Crown

It all began with a frog. Sheislane had squelched it out from beneath a slab of concrete that sat lopsided over the drain at the very bottom of our sloping favela. I can imagine her seven-year-old face, already beautiful and devious, spattered with mud from a kicking leg and grinning. I can imagine her folding the creature into her t-shirt and skipping up the uneven steps to my house, before throwing it into our water butt, plopsided. She knew keeping that water butt clean was my only task at home.

My mother and father had argued about this: ‘Yes, yes, Mateus, I know Carol has to work like the rest of us, but she is at school and needs to keep herself neat for the teachers.’

‘I never kept myself neat for my teachers!’ my father yelled.

‘And look at you! Drunk and out of work and not even neat for your wife!’ cried my mother. ‘I have very high hopes for my daughter. Keeping the water clean is fine for now.’

The night my father found the frog he span on his heels, blessed the Virgin, cursed me to hell and then drank until morning.

The next time Sheislane came for me she was armed with apple-flavoured bubble gum. That sickly smell is as clear in my memory as the horror on my mother’s face. ‘Aiii! How did you end up with five different bubble gum pieces in your hair Carolita? Half chewed and stuck all over the place?’ My neighbour the barber brought the large scissors; my mother almost fainted.

Lucky I had such pretty nails that grew so strong and lengthy! Our teacher’s eyes turned away for a moment and there she was, kneeling on my arms with clippers in hand and a beautiful grin. The night before our high school prom, an arc of peroxide rose over the wall of the shower cubicle. It left my black hair speckled like graffiti. At carnival we were both held high on one float each: hers sparkling silver, mine gold and guttering as the engine gave out. That time I had almost admired her for risking her own perfection by siphoning off the gasoline wearing nothing but feathers. And so it went on: forged love notes, lies in the lunch queue, laxatives in my milkshake.

Carol and Sheislane: rivals in all things but revenge. We had the top scores in our classes; we were champions of the stadium; boys waited in line. If she won first prize and I came second, she was delightful in her tributes to me as a valiant competitor. When she lost, she was ruthless in her loathing. Revenge: I was no match for her there.

And today, the pageant. My mother’s red-carpeted dream for me is finally unfurling. Outfits chosen, speeches rehearsed, I have practised my walk up and down the roofs of the houses along our street, half expecting Sheislane to appear with a slingshot. But she hasn’t, and the morning of the glittering event has dawned fine. As I sit and look out over the bay, I feel sure our skirmished childhood has now passed and we’ll stride out alongside one another as comrades. Who knows who’ll win?

(After this.)