I Heart Beat Read Online Free PDF Page A

sister can upload it off a website from her video shop computer and burn it onto DVD. Poor Toffie looks at me like I’m from outer space.
    He leans over my shoulder while I get it sorted. While emailing to Toffie’s brand new email address that I created for him — [email protected] — he leans in even closer.
    â€œHey, Beat, you’ve got hair on the top of your lip. It looks soft like a baby duck,” he says, lifting his finger like he’s going to stroke my hairy face.
    I get to my feet. It really is enough already.
    We pass the pubbingrill on the way home. I’m used to bars. In fact, if I ever had to go on a quiz show and there was a “name the bar in Johannesburg where you can get a drink any time in the morning” question, I could name eight. I go to a good school for that kind of thing. Ha-ha.
    There’s a lady behind the bar smoking a cigarette. Toffie introduces me to his mom who, in between puffs, is putting clean glasses away with the forty-three others on the shelf (three chipped).
    â€œHey, Ma, there are two glasses missing,” Toffie says, blinking at the shelf.
    Blast! This kid’s real trouble. Losers aren’t supposed to be Counters.
    â€œYou must come tomorrow for the spit braai,” Mrs Appel says. “Everyone in the dorp comes — and you look like you could do with some meat on your bones.”
    I don’t do meat — or barbecues — or people.
    Mrs Appel’s name is Brenda. I try every combo I can think of to make her name fit in with the rest of her corny family. But nothing works. Hmph!
    I leave the bar and go back to the house.
    Grummer’s sitting outside on the veranda reading her book. She marks her page with a tasselled book marker and tells me it’s lunch time. We’re having salad and quiche.
    I eat the lettuce first and then the baby tomatoes. I pick the mushrooms out of the egg goo and leave the crust of the quiche.
    Grummer likes to mix and match her food. A bit of quiche and salad with a dab of dressing balances on her fork. She leaves her plate spotless.
    â€œYour new friend Christoffel has such a pleasant, open face. I liked him immediately,” she says, clearing the plates.
    Red Alert! Grummer’s been had. I know Toffie’s a freak. He acts like a loser but he’s got dark, sneaky counting habits. I’m going to have to look out for Grummer if she acts this trusting around everybody.
    There’s a knock on the door. It’s delivered by a big, hairy hand.
    Argggh!

Chapter 7
    THE BIG HAIRY hand belongs to Mr du Plooy. He’s the man who’s going to help Grummer get the garden into shape. I make a mental note to google this character. The chances are we’re related. He does hair in a big way. It sticks out of the top of his long socks. It glares at me in bristling tufts through the buttonholes of his khaki shirt and climbs all the way to the top of his neck. Can’t wait to see his back.
    I follow at a careful distance while Grummer tells him what she wants. She ticks off the items with her fingers. The guava trees have to go, all seven of them. What’s the point of having a home with a mountain view (as the property advertisement claimed) when all you’ll be able to see every winter are rotting guavas?
    Mr du Plooy frowns. All of them? He’s not pleased. There’s nothing like the taste of a ripe guava or fifty in the winter. Grummer says yes. Mr du Plooy says no. Grummer looks uncertain.
    She wants some oak and elm trees at the bottom of the garden. Most of the existing trees must come out. Mr du Plooy concurs. Yes, the rooikrans trees must go; they’re invaders. But the quince trees must stay.
    Grummer says no. She wants all the old quince trees gone. Mr du Plooy frowns. All they need is a bit of spraying and pruning. There’s nothing quite like quince jam in the autumn. Grummer puts her foot in a vrot quince and flounders. She winces as her