"Yes, ma'am. We'd only be going to the Mugg & Bean up the road."

Mom looks at me again, and I hope she can read the pleading I'm trying to etch into my expression.

"Sounds lovely, but she needs to be home by six."

Six? Really? My usual curfew on school nights is eight. I'm not going to throw a tantrum in front of Gabriel, and Mom knows it. She reaches for her wallet and hands me a twenty-rand note. We've only got two hours; it's better than nothing.

"Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, Treasa." There's an edge in her voice I don't understand, even as she smiles and watches us walk over to an old bakkie before pulling out of the parking lot.

"This your car?" I ask as Gabriel opens the pa.s.senger door for me.

"My father's. Just borrowing it for the day."

"Oh, where are your folks?"

"Not here." There's finality in his response, and I don't press the matter. The bakkie smells like pine air freshener. Bar-One wrappers and an empty Fanta bottle litter the floor.

"Sorry about the mess." He chucks the bottle into the back seat. "Pick some music."

The CD wallet he hands me is faded and scuffed. I flip through the alb.u.ms, mostly rock and heavy metal by bands I don't know. Half the names I can't even read. The last CD is Marilyn Manson's Mechanical Animals Mechanical Animals. I've never listened to Manson, but it's probably the safest choice. I slip that into the CD player, and moments later, eerie guitar reverberates through the car before the strained vocals start. I actually like it. Gabriel grins and pulls a cigarette box out of his blazer pocket.

"Do you mind?"

I shake my head as he lights up.

"Won't you get into trouble, being in uniform?"

"Ja, but that's only if someone sees me... or reports me." He gives me a sideways glance before putting the car into reverse.

"I'm not going to," I promise.

"I hardly ever smoke, anyway. It's a disgusting habit."

"Why smoke at all, then?" I roll down my window to escape the pall of nicotine.

"Because...." He pauses. "I think it helps relax me when I'm feeling p.i.s.sed off."

"Does it?"

"Not as much as taking pretty girls out to coffee." He gives me a c.o.c.ky grin and blows smoke out of his window.

Even though he kind of just called me pretty, I can't help wonder how many girls he's taken out for coffee, and if I'm just the Catholic schoolgirl conquest to be checked off his list. What bugs me even more is that I'm not sure I care if I am.

BY THE THE time we get to Mugg & Bean, I'm in love with Manson's voice and lyrics. The chorus of "Great Big White World" keeps playing in my head, and it's comforting to know that another person on the planet gets the way I feel, like there's this haze obscuring the world, and I wish I had a gigantic bottle of turpentine to wash away the grime and see the truth behind the veil. time we get to Mugg & Bean, I'm in love with Manson's voice and lyrics. The chorus of "Great Big White World" keeps playing in my head, and it's comforting to know that another person on the planet gets the way I feel, like there's this haze obscuring the world, and I wish I had a gigantic bottle of turpentine to wash away the grime and see the truth behind the veil.

We sit at a table in the back. I head for the corner seat and so does Gabriel. Propriety wins, and he pulls the chair out for me. He orders a latte and asks me if I want to share a m.u.f.fin. I'd share anything with him right now.

"So, tell me something." He gouges his fork through the colossal blueberry cake.

"Like what?" I take a sip of cappuccino.

"Something about you. I know you sing in the choir and that you like aliens." He smiles, revealing a sliver of inner lip stained blueberry purple. "You read about composers, and I guess you're Catholic, being at St. Bridget's."

"Um...." I take a moment to collect my thoughts, to quash the impulse to tell him I think I'm an alien, to resist the urge to ask him if my being a Catholic schoolgirl is the only reason I'm here. Although the idea of fulfilling some sordid fantasy of his doesn't sound too bad. Bobby socks and pigtails? For Gabriel, I'd do that.

"I used to play piano," I say.

"How far did you get?"

"Twinkle Twinkle."

He laughs, and the tension keeping his shoulders bunched seems to drain, letting him slide lower in his chair.

"You going to study music next year?" I stab a blueberry with my fork, hoping they won't become permanent fixtures in the wires on my teeth. Gabriel doesn't say anything, his expression clouded by ineffable emotion. "Sorry, did I say the wrong thing?"

"No, it's just...." He slurps up latte and licks froth from his upper lip dusted with the shadow of stubble. d.a.m.n, he's gorgeous. "I'd love to study music, but...."

"But?"

"My father doesn't approve."

"But you're like the next Ashkenazy!"

"I'd rather be the next Horowitz." He fiddles with his serviette, shredding the logo printed on the corner.

"So, what are you going to do, then?"

"Engineering, probably." He doesn't look happy about it, and I don't know him well enough to press the issue.

"I'm thinking of doing a BA."

"b.u.g.g.e.r all?" He grins.

I snort my coffee and cough up a blueberry. So s.e.xy. Don't think I've ever laughed this much with anyone, let alone a guy.

"Is that what they call it?"

"So I hear." He takes another bite of m.u.f.fin before pushing the plate and last few pieces across the table to me.

"I'd love to do astronomy, it's fascinating, but I suck at actual science. I'm good at history and languages, though." Don't want to sound like a complete idiot in front of Mr. Academic Colors here.

"So BA history, then?"

"Anthropology, maybe."

"You want to study people?" He seems surprised.

"It might help me understand why we're all so messed up." Awkward. He studies the shreds of the serviette and makes no comment. "So how come you're doing a licentiate, then?"

The question makes him cringe. Great. I'm on such a roll. He shreds some more of the serviette before answering. "I'm not actually doing it, more like preparing to do it. I don't have the theory grade to take the practical exam yet. Maybe I'll be a teacher one day. Reckon if I can find a teaching job, then I can ditch engineering and support myself doing what I want."

"You're too good to teach. You're a performer."

His sardonic laughter makes me wish I'd never opened my big fat mouth.

"I could be a performer if I had more time to practice, but between academics, karate, and rugby next term, I don't get enough time."

"You play rugby?" Not a game I've ever understood the allure of. Looks like a bunch of troglodytes running around in spandex after a misshapen egg. Dad wasn't impressed when I told him that, and I'm not going to tell Gabriel that either.

"It was the deal. If I play rugby, I can play piano." He crushes the remains of the serviette in his fist. "Would've preferred playing cricket, but that's not manly enough or something."

"That's a pity. You look so good in white." The words slip out of my mouth. "I mean, you know, in karate. It's just-" I bite my tongue hard to shut myself up.

Gabriel gives me a smile, the soft one that actually touches his eyes. "Thanks," he says. "You play a sport?"

"Tennis, sort of. And hockey. But I'm not that great at ball sports."

"Me neither, much to my father's embarra.s.sment." There's a dollop of bitterness in his voice.

"Parents don't get it at all," I say.

"No, they don't."

We share a long look across m.u.f.fin crumbs, and there's a lot more going on behind his emerald eyes. There's sadness there, and anger, and a sort of longing I can relate to even though I don't completely understand it. Gabriel longs to play piano and study music; what am I longing for? My alien s.p.a.ce daddy to swoop down in his s.p.a.ceship and warp-speed me to some distant planet?

He checks his watch. "It's five thirty."

The waiter brings the bill and I take out my wallet.

"Ag, don't be silly." Gabriel pays, leaving a generous tip.

"Thank you, but-"

"Next time it can be on you." He gives me that smile I'd like to believe is reserved just for me, and my blood turns to sherbet, fizzing happiness into every extremity. There'll be a next time. I can't help smiling as we walk out together, the left side of my body acutely aware of his presence, with mere millimeters and two layers of fabric separating our skin. He takes my hand, and the world tilts on its axis as my knees turn to marshmallow. By the time we get to the car and he releases my fingers, my pulse thunders in my ears and my whole body feels like it's on fire in a tingly, pleasant kind of way.

ON THE THE drive home, he smokes another cigarette and we chat about drive home, he smokes another cigarette and we chat about Project Blue Book Project Blue Book, about Stephen Hawking, quasars, Graham Hanc.o.c.k, and the chances of government conspiracies hiding evidence of alien life on earth. Our conversation makes me less certain about my extraterrestrial origins, which is a good thing because I'm already imagining kissing Gabriel, and maybe more, and would hate to spontaneously sprout tentacles from some embarra.s.sing orifice.

Too soon, he pulls into my driveway.

"Thank you, Gabriel. I had a really good time."

"I love the way you say it."

"Say what?"

"My name. Gay-briel," he mimics. "I hate being Ghar Ghar-briel."

The Afrikaans p.r.o.nunciation makes it sound harsh and guttural. Not a name for an angel, and definitely not for the boy sitting beside me.

"It's a beautiful name."

"Thanks." He gives me that smile I think I'm falling in love with, never mind the rest of the boy it's attached to. "So I'll see you Thursday?"

"Absolutely." I hesitate as I open the door, on the off chance he may want to kiss me. He looks down, and I guess that's a sign there'll be no kissing today, or ever? Of course, I'm totally gross, having just eaten. I run my tongue over my braces, hoping to dislodge remnants of m.u.f.fin. Good, my teeth are crumb-free.

Feeling deflated, I get out and traipse toward my front door.

"Wait!" Gabriel lopes after me. "You should have this." He hands me Mechanical Animals Mechanical Animals.

"Have it?"

"Let's call it indefinite borrowing. I've got three other Manson alb.u.ms, but this is his best so far."

I take the CD, and our fingers brush together before he ambles back to the bakkie. No kisses for me, then. Maybe he doesn't want to kiss me; maybe I'll be relegated once again to friend status as he pursues prettier, skirt-wearing, normal girls. Still, he gave me his CD, and that counts for something, right?

Gabriel

TREASA UPSETS UPSETS my equilibrium in ways I can't even begin to quantify. She's beautiful in that cla.s.sic, almost mythological kind of way, like a teenage Boudicca. More than that, I actually want to talk to her. Usually, I'm just happy to sit around listening to girls babble about the mundane before they're ready to make out. With Karla, we'd sit around listening to metal, commenting on the riff or drumming, then we'd make out or have s.e.x, and it never got more personal than that. I didn't want it to. Treasa is different. Even though our time together was brief, I feel like I can tell her things. I want to tell her things, and I want her to tell me things, meaningful things, the things that make her who she is. What the f.u.c.k is wrong with me? my equilibrium in ways I can't even begin to quantify. She's beautiful in that cla.s.sic, almost mythological kind of way, like a teenage Boudicca. More than that, I actually want to talk to her. Usually, I'm just happy to sit around listening to girls babble about the mundane before they're ready to make out. With Karla, we'd sit around listening to metal, commenting on the riff or drumming, then we'd make out or have s.e.x, and it never got more personal than that. I didn't want it to. Treasa is different. Even though our time together was brief, I feel like I can tell her things. I want to tell her things, and I want her to tell me things, meaningful things, the things that make her who she is. What the f.u.c.k is wrong with me?

I could've kissed her, cigarette breath and all. She would've let me too. I just couldn't. Not in my father's bakkie in her parents' driveway. She deserves better than that. She deserves someone better than me. The way she looks at me, like I'm the only person in the room, like I'm the only boy she's ever been with, like she's seeing not who I am, but who I could be; it's terrifying.

Maybe pouring all of this onto paper will help me figure out what's going on inside my messed-up skull.

Dear Mom, I've met a girl, and I don't know what to do about it. She scares me, in a good way, I guess. I think you'd like her. She has a really good voice, and she's easy to talk to. I never thought I'd say a girl gets me, but this one seems to. It's early days still. Maybe she'd be happy just being friends. More than that and I don't think I'll cope. I wish you were here to talk to because....

My father knocks on my bedroom door and opens it before I get a chance to answer.

"I thought I told you to mow the lawn," he says. He glances around my bedroom, his gaze lingering on the poster of Manson before focusing on my face. I stuff the letters back into their shoe box and shove it under my bed before he asks what I'm doing and demands to see the pages and discovers the photographs.

"I was busy."

"You sure as h.e.l.l look it." My father raps his knuckles against my doorframe.

"I was playing at a concert today. There was a note on the fridge about it."