I don’t know what is.

      I finish rolling the translucent Rizla paper between my fingers and press the joint between my lips while I hunt for the lighter in my pockets. Once it’s lit, I puff the joint to life, inhale deeply and let out the smoke through my nostrils like a dragon. Even though it’s cold outside, I smoke the joint all the way to the end, then snuff it out between my fingers. They’re so calloused and brown that I feel nothing.

      It’s my first joint of the morning. I’ll probably go through three or four more before the day ends.

      While I’m still floating, I head back to the house to scrounge for food. I have to wear shoes because the last time I walked in here barefoot, I cut my foot on a broken beer bottle. Everything is sticky, like the dirt is alive and spreading, trying to colonise the rest of the house. I notice the bottom of the broom cupboard has been eaten away by mice. Sometimes I’ll find their crap at the bottom of bowls and mugs.

      Filth grows in filth. Like us.

      I grab a half-empty bottle of flat Coke and a leftover Steers burger from the fridge. At least my gig money keeps me fed every night.

      My old man doesn’t give a shit.

      I shove the entire burger in my mouth and swallow it down with gulps of cooldrink.

      It’s only when I grab my bag that I remember I haven’t done my homework. Again. At this rate, I’m going to have to repeat matric a third time, which would be a first for Balmoral High. I put my earphones into my ears. The bass-heavy dubstep thunders inside my skull, silencing the outside world. I close my eyes for a second, imagining I’m at a club, the lights blinking, the strobes blinding, jumping in the middle of the sweaty crowd. That’s where I’d rather be.

      I haul my bag over my shoulder and head out, slamming the door behind me. Hopefully it wakes up the old man.

      As I walk to school, I pull my beanie down over my head and pop the collar of my blazer to hide the fresh bruise on my face. I resist the urge to light up another spliff.

      THE ONLY DOWNSIDE of being stoned at school is that it makes the day slow down to a standstill. I just want to make music. I’m the only member of the crew who’s still in school, which completely sucks. Brendan finished three years ago, which makes me feel like the world’s biggest loser. But it’s my own fault for being such a dumb-ass. This is a self-inflicted prison sentence.

      I get through the day by reciting lyrics under my breath. A couple of people ask what happened to my face, but I just shrug it off. I’d rather they think I was in a fight than be the guy that gets beat up by his dad.

      My last class is with Mr Reynolds, a world-class prick. He leers at me from under thick grey eyebrows that make him look like he belongs in an old Western movie.

      “Hats off in class, Mr September,” he says, taking his seat behind the front desk.

      “It’s not a hat,” I mumble, and shake my head as I pull off the beanie, scrunching it in my fist. The bastard sees the purple bruise around my eye, just like he’s seen every cut lip and every swollen cheek. He doesn’t give a damn. He probably likes that I look like minced meat. I sit down and meet his eyes.

      Yeah, that’s right. Take a good look at me.

      “Everybody get out the worksheets I gave you to take home yesterday. Mr September, I see you don’t have yours. What a surprise. I’m sure you’ll be even less surprised to find yourself in detention. Again.”

      I pull out my notebook and slap it open, pretending that I can’t see the massive smirk on his face.

      “Where is your textbook, Mr September?”

      I look up in disbelief. “What?”

      “Textbook, Mr September. Don’t make me say it a third time.”

      “It’s not here … sir.” I hate that I have to explain myself to this guy. The words feel like sand between my teeth.

      He smiles triumphantly, just quick enough for me to see his grey tombstone teeth. “Perhaps Mr September doesn’t want to be in this class. Is that the case, Finlay?” He spits out my name like it tastes bad.

      The skin on his neck is thin and scraggly like an old man’s. If I could strangle him, I would. I want to watch that nicotine-stained moustache twitch for the last time.

      “No, sir.”

      “Oh, but I think it is,” he says softly. “Wait outside till the end of class. If you can’t be bothered to do your homework or bring your books, then I can’t be bothered to teach you.”

      I slam my notebook shut and grab my bag, my hands shaking. Brendan is going to flip out – all these detentions have made me miss a whole bunch of rehearsals. But the guys know Dark Father would be nothing without me. Without Thor.

      The door thunders closed behind me, and I don’t stick around. This just became a two-joint morning.

      Kayla

      RONDEBOSCH, MONDAY

      Lorenda enters the lounge to check if Craig and I are doing our homework. We’re just pretending until she leaves for the shops – we’re both rubbish at schoolwork. He’s here for one thing, and it’s not Macbeth.

      I lick my finger and purposefully turn the page of my setwork book.

      Lorenda hovers at the window and wipes her hands on her skirt. “Can I get you kids some more cooldrink?” she asks hopefully.

      “No thanks, Lorenda,” I say, without looking up.

      She flinches at my use of her first name, but her smile doesn’t waver. “And your friend?” she says, her tone still awkwardly formal.

      I suppress a frown. Craig’s not my friend.

      “He doesn’t want anything either.” I roll my eyes and my voice is like ice. That does the trick. Her smile disappears.

      “Alright, Kayla. Don’t be so onbeskof,” she says, sliding back into her normal accent. She shoots me an injured look before leaving the room.

      Craig shakes his head and his dark fringe flops in his eyes. “If I spoke to my mother like that, I’d get a hiding.”

      “Lucky I’m not you then.”

      He gives me a hard look, as if he’s asking himself why he’s taking attitude from the weird girl in class.

      Duh. Because he won’t get laid if he doesn’t.

      I know I shouldn’t give in to him like this, but what other reason does he have to stick around? Guys can be such douchbags.

      “Look, she works from home. Do you want her gone or not? Or would you rather have a fat chat with my mother for half an hour?”

      “Okay, okay. I get it.”

      Lorenda eventually leaves for the shops, just like she does every other afternoon so she can chat