Read Online The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories by Diane Awerbuck, Louis Greenberg - Free Book Online

sucking the bones clean and tossing them into the swimming pool. When the bones hit the pool, Jayne thought she could see little puffs of steam escaping from the water.
    As he polished off the last of the chicken, an icy wind rose, sending ripples through the pool and animating the white tablecloth. Dropping the very last bone into the water, he thundered, ‘I demaaand that you leave this place! Go into the light! ’ and Jayne hoped to God her neighbours weren’t home.
    With that, he opened his eyes, downed the last of his Klippies, bowed his head and unceremoniously proclaimed: ‘It is finished. Klaar. Will you be paying cash or by cheque?’

Mister A
Calvin Scholtz
    Â 
    We didn’t know what to expect from Mr Arendse. Some of the older students had had a few classes with him already, and they said he was the coolest Accounting teacher they’d ever had: they called him Mr A. Well, Mr Bosman had been a cool Geography teacher, but he sucked as a cricket coach. Everyone knew that he preferred rugby (or ‘ruck-bee’, as he pronounced it), and he was always too busy with his duties as vice-principal to give us his full attention.
    Then there was Mr Hugo, last season. He was a real character, what with his neon-green tracksuit, aviator sunglasses, and a pipe that seldom left his mouth, even during lessons. At our first practice session, he watched us for ten minutes, made comments to a couple of the players and then wandered off, only to return two hours later. I didn’t go to another practice after that: if the coach wasn’t committed, why should I be?
    However, I felt a lot more motivated this time around. The World Cup was going to be held in South Africa in a few months’ time and Waheed, Jeremy and some of the other guys were already getting into the spirit of things by playing an informal game in the quad every morning before class. They would be on the team this summer, for sure, and I didn’t want to be left out.
    We waited at the nets in the corner of the field. I say ‘field’, but it was more like a sandpit with thorns at the moment. The grass was sparse and burned yellow after a long, dry December. The sun beat down on us now as well and the sky was white with the heat. A slight breeze blew off the sea and gave us some relief. I was the only one wearing sunblock: I looked even paler than usual, but at least my father would be happy.
    A middle-aged coloured man came walking down the steps towards us. This must be Mr Arendse. He was bald and had a hooked nose. He was wearing dark trousers and a yellow pullover, despite the heat. He gave a throaty cough, and when he said ‘Good afternoon’, we could hear that he was a serious smoker. His hands had chalk dust on them. He stood over our team kitbag and looked inside: it was still full.
    â€˜What are you all waiting for?’ he said. ‘Three of you get some pads on and get in those nets. The rest line up to bowl at them. Come on!’
    Three of the older guys jumped forward while the rest of us started measuring our run-ups. We found the practice balls and inspected their seams and looked for their shiny sides. While the batsmen were padding up, Mr Arendse’s head moved like an owl’s. Then he stopped and cocked an eyebrow at us. ‘Is this the under-sixteen side? Some of you look older, and some a lot younger.’
    Waheed, my muscle-bound Muslim friend, spoke up: ‘We are all fifteen or older, sir. There are some under-seventeens here because there are not enough to make up a team.’
    Mr Arendse hmphed but said nothing. Soon, the batsmen were ready and we started bowling at them. Most of us were fast- or medium-pacers, but I decided to try out some spin. Jeremy was our star bowler. He was a star at most athletic activities. He also played scrumhalf on the rugby team and striker on the soccer team. I once played a game of tennis with him when he picked up a racquet for the first