For a little while, Khosi and I were still living in the fantasy that our friendship could survive this social schism, that it could defy nature. I was actively ignored by the people he called his friends, but he never noticed, blinded by the fact that, because he was beloved, he assumed that everybody’s default was to be kind, not knowing that their kindness was dependent on whether they saw you as their kind. He never saw that people either ignored my existence or stared at me with hostility, as if I possessed a power to detract from their attractiveness via proximity. The ease with which he interacted with everybody was proof to me that his charisma had been provided by a magical elixir, drunk on his thirteenth birthday, called ‘Prince Charming’。 That had to be the case. It isn’t normal to get along with everybody the way Khosi does, not without magical aid. The elixir was composed of this: a non-threatening amount of intelligence that was enough to keep him from being a fool but not enough to have him branded a geek, some friendliness （but not enough to suggest that everybody was on his level, because you cannot inherently be a prince if everybody is equal）， and, of course, an aspirational quality. What were Popular Boys made from if not Old Spice, honey and all things money?
At fifteen we had started to drift apart, but we still texted, still hung out when we could, still trying to deny the cracks. Then came his sixteenth birthday party. As soon as I walked into his house I got a sick feeling in my stomach, a turgid lump that had threatened to pull me back to the door. Even the security of Letsha by my side didn’t abate the sense that I was in foreign and unwelcoming territory. Feral eyes snapped my way, watching me warily, gazes made even crazier by the effects of smuggled fluorescent alcopops. I was wearing a white strappy top and a denim skirt borrowed from Letsha （to my mother’s delight）， but suddenly felt naked. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the pulsating sound of an Usher song. I was about to turn to Letsha to inform her that this was a supremely bad idea and we should leave immediately, but she was already throwing a flirtatious smile at a cute guy, and, really, all it took was a smile from Letsha for a boy to fall. I couldn’t deny my best friend fun just because of my discomfort, so I gestured at her to go, and after ensuring I was sure, she left, her hips swaying a little as she approached her prey. Without Letsha I was even more vulnerable. She was cool, too cool for even Maloti Valley Royalty. It was a widely known fact that she was a jurisdiction of her own, and now I was on my own without the protection of toleration-by-association. Quickly slipping into survival mode, I spotted a nook in the far corner of the room that I could nestle into, but as soon as I took a step towards it, my face smashed against a warm, firm chest, thwarting my carefully laid plans. I looked up to see the bright grin of the owner, eyes sparkling into mine.
‘Yo, Leli! You’re here!’ Khosi’s voice was sunshine.
He wound his arms around me in a hug and my nose buried into his shoulder, allowing direct access to his warm, sweet woodsy scent. A foreign tingle had whirred through my body. Interesting. I made a note to analyse that later. He released me and I felt a little lightheaded. Dehydration plus allergies maybe. I cleared my throat.
‘Um, well, I wasn’t going to. But then I felt bad because we both know my presence makes or breaks a party.’
Khosi nodded, his smile widening. ‘That’s true. Ain’t no party without Naleli Labello. Actually . . .’ He stepped back, curved his hands around his mouth and bellowed: ‘Everybody out! Naleli’s here! You can all go home! You’re not needed!’
Laughing, I pounced on him, dragging his hands down from his mouth. ‘Stop! Idiot.’
He grinned and ran his eyes across me. ‘Seriously, you’re the main reason I threw this party. Had to figure out some way to get you to dance with me. It’s so hard to get you to hang these days.’
It was true that every time Khosi had asked me to chill in those days I’d declined, but it was only because he always wanted to hang in areas where his friends would be at. His friends who would ask me, ‘Were you born that way? Or did it like . . . grow?’ or ‘Do the white parts of your skin like . . . itch?’， and even, ‘Do you call yourself black? Like can you call yourself black?’ As if vitiligo was a mutation that was somehow beyond common biology and sense and erased my ancestors. I had decided to make an exception for his birthday.
I made another decision to evade the hard truth with a softer one, tilting my head to the side.
‘Eh, Khosi, you think I’m one of your little cheerleaders following you around? Because of your two chin hairs and the fact that your voice has a little bass now?’