Free Embrace by Mark Behr

heard the whispered sneers: ‘He’s going to fuck you up.’ ‘Pansy.’ ‘Loudmouth.’ ‘Brass-arse.’ ‘Naff.’ Johan Reyneke, leaning back, chair reclining against the wall, blocking my path. To skirt him I turned between two tables, blood rushing into my neck. Behind me I heard Reyneke: ‘Fokken rooirok, Moffie. Buys is going torip the skin off your arse.’ I looked straight ahead, chin raised, over the seated heads, too afraid, no, too ashamed to meet anyone’s eyes.
    The sun fell onto the stoep through the arches that ran the distance of the bottom floor. She let me wait. The glare into the heat of my shame warmed my cheeks and neck. I took a pace back into the shade.
    They’re all looking. I hate you, Reyneke. I hate you O’Connor, and you Sullivan. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you all.
    She stuck her head through the sliding door and told me to stand in the sun where she and the rest of the school could see my disgrace displayed. She disappeared, back to her food. My thoughts crowded into a channel of loathing that threatened to make my body shake; fear brought me back into the sun. I waited. I hate this place. Why did I ever come here? I’m not coming back. Next year I’m not coming back. Next year, next year.
    Chairs screeched as tables rose for dessert.
    She wants to starve me. See if I care.
    ‘De Man.’
    I looked over my shoulder. Sullivan was leaning against the door frame, only his head outside.
    ‘Holloway says you must face this way.’
    I turned to the glass doors, glimpsed heads bowed over plates. Looked down at my feet. This afternoon’s horse-riding. And what’s a caning or missing a stupid lunch with Brussels sprouts, anyway. Look at those ants going into the cracks. Sandal’s in their way. Mindful of eyes, I lifted my foot ever so slightly to make way for the line already curved off course to bypass the obstacle. Shifting my weight to one leg, I waited. Guessing at the column’s whereabouts beneath the shoe, I lowered my weight back onto both legs.
    I felt her in front of me even before her flat black shoes and thin stockinged ankles entered the focus of my downcast vision. I looked up into her face, took in the long beak amongst the wrinkles of rouged cheeks, the strands of sparse grey hair, like an old man half balded. Without saying a word she led me into the corridor towards the auditorium where the teachers ate. She waved me on to wait outside the headmaster’s office.
    A burst of laughter like bells chiming — Miss Roos, her laugh unmistakable — from the auditorium. She would think the prayer fun. Please let Miss Roos intercede, let her say something. Please let it be Mr Mathison and not Mr Buys. Back against the wall I pinched my bum with all the sting my fingers could muster.
     
    Ich will hier bei dir stehen
    Verachte micb docb nicht!
    Von dir will ich nichtgehen,
    Wenn Dir dein Herze bricbt
     
    They let me wait.
    Thank you, Jesus, it’s Mathison.
    ‘You know what you’ve done wrong, De Man?’ He frowned as he gestured me into the office. He took the bamboo rod from the rack above the desk.
    ‘Yes, Mr Mathison.’
    ‘What have you done wrong, Karl?’ He adjusted his gold-framed glasses and sniffed.
    ‘I was precocious, Mr Mathison.’
    ‘Bend.’
    I bent forward, arms and hands dangling below the knees. I closed my eyes. Please let it be only one.
     
    Wenn dein Herz wird erblassen
    Im letzen Todesstoss
    Alsdmn will ich dich fassen
    In meinem Arm und Schoss
     
    Ears warned of the approach and I tensed, taking both the impact and instantaneous burn without showing a flinch.
    ‘Precocious. Disrespectful. A show-off. You know the words but refuse to learn their meanings.’
    Still doubled down at the waist, eyes now open — Yes, Sir — I stared at the ruffled patterns on the carpet beneath me. I waited for Mathison to tell me to stand up and go. Instead, again I heard it, felt the rip into my bum and the pain up my spine burning into my neck.
    Please