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The splint might amalgamate two of Pia's fingers, but that doesn't stop him from playing word cookies on his cellphone. He learned how to work his cellphone with his less dominant digits, successfully typing and scrolling with the wrong thumb. He grew to the splint relatively quickly, especially now that his fingers aren't in annihilating agony anymore. His cellphone screen's state is far worse than his fingers, though; it might be marred by a spiderweb of cracks, but he can overlook a small nuisance like that.
Amidst his vivid game, he remembers he has to ref the half-of-the-field soccer game his friends play with languid relish. He has a prime seat at the top of the temporary metal pavilion sitting on the skirts of the field, like shivering watchers, cracking in the sun. Pia himself is wrapped up in a warmer uniform—trust Cape Town's weather to jump into freezing cold just when you think it's spring.
He's not allowed to play. He played along at the beginning of break—hell, he scored two goals and turned young sugar into salt as quick as the snap of a finger. All good things had to come to an end when a grade ten dipshit accidentally rammed Pia's busted fingers into his belly when they passed each other. A hymn of pretty profanity followed and all the boys voted that Pia must be the ref until he regains full control over all his digits.
The only issue, is that the boys do not need a referee; they stop when they make mistakes on their own or call one another out like scavenging teachers. Every now and then, Pia barks out orders, but only to pretend he has an interest so they can't accuse him of being distracted. [Of course he is distracted, the last word in his game is missing and the cookies aren't making any familiar sounds he can crumble together.]
"Gentle," a raspy voice interrupts his struggle. Pia's eyes jerks up in shock—he doesn't recognize the voice. "The word you need," she sketches her finger to the phone in his hands. "It's gentle."
Jojo, thickly muffled in a thick white scarf and winter uniform—long charcoal trousers, a charcoal jersey in the same hue and a maroon blazer topping her off like icing to a cupcake—plops down next to Pia. She has no badge of leadership honor, no fancy trimmings like Roman or Meg, no golden emblem to reveal a secret passion. She has one ribbon-shaped patch tucked below the school insignia on her chest for music and that's that.
She wears boy shoes, which is a weird sight for Pia—he's far too used to being in the company of girly girls, dressing up in baby-dolls, dresses and has bows tied in their strawberry scented hair.
Jojo wears no pretty bows in her hair, she has no short skirt around her waist and no feminine strawberry scent. Raven spirals are messily drawn back into a bushy pony tail behind her head, almost carelessly, with a thick waterfall of spirals running down her forehead, tempted to reach out and touch her eyelashes. He's never seen Jojo with hair that curly hair before—usually her hair is straight and in thick, choppy tresses around her face. Even her scent is masculine: she smells of cologne and herbs.
