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in Gianna’s Camps Bay house, the wooden floors were heated. The view from the window of her bedroom was incredible, almost indescribable, but for some reason the strongest sense I have of that place was the warm floors. I remembered it as I stood outside by the pool and the sun had disappeared and I called my mom four times in a row until she finally answered. I ran inside and up the stairs as I realized people were outside and I couldn’t really hear her voice anyway. Each step I took up the stairs I felt how warm the floor was, and that was the only thing about the house that permeated my mind as it raced to understand what my mom’s faraway voice was telling me.

I stood in the dark of the bedroom I had claimed as mine and I took in her words, shocked at first to understand that my second and only other credit card’s information had been stolen, and that I still had a few weeks left in Cape Town, and that I suddenly had no tangible money. I cried, but I was secretly relieved—I knew that to not have my own personal balance meant that I could rely on money my mom would give me without question. And I didn’t have to feel guilty because she was only giving it to me to replace money that someone else had stolen. It was the frustration of being punished for doing nothing wrong, but the satisfaction of knowing someone else pities you for it, and is willing to help you in a way that’s better than being independent. 

I had just tapped into the feeling of betrayal, the understanding that the next few weeks would be a hassle thanks to no fault of my own, and that I had been treated in a way no one else seemed to have been, when you walked in to my dark sanctuary from the party. Who knows why, maybe you were looking for the bathroom. But you saw I was in there, and I saw you had come in, and I was suddenly naked in a way that I wasn’t unhappy about. You were seeing me in an upstairs bedroom, talking to some mysterious person on the phone and clearly a little upset. It was a way of keeping you in the dark that I couldn’t have done better if I had tried.

My mom was still speaking as if you had never walked in in the first place, and you looked me straight in the face and asked if I was okay. I nodded, acted like it was no big deal, then continued to ignore you, all the while trying to keep my nerves from pushing me to leap out of my skin, and trying to listen to the last few words as my mom finished her sentence. You just said okay, then nodded and walked out, I guess to give me my privacy. Maintaining my ownership of that room for the full weekend is another of my highlighted moments.

Sure, I gave the power back over to you later. But it was nice to know that for a while that night you were left wondering what I was thinking, wondering what factor you didn’t know about that could be keeping me upstairs in a dark room with tears in my voice, away from the party downstairs.