The shrill alarm pierced the silence, jolting Pamela awake. 05:00 glowed on her phone's screen, a harsh reminder that the day had begun. She slapped the snooze button, retreating under the covers for a few fleeting moments of reprieve. Her gaze drifted to her sister, still lost in sleep, before she reluctantly swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The bathroom's fluorescent light flickered to life, casting an unforgiving glare over Pamela's features. She methodically prepared for the day ahead, her movements economical and devoid of enthusiasm. Grey trousers, a white shirt, and a grey pullover jersey formed her uniform, a utilitarian choice that prioritized comfort over style. The water's warmth enveloped her as she showered, a brief respite from the day's impending challenges.
As I walked out the gate, I slipped on my headphones and let Anderson Paak's "Parking Lot" wash over me. The music was my sanctuary, a world where I could escape the harsh realities of my life.
The walk to school was a necessary evil, one I'd grown accustomed to but never truly accepted. My stepfather's selfish decisions had forced me into this routine, and I resented him for it. I used to enjoy waking up early, strolling through the quiet streets, and feeling the fresh morning breeze. But now, the 10-kilometer trek felt like a burden.
I arrived at school at exactly 7 am, just as I'd calculated. The classrooms were still locked, and the only students milling about were the matriculants with morning classes. I stood alone, my voice barely above a whisper. "Alone again," I murmured to myself.
The school guard, Sphiwe, arrived with the keys, his jovial demeanor a stark contrast to my own somber mood. "Good morning," he said, his keys jingling as he searched for the right one. "Morning," I replied, trying to match his enthusiasm. It was a peculiar coincidence that we shared the same name, or at least, a version of it. I'd adopted the feminine form, Simphiwe, meaning "we were given" in Zulu, while he went by the more traditional Sphiwe.
As I entered the classroom, I spotted Karabo hiding behind a trash can. "Girl, I get right on top of you..." Chris Brown's voice blared from my phone before I quickly silenced it.
"Are you hiding or squatting, cause I can't really tell the difference?" I asked, trying to stifle a grin.
Karabo chuckled and emerged from his hiding spot. "Uhm... well, at this point, I think it's more of the second one."
I laughed out loud, the tension dissipating. "Look at you arriving earlier than me. You must be proud, ey?" Karabo said with a smirk.
"Oh, please. As if it's for the first time," I retorted, rolling my eyes.
Karabo's expression turned serious, or at least, as serious as his "I don't give a fuck" attitude would allow. "I heard you moved?"
"Dude, you only heard about it now? It's been two months now. What kind of a friend are you?" I teased.
Karabo shrugged, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "You know I don't talk that much... Plus, you don't tell me stuff anymore." He pouted, his pretend sadness almost convincing.
"I don't have much to tell. That's why. Stop sulking," I said, sticking out my tongue.
Karabo sighed dramatically. "You know I guessed you didn't love me anymore, but I just didn't think it was this bad."
"What? Of course, I still love you, Mr. Perfect," I said, laughter bubbling up. The nickname suited him, a relic from our 8th-grade days when our Life Orientation teacher asked if anyone was perfect. Karabo had raised his hand, and the class erupted in laughter. Despite the teasing, the name stuck.
Just then, Sphiwe, the school guard, appeared, launching into an impromptu lecture about life and priorities. Karabo pretended to check his class and slipped out, leaving me to endure the awkwardness alone.
As the guard finally finished his sermon, my classmates began to filter into the classroom. My best friend caught my eye, a knowing glint in her gaze. She always teased me about Sphiwe, saying he was my boyfriend because we shared the same name. "He's not my boyfriend!" I mouthed, anticipating her teasing.