Free Embrace by Mark Behr Page B

tightest fold somewhere in the light centre; my head stooped closer to the plate. My eyes started to swim.
    I’m going to throw up.
    I lifted my head, blinked away the tears, wanting her to see. ‘Please may I have some water, Miss.’
    ‘Want me to call Mr Buys? Seems Mr Mathison didn’t do his job properly.’
    Looking down, ignoring the half, I forked the whole sprout and sliced it in two. Again holding my breath I swallowed, my stomach protesting. Two halves remained.
    ‘See. A little will-power can take you a long way.’
    My stomach was convulsing. A burning wave in my throat, swallowed back. I stared down at one half on the white plate, looking for a tiny patch that might be the centre. There was more than one. How many centres could exist in one half of a bloody Brussels sprout? And, the patterns on either half looked decidedly different.
    ‘Please may I stop now, Miss. It’s only these two halves . . .’
    ‘Eat your food, Karl.’
    The bell rang; end of break. I placed the knife and fork neatly back on the plate and looked at her.
    ‘Get that idea right out of your system. Eat.’
    I lifted the fork. Pushed it into the half Raised it to my lips. Opened my mouth and held my breath. Closed my mouth over the cold mushy blob and tried to think of playing down by the river, feeling Rufus’s canter beneath me. I chewed. I could not swallow. Mystomach was refusing. I heard the boys fall into line, prepare to go into class. Again tried to swallow. Felt my throat begin to bulge.
    ‘Swallow that food, De Man.’
    I swallowed. Half to go.
    ‘Please may I have water, just for this piece, Miss Holloway?’ Eyes wide as they could go; pleading. She did not answer, just sat, quietly, head to one side, now smiling at me. I looked at the plate and brought the piece of vegetable to my mouth; felt her look down on my head. Could she see the movement of my scalp beneath my thick hair as I chewed? Dominic’s hair, I thought, is so fine you can see his scalp in even the slightest breeze. I lifted my head and met her gaze. I glared at her.
    Later, so I would hear from Dom who’d heard from a giggling Beauty, Holloway swore to the headmistress that she had seen in my eyes a glint of hatred. She told Erskin Louw a day or so later — who in turn told Mervyn — that she had never seen a child’s glare so devoid of respect, so viciously intent on showing contempt for adult authority. As if plucked by an upward force I half lifted myself from my chair; she mouthed something; the knife and fork dropped to the empty plate and in the same motion she said I seemed to bring both hands to my mouth while my body doubled forward. Most of it caught her sidelong across the chest, but because she flew up from her chair the barely masticated food slid down her front and dripped onto her shoes. Beneath the droplets on her chin I could see nothing save astonishment I kept waiting for her to wipe her face; to say something. Instead, without taking her eyes off me she called for Matron Booysen and told me to go and wash my mouth before returning to class. When Matron entered from the kitchen I was already approaching the glass sliding doors. Behind me I heard her asthmatic voice:
    ‘Precious! Beauty! Bring a bucket and rags. Hurry up.’
     
    ‘Oh,’ Dominic said as the class sat listening to my story while we awaited the return of a refreshed Miss Marabou, nee Holloway. ‘That lovely brown and yellow frock of mine from Milady’s in Escourt. Ruined, I tell you, ruined by that monstrous De Man boy’s fish and veggies.’ And we laughed at his gestures and facial expression, more simian than fowl.
    ‘Bring on a pot of Brussels. This is Marabou’s vomit marathon!’ I said and half the class practised gagging sounds, the short and long bullfrog noises of vomiting.
    Right into Standard Six, Marabou might suddenly be stopped in her spindly tracks when from somewhere behind a pillar in the dining hall, the back of a classroom or a tree