Boys Don't Bite

1: Fly To You

"Don't forget to pray, Darla, okay?" my mother iterated, for what might have been the fourth time. "As soon as you get on that plane. Don't even wait for it to start flying."

"Yes, Ma. Now could I go?"

"Okay, okay but one more thing. I don't want to hear anything about-"

"Boys," I finished, with a sigh. "I know, Ma. This trip is for ballet not for boys. I know."

"Good, good," she smiled, wiping sweat off her brow, before wrapping me in her arms again. "Good lucky, my baby, okay? Your father says good luck as well."

My father was twenty paces away, yelling at somebody through the phone like he always was. This call had started half an hour ago- which was exactly when Ma had started lecturing about the boys- and he had not glanced away since. He kept one hand wound around his tie, like he was getting ready to strangle himself in frustration. The plane would land in Cape Town before he even realised I was gone.

"Me and your dad will pray for you everyday while you're at your tournament."

I smiled awkwardly at her but said nothing, swinging my body left and right.

"Okay, okay," she finally conceded. "Go join your friends. Bye, baby."

She squeezed me again and sent me off with much hesitation. As a walked away, the feeling of her eyes on my back was nearly tangible. But I could have cared less. Once I crossed the threshold into the waiting lounge I would be free. Check in was quick, and went on without a hitch, but was so exhilarating that by the time I was giving my obligatory final wave goody-bye, I could hardly breath evenly.

"Finally!" Jean's excitement greeted me once I emerged into the lounge. I tried to take in the café to my left and bar too my right, but was interrupted by the arms that wrapped around my torso violently. "I thought your mum had decided not to let you come or something!"

Jean's braids were swept into a ponytail that cascaded down her back, where my hands met their curled ends. She smelled like coconut hair-food. It enveloped me pleasantly and I took a deep breath in, letting out a sigh.

"Free at last," I said and she laughed, making us both shake.

"Okay, first," she ordered, pulling away. "We've got to fix that hair. I'm getting a I'm-going-to-put-a-bonnet-on-and-sleep vibe, when I should be getting I'm-about-to-meet-attractive-strangers-in-a-foreign-land vibe."

We scooted to the bathroom and Jean got to work re-tying my hair. Standing in the mirror, I was in awe of how she worked. Our dance tracksuits were white, matching with the bow Jean was currently adding into my braids. On the left breast they held the shield of the Ophelia Dance Academy, which we were both members of. My cheeks flushed nervously as I considered the days that lay ahead.

The most elite dance festival in all of Africa, hosting dancers from all 54 of the continents nations: that's where we were going. Jean and I were treating it as casually as we could, but we both knew this was possibly the craziest thing that had ever happened to either of us. Scouts from universities and talent agencies would be watching. Our entire nation would be cheering for us. My father had repeated that to me many times on the drive to the airport.

My daughter, making the nation proud. That's God.

It had done no good for my nerves, but I had smiled and nodded obediently. He was right, after all.

"So, listen," Jean began. "The real reason I brought you to the bathroom was to tell you that I've been talking to this guy-"

"Of course," I giggled.