Layla was the apple of my eye. Not only was she strawberry-sundae delicious, she was the hottest girl of our school in her age group and probably of every age group in the school. She had dark rich 85% cocoa chocolate colour hair curled in the style of Veronica Lodge, she tucked her white button down shirt into her blue school skirt, and rolled her socks down.
She carried a tiny school pack, neat and square.
While I played in the Sunday League, she sat atop the Premier League.
Being in the B team of any sport I played, studying Latin, and having less than nimble fingers when it came to playing snake on my Nokia 6110, opened very few doors in me being boyfriend material. But still harbouring the confidence and exaltation of three years prior as I walked off that cricket field in my black blazer, I decided I'd throw any caution, and any reputation i had to the wind, and ask Layla to accompany me to the Matric dance.
Munching my triangulated snackwedge and watching Britney and Justin star in Mickey Mouse Club after school I grabbed with two greasy hands the tomb-like White pages. I thumbed through the G's, punched the phone number with my index finger I thought was 'it', scratched a heart shape in red koki around the number, and set the following Monday to make the call.
The whole week waiting in fear, but in anticipation, from science to Latin class, I etched 'DC 4 LG' encircled by a heart cementing my love, on every wooden desk I sat at with my red Swiss Army pen knife. Finally Monday eve arrived and with the hairline cracks in the irises of my eyes oozing blood, and my palms dipped-in-water wet, I dialed her digits. As the ringer rang, with heaps of anxiety, I drew imaginary circles with my toes turning the shaggy rug to a heap of knots.And then she answered. 'uhh uhhh', my voice pitched high, 'Layla, hi, hello, is that you?'
Across the wires, with a little delay, a little silence, 'Oh no, I'm afraid not, it's her aunt, here, let me give you her number'. Panicked to scrawl the number down, I thanked her and with that the slow puncture of relief relaxed me. Having achieved very little regarding my goal, I'd wait a full week to try again.
That following week I agonised. With the feeling of having Bruce Lee do repeated roundhouse kicks inside my stomach, squealing every time he did a full 360, my stomach churned for a full week before I made the call again. The waiting strained me, strained my gut. I barely ate, I barely slept. I barely had control of myself.The next Monday my heart racing Monte Carlo, I dialled in.
Now Layla's brother was ranked like number 1 in jock status at school. His crowd, they were built like mine-craft characters-square jaws, square muscles, square fists, with six packs harder than the fender of a Ford pick-up. They ate tuna and rice every day, and pumped iron till their veins popped, and their hands calloused. They commanded such respect that they had the First-Years polish their rugby boots till the glint of their Aquafresh smiles reflected in their leather uppers. These bruisers 'owned' the stairs by the quadrangle, it was their lair. No one could sit on the quadrangle stairs. And no one could pass through unless you offered up your tuckshop sarmie as collateral. On trying to gain access, the pasty kid would extend out his arm clawing the polony roll, turning his face in fear, he'd shy away trying to hold back from blubbering in public. There they'd grab it, biting, tearing off three-quarters of the sandwich like Ozzy biting the head off of a bat, leaving the sweet kid with a tomato-sauce drenched stubby stump of a roll. The teeth marked polony, a remnant of its former whole, clung to the carbohydrate like Alex Honoldt cleaving for dear life to a creaking overhang on El Capitan. Though the bun was slobbered in gob, the kid would cringingly swallow the remainder. But access to the stairs was his.Though he'd go hungry. He'd appeased the big cheese.
Now I loved number 1's sister. and no matter what, I was gonna call her.
'Hello, hi, is that Number 1, it's me, Dan Chaity?', 'Chaity?,Whadda you want?'Can I chat to your sister?' Borderline stunned, he says, 'hold on', and sets the phone down.
I hear ruffling, I hear voices, I hear footsteps. clop clop clop.'Bud, she's busy. She asks, 'whadda you want?'.'Uhm, I'd like to take her to the Matric dance'.Again he sets the phone down, and in moments returns."Chaity, Sean the Love Machine has asked her to the dance.''oh oh okay', i croaked, 'no problem, see you at rugby practice tomorrow.'
Plunging the off-white receiver into its cradle, my back drenched, I slump back into the wicker chair, grabbing the ice cold coke before me, I drain its contents in one gulp,and let out a huge... sigh. Just as I conquered the can, I felt I'd conquered the call.
I didn't win, but I inflated that limp ego like Chucky the Clown blowing up a balloon noodle.
