Chain Reaction
Adeline Radloff
Tafelberg
To MJ, who first gave me the idea.
And to Wynand, always.
The Decision
You have a pretty boring life. There’s nothing particularly special about you.
You do well at school – you have to, because you attend your better-than-average school on a scholarship. But you are not the top student in your grade. You are not even in second place. (You are third.)
You are on the debating team, but you’re not the team leader. You’re a good chess player, but you did not get chosen to go overseas with the national team. You did well in the Maths Olympiad, but you did not get a gold medal. (You got silver.)
You are not very sporty, but you are not so bad that your name gets called last when teams are chosen. You made the under-16C hockey team, but so far your team has lost most of its games. (Not because of you. You hope.)
You are not pretty and you are not ugly. You are not fat and you are not thin. You are fifteen years old.
On this particular Monday morning you wake up already tired. You do all the boring things you have to do every morning. Bathroom – Kitchen – Bedroom. You see too late that there’s a big yellow stain on your white school shirt. You have no idea how that happened. You look for another shirt but you can’t find one. You wet the corner of a towel, rub some soap into it and scrub at the stain. It works, mostly. But now you’re a bit late, and you have a big wet spot on your shirt.
You kiss your mom goodbye. Your dad has already left for work. Your sister and your brother are arguing about something stupid. You ignore them. Their school is just around the corner and they have lots of time to get ready.
You run all the way to the bus stop, hoping you won’t be too late. You’re not too late. You find a seat, for a change, and you stare out the window for most of the ride. You like to see Table Mountain getting bigger and bigger as you get closer to the city.
You get off at your stop and you walk the last few blocks to school. All around you children are being driven to school by their parents. Most of the cars are new and shiny and German-made. The traffic, as usual, is terrible; you easily outpace the Porsche that’s driving in the street beside you. You wonder if that’s an example of irony.
When you get closer to the school gates you see Stephanie Adolphus leaning against the railing. She and her friends have surrounded someone; they are laughing and screaming and making all kinds of personal comments. You look down and you walk faster.
You don’t like bullies. It’s not a moral thing, not really, nor is it a carefully thought-out position. You simply don’t understand the impulse. You find cruelty repulsive.
Stephanie Adolphus is the biggest bully in the school. It is clear to you that she has some sort of problem. Everybody here is scared of her.
You’re not too sure why people at this school are so afraid of her. She only ever uses words to hurt her victims: embarrassing them in public, spreading nasty rumours, tormenting them on social media, that sort of thing. She also seems to have some strange power to turn people against each other – girls who have been friends for years start to hate each other under her influence. You find the whole thing very odd, but not particularly scary. (In the school your sister and brother go to, a bully once shot another child through the foot. Just for fun. On the school premises.)
You are not scared of her but that’s beside the point really, because she never picks on you. Sometimes you wonder why people like Stephanie never pick on you, but you don’t think about it too much. Mostly you just try keep a low profile, and get on with your life.
You look at your watch. The bus made good time: there are perhaps five more minutes before the bell rings. You walk closer to the gang of bullying girls ahead of you. You have no choice: they are blocking the pedestrian entrance.
Today’s victim, you see, is Krystle Thomas, a grade 11 girl. You know her name because everybody knows her name. Krystle Thomas is the most beautiful girl in the school. No competition. She might even be the most beautiful girl in Cape Town. You’re surprised that the bullies have ganged up on her today. Usually they don’t pick on pretty, thin white girls. You walk past them, keeping your head down. But you catch her eye in spite of yourself.
Her eyes are begging you to help her. She is trapped and scared and desperate.
For a moment you hover, uncertain. You have to make a decision.
Then you realise you’re being ridiculous. This girl is older than you. And she’s rich and beautiful. Why on earth would she need your help? You cast your eyes down and pretend you don’t see what’s going on. You make your way towards your first class.
It’s just another day.
First Link
The click of the security gate makes my stomach clench in fear. Oh no. Why is she back so early? Stephanie usually has swimming after school on a Monday; she hardly ever comes home before six. I look at my watch: 3.45pm. I have no idea why she’s home so early, but I’m willing to bet it means trouble for me.
I hold my breath as I hear her coming up the steps to the front door. She’s humming a cheerful song, obviously in a good mood. My heart begins to race in my chest.
I need to lock my bedroom door.
I get up, very quietly, and tiptoe across the room. I’m taking a big risk – if she hears me locking my door she’ll be very angry. I don’t really have a choice though. Dad only comes home at seven on Mondays, which means I’ll be alone with her for three whole hours. The thought of it makes me shudder.
Perhaps she won’t hear me. Perhaps she won’t even notice I’m here. Sometimes she forgets about me. I’m praying it will be one of those days. I’m praying that she won’t hear a thing.
I turn the key. Carefully. There is almost no sound.
I breathe out, softly. I lean my ear against the door. I listen.
Her footsteps are coming closer. I know the door is locked, but a part of me still wants to run. I can escape through the window: she hardly ever bothers to go outside to look for me. But I’m worried that the floorboards will creak. If she knows I’m running away, the punishment will be worse later on.
I remain standing, frozen.
Her footsteps come closer, the sound of her shoes against the wooden floors almost as loud as the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. Closer.
She passes my room without even pausing, going straight to the kitchen. She opens the fridge. She is now singing loudly.
I take a trembling breath.
Maybe it’ll be okay today. Maybe she’ll leave me alone.
Maybe.
* * *
Nobody knows what it’s like to live my life. To live with Stephanie as my sister, every single day. Nobody knows, and what’s worse, nobody wants to know.
Like at school, right, we had this whole week where the focus was on bullying. There was a special session after assembly, and posters all over the school, and we had experts coming in to talk to us in LO. . . You get the idea.
Well, what they basically told us was this: that deep down, bullies are just normal kids who need help. That children who like to hurt others are usually just “insecure” and “looking for positive attention”. That they need to “learn better interpersonal skills”. That “communication is important”.
That’s the kind of thing they told us.
And you know, to be fair to those experts, maybe there are bullies like that. Maybe, somewhere