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subject.

Ms Vo walks up to me on the verandah as I’m putting my books in my bag.
    â€˜Well, I think that was a good first day,’ she says, in a way that makes me think we’ll be pretending the b-word incident didn’t happen. ‘Is your mother . . .’
    She peers down from the verandah and through the trees, towards the pickup zone outside the school.
    â€˜She’ll be with Hansie. She said she’d park down near the robots.’
    â€˜Rooibos?’ For the twentieth or perhaps hundredth time today, someone doesn’t quite pick up my accent. ‘Isn’t that a kind of tea? It’s supposed to be very good for you. But why would she . . .’
    â€˜No, near the
robots
.’ I try to stay as calm as I can manage. I’ve had enough – of the day, of the school, of the country. I want to lie down and sleep for a week. And then wake up in Cape Town, in my bedroom. But Ms Vo still doesn’t seem to be understanding me, so I try it again, slowly. ‘
Ro-bots
.’
    Ms Vo looks puzzled. ‘What kind of robots?’
    â€˜The traffic lights. The robots. Red, yellow and green lights on a pole. They tell cars what to do.’
    â€˜Oh, okay.’ Suddenly it’s all clear to her. Then she seems to be trying not to laugh. ‘Is that just your family’s name for them or . . .’
    â€˜No, it’s everyone’s name. You don’t call them . . .’ No, she doesn’t, obviously.
Australia
doesn’t. ‘In South Africa that’s what we call them.’
    â€˜Really?’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, I suppose they are a bit robotic. In a one-legged way. Here we mostly just call them traffic lights.’ She takes a step towards the edge of the verandah. ‘I’ll walk down with you.’
    The trees next to the building are flame trees. I want to tell Ms Vo it’s an African tree, but right now it wouldn’t surprise me if they turned out to be from Finland or Mars. From the path on the way to the gate, I can see the car down near the robots, and Mom and Hansie standing next to it. Hansie looks like he’s smeared chocolate on his face. Mom’s probably bribed him to get in the car. He’s probably hated his first day too.
    In the two-minute pickup zone right near the gate, I can see Max getting into a black bakkie with ‘Craig Kennedy, Registered Builder’ on the door and a load of timber in the back. I know they call bakkies ‘utes’ here, but I don’t know if it’s one syllable or two. If it was Afrikaans, it would be two – oo-tuh.
    â€˜How would you pronounce that, Miss?’ I point at the bakkie, but I don’t want to say “bakkie”. ‘That . . .’
    She follows where I’m pointing and looks at the bakkie carefully. ‘Kennedy. It’s an Irish name. Kenn-e-dy.’ She smiles. I can’t tell her she’s been no help at all. ‘Where are you from in South Africa?’
    â€˜Cape Town.’ I’m back to saying as little as possible.
    â€˜Perfect. I’ve had an idea. I think it’d be good for the class. Cape Town’s got a colonial history, right?’
    â€˜Definitely. From Jan van Riebeeck arriving with three ships in 1652.’ Finally, something I can be certain about. We’ve covered it all at Bergvliet.
    Before I can go on, she says, ‘Good. When the others are doing their presentations on Moreton Bay, it’d be really good if you could do one on Cape Town, as a contrast. It’d be interesting to look at Cape Town and any similarities and differences.’
    â€˜That’d be great.’ It’s better than she realises. There’s a lot to tell. I have to stop myself coming out with it right now.
    â€˜Ah, there’s your mother,’ she says, noticing Mom and Hansie and waving. ‘Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    She stops