My name is Vaselinetjie. Anoeschka von Meck

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      Vaselinetjie spent the rest of the day with a towel wrapped around her head. The matron didn’t seem to hear a word when she told her that she’d never had lice in her life before. She had to rinse her hair three times in vinegar to remove all the oil. Only the next day was she allowed to go to school.

      “The town children are a bunch of snobs. They don’t like us, but it’s fine, we don’t smaak them either,” Killer said while the children trooped off to school. The town lay down the hill from the hostel and the morning sun reflected off the tile roofs of the houses.

      “Hey, Peppies!” a boy shouted, racing past on his bicycle.

      “That’s what they call us and the senior boys at the home,” Killer explained without looking up. “Peppies – for Pep Stores. They say we’re the bastard children of Ham and we wear rejects given to us by Pep Stores.” She kicked an empty Coke tin as she walked.

      In front of them Albie snorted and spat a blob of mucus down a manhole. “Sis, man!” Kitcat, overtaking them from behind, smacked her on the head.

      In the grade 6 homeroom a teacher whose tie was off-centre and too short called out the children’s names. If the others had not pointed out the new pupil, Vaselinetjie’s presence might have gone unnoticed.

      “Name?” the teacher asked without looking up.

      “Vaselinetjie.”

      There were shrieks of laughter, accompanied by much back-slapping and desk-smacking.

      “Silence!” The teacher held up his hand.

      Vaselinetjie stood very straight next to her desk. She felt uncomfortable in the faded uniform given to her by the matron the night before. The jersey had been darned in two places and one sleeve was stretched out of shape and way too long. Ouma Kitta would never have allowed her to go to school in such a sorry state, wearing other people’s hand-me-downs.

      “What is your full name?”

      “Bitty Vaseline … uh … Bosman.”

      The teacher chewed on his pen while the boys whistled. A group of coloured girls at the back of the class couldn’t stop giggling and nudging each other.

      “Age?”

      “Eleven, meneer.”

      The teacher looked up. “Were you sent to school early?”

      Vaselinetjie nodded. She wasn’t keen to speak again. Fortunately the teacher asked no further questions. Under the desk she saw that one of his shirt buttons had popped open over his belly.

      “Stay behind, please?” he asked as the bell announced the end of the first period. “Come a bit closer,” he motioned with the chewed pen. He noticed that she seemed on the verge of making a run for it, and his voice was suddenly gentler. “Relax, child. What do people call you at home?”

      Vaselinetjie could hear that the teacher was trying his best to be friendly while he was actually in a hurry, but the urge to cry was so overwhelming that she had to swallow hard before she was able to speak.

      “My oupa calls me Bitty.”

      The teacher smiled with his eyes. “Where on earth did you get that name?”

      “My ouma says when I was a baby my skin was very dry. She used to rub Vaseline into my skin. As soon as I could talk, I would cry for a little bit of Vaseline. So that’s what they called me – Bitty Vaseline.”

      Now the teacher’s eyes were laughing. “I see. But by which name were you registered at your old school when they enrolled you? That’s the name I have to write here.” He pointed at the register.

      “Oh.” She blinked away her tears. “It’s Helena Bosman, meneer! But no one ever calls me that. It was just for my holy baptism at church.”

      The teacher held out his hand to her. “Well, Miss Bitty, I am Mr Du Pisanie. I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to your new school.”

      At first break Vaselinetjie stood outside the classroom door, at a loss where to go. She looked around for Killer, but there were strange children all around her. She had never had a white playmate before. Avril wasn’t really white and, besides, she was horrible.

      The coloured girls who had kept giggling at the back of the class approached her. They smiled, but not in a friendly way.

      The leader stopped in front of Vaselinetjie. Her skirt was very short, and Vaselinetjie saw that the hem was held in place with staples. Her name was Nazrene Diergaardt. Vaselinetjie knew this because the teacher had warned her to be quiet a few times in class. Nazrene’s hair had been straightened and was pulled into two tight buns like horns on either side of her head. The short, stubby legs protruding beneath the skirt were dimpled and reminded Vaselinetjie of Ouma Kitta’s souskluitjies.

      “Girl, we don’t like it when a whitey takes us for a gat, see?”

      “What do you mean, gat? Leave me alone! What’s wrong with the way I speak? I always speak like this!” Vaselinetjie tried to step back, but she was trapped against the wall.

      Nazrene looked over her shoulder at her friends and rolled her eyes. “Are you for real?” she asked and stepped even closer to Vaselinetjie.

      Vaselinetjie wondered if the other girls were laughing because they could see how afraid she was. They formed a circle around her.

      “Go buy us some Beechies and sour worms at the tuck shop so we can see if you’re genuine,” said Nazrene. She made as if to slap Vaselinetjie’s face.

      “I got no money.”

      Nazrene spat next to Vaselinetjie’s foot. “Look man, girlie! You don’t know me! I don’t play with dollies and act cute to bastard whiteys! I come from the Cape Flats and I know how the people talk there, so don’t try and scheme me,” she said in a menacing voice, her hands on her hips.

      I come from the Northern Cape, Vaselinetjie wanted to explain, but the bell announced the end of break and a group of teachers came walking out of the building. Nazrene gave Vaselinetjie a lingering look. “See that you bring ciggies tomorrow, or else …” Slowly she drew her finger across her throat before she and her friends disappeared around the corner, laughing.

      After school the children from the home went to the large dining hall where they all had their meals together. The members of each house shared a table with their matron. First they lined up in the passage and then they filed through the kitchen, where a black matron dished up their food.

      “That’s Auntie S’laki. Her bra strap is always showing,” Killer whispered to Vaselinetjie, glancing back over her shoulder. Vaselinetjie was very glad that Killer had saved a place for her. “Old S’laki doesn’t like whiteys or coloureds. Only blacks, but not all blacks, mind you. You’ll see. Just look at who gets the biggest helpings.”

      The moment Vaselinetjie walked into the dining hall, she was aware of the other children turning in their seats to look at her. Some of the older boys winked, others made faces, and if it hadn’t been for Killer giving them the finger on the sly, Vaselinetjie would simply have carried on walking through the door on the opposite side.

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