Young Trevor’s best-laid plan

never tried to look nice for a girl, so I didn’t know that I could. The hair was good. My skin wasn’t perfect, but it was getting better; the pustules had receded into regular pimples. I looked . . . not bad.

I went home, and my mom squealed when I walked in the door.

“Ooooooh! They turned my baby boy into a pretty little girl! I’ve got a little girl! You’re so pretty!” “Mom! C’mon. Stop it.” The big night finally came. The hair, the clothes, everything came together perfectly. Once I was set, we went to Abel to get the keys to the BMW, and that was the moment the whole night started to go wrong.

It was a Saturday night, which meant Abel was drinking with his workers. I walked out to his garage, and as soon as I saw his eyes I knew: he was wasted. Fuck. When Abel was drunk he was a completely different person.

“Ah, you look nice!” he said with a big smile, looking me over. “Where are you going?” “Where am I . . . Abie, I’m going to the dance.” “Okay. Have fun.” “Um . . . can I get the keys?” “The keys to what?” “To the car.” “What car?” “The BMW. You promised I could drive the BMW to the dance.” “First go buy me some beers,” he said. He gave me his car keys; Tom and I drove to the liquor store.

I bought Abel a few cases of beer, drove back, and unloaded it for him.

“Okay,” I said, “can I take the BMW now?” “No.” “What do you mean ‘no’?” “I mean ‘no’. I need my car tonight.” “But you promised. You said I could take it.” “Yeah, but I need the car.” Finally we realised it wasn’t going to happen. We took the shitty Mazda and drove to Babiki’s house. I was an hour late picking her up. She was completely pissed off.

Then I got lost. I drove around for an hour in the dark, going left, going right, doubling back. I finally figured out where I was and we made it to the dance, nearly two hours late. I parked, jumped out, and ran around to get her door. When I opened it, she just sat there. “Are you ready?” I said. “Let’s go in.” “No.” “No? What . . . what do you mean, ‘no’?” “No.” “Okay . . . but why?” “No.” “But we need to go inside. The dance is inside.” “No.” I stood there for another 20 minutes, trying to convince her to come inside, but she kept saying “no”. She wouldn’t get out of the car.

Finally, back.” I ran inside and found Bongani. “Where have you been?” he said. “I’m here! But my date’s in the car and she won’t come in.” I said, “Okay, I’ll be right

“What do you mean she won’t come in?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. Please help me.”

Bongani went back over to the car to try to convince Babiki to come in. After a minute his head popped up over the car with this confused look.

“Yo, Trevor,” he said, “your date does not speak English.” “What?” “Your date. She does not speak any English.” “That’s not possible.” I got up and walked over to the car. I asked her a question in English and she gave me a blank stare. Bongani looked at me. “How did you not know that your date does not speak English?” “I . . . I don’t know.” “Have you never spoken to her?” “Of course I have — or, wait . . . have I?” I started flashing back through all the times I’d been with Babiki. Did I talk to her then? In all the excitement of meeting Babiki, the times we were hanging out and getting to know each other, we were never actually speaking to each other. It was always through Tom. Fucking Tom. Babiki was so shy that she didn’t talk much to begin with, and I was so inept with women that I didn’t know how to talk to her.

Now the whole night came rushing back and I saw it from her point of view, and it was perfectly obvious to me why she didn’t want to get out of the car. She probably hadn’t wanted to go to the dance with me in the first place; she probably owed Tom a favour, and Tom can talk anyone into anything. Then I’d left her sitting and waiting for me for an hour and she was pissed off. Then she got into the car and it was the first time we had ever been alone, and she realised I couldn’t even hold a conversation with her. I’d driven her around and gotten lost in the dark — a young girl alone in a car in the middle of nowhere with some strange guy, no idea where I was taking her. She was probably terrified.

Then we got to the dance and she didn’t speak anyone’s language. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t even know me. Bongani and I stood outside the car, staring at each other.

I asked Bongani if he spoke Sepedi. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. I ran inside to the dance and ran around looking for someone who spoke Sepedi to help me to convince her to come in. Nobody spoke Sepedi.

So I never got to go to my matric dance. Other than the three minutes I spent running through it looking for someone who spoke Sepedi, I spent the whole night in the parking lot.

‘Born a Crime and Other Stories’ is published by Pan Macmillan (R285)

The whole night came rushing back . . . and it was perfectly obvious to me why she didn’t want to get out of the car