This Thing Called the Future by J.L. Powers Page A

long they reach his shoulders. His gorgeous smile.

    Actually, I’m a little embarrassed about how often I’ve been thinking about him lately. At lunch, I’m so shy, even Thandi has asked me if something is wrong. Little Man doesn’t say much to me…but it feels like he’s aware of every move I make. So many times when I look up from my food, our eyes meet.
    For the millionth time, I wonder: does he like me?
    Zi interrupts my thoughts, poking me in the side. “Look, Khosi, a new advertisement!” she shouts, pointing at a billboard with a cartoon drawing of a man and woman together, embracing on a blue sofa. Large block letters announce: “A man can get AIDS by having sex with an infected woman.”
    â€œShhh.” I glance at the other passengers to see if anybody heard. Zi’s too young to know you don’t talk about these things, not in public.
    The khumbi turns left, passing the faded red “Coca-Cola! Welcome to Imbali!” billboard that announces the entrance to the township. I tap the side to let the driver know we want to get off and he pulls to a stop right in front of the tuck shop. The drunk man is there again, slumped over on his bucket, wearing the same clothes he always wears. Does he ever go home and change? Does he even have a home to go to? Today, we are able to stop for some few small items for Mama’s feast, and then slip by him without his noticing.
    On our way to and from the market for vegetables, Zi scares dogs in yards, her usual after-school routine. But today, even over the hectic barking, we hear shouting as we near the house. We both start running, book bags slapping our backs.
    As soon as we arrive, we see what the shouting is all about. Inkosikazi Dudu has finally broken the silence of the last weeks. She is standing in the middle of her yard, shaking her broom at Gogo, her flower print apron flapping with each arm movement.
    â€œYour daughter will pay me back,” she yells. “Or she’ll see what we do to cheats in Imbali.”
    What is she saying about Mama?
    Gogo is huddling in front of the house, waiting for us outside like she always does when the weather is warm. But hearing these words from our neighbor, she retreats into the open door. Even from this distance, I can see her whole body trembling.

    The neighbor sweeps vigorously, as though she’s sweeping Gogo right out of her yard. She turns around and sees me.
    â€œHah!” she cries, her voice ugly with triumph. “Khosi, you tell your mother she has nowhere to hide.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Nkosikazi?” I ask.
    â€œI see what she’s up to, I have eyes in the back of my head, spies everywhere.” She shakes her finger at me.
    â€œElizabeth has done nothing but try to help you when your husband died,” Gogo says from inside the safety of the house. She’s just like me, brave from a distance! I’d be hiding in the house, too. “If you’re so angry, talk to her. I’m sure she can explain everything.”
    â€œNa, and can she tell my children why they have nothing to show from their father’s death?” She grimaces and spits on the ground. “Can she tell me where all the insurance money went? Can she tell me why it disappeared after she helped me?”
    â€œThe mouth is a tail to swat away the flies,” Gogo says, ushering us through the door. “And it is your mouth that will get us in trouble, Sisi.”
    But even as we go inside and shut the door, we can still hear the neighbor lady calling after us, her voice like nails shooting through the walls: “I’m not just talking uselessly, Busisiwe Mahlasela! Tell your daughter she can’t hide the truth from God.”
    Gogo sinks into a chair by the door, the scarf that covers her hair shoved to the side. She readjusts it and presses a wobbly hand to her mouth.
    We peek outside. Inkosikazi Dudu sees our heads poking through the doorway.