Shadow Sister (8 page)

However much I emphasised our differences, there were always many similarities. I quite liked skirts and beach holidays, but after a while I found myself trapped in a pattern of behaviour I’d chosen and from which there was no escape.

When we were ten, Lydia got appendicitis and had to go to hospital. When my father brought her home after the operation, it was raining hard and he carried her inside from the car with great tenderness and concern, covered in his new suede jacket.

That evening I had a sore stomach too. My parents called the doctor, but it turned out there was nothing wrong. The doctor said it was solidarity pain, common in twins. I cried when he went away again without sending me to hospital.

‘Why are you crying now?’ my father asked.

‘Probably from relief,’ my mother said, stroking my hair. ‘She was scared she might need an operation too, of course.’

I let them console me, pulled on my father’s suede jacket and refused to take it off for the rest of the evening.

Lydia took charge from a very early age. I remember playing ball with her in between the parked cars on our street. Finally we’d had enough and I had to cross the street back to our side of the road, where Lydia was, only I couldn’t see between the parked cars very well. Lydia couldn’t either, but she still beckoned to me. Trusting her blindly, I ran into the road and found myself in front of the screeching tyres of a car. The car managed to stop just in time – the skid marks stayed on the road for at least a year afterwards. I ran home in shock and threw myself crying into my father’s arms.

‘Why didn’t you look?!’ he cried out.

‘Lydia said it was all right,’ I sobbed.

My father sighed and stroked my hair. ‘You’re going to have to learn to think for yourself.’

We both liked music. I had piano lessons and Lydia played the violin. I was talented and enjoyed performing for other
people, but the applause was never for me alone – Lydia was just as good at playing the violin.

Sometimes I fantasised about being an only child. I was jealous of friends who could be completely themselves.

My wish came true. I’m on my own now.

It’s almost impossible to teach that next morning. News of what happened with Bilal is buzzing through the school and during my first lesson, everyone wants to vent about it. Hafid and Jeffrey shout that we should get tough on him, Yussef makes a couple of philosophical comments and Niels punches the air, pretending it’s Bilal. Abdel is the only one who doesn’t engage; he’s turned away, looking outside. That doesn’t surprise me –Bilal is his cousin, which is another reason I’d rather not spend too much time talking about it, but the class has other ideas.

‘Bilal is scum,’ Elvan says. ‘He’s not a good Muslim, Miss. He’s always doing bad things, like drugs and stuff.’ Her friends and a couple of the boys back her up.

Abdel gives them a dirty look.

‘It’s time to move on, now,’ I say. ‘It happened, it’s been resolved.’

‘We think it’s horrible for you! We want to know how you are!’ Funda calls out, her eyes large.

I’m sure they do, but I also know that they’ll clutch at anything to turn a boring Dutch lesson into a juicy conversation, and the minutest details will be spread through the school afterwards. I begin the lesson.

After that I’ve got Bilal’s class, the final year students. They are older and less unruly. They don’t seem to need to talk about the incident so much. Only a few students, mainly girls, have something to say.

‘Bilal always feels insulted, Miss,’ Naima says. ‘You can’t do anything about it. You only have to blink for him to think you’re making fun of him.’

‘It’s true.’ Mohammed is a quiet student and the sound of his deep voice is so unexpected that I look up at him in surprise. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Miss. We’re all really impressed that you stayed so calm.’

The rest of the class agrees and I’m moved.

‘Thanks, Mohammed. I appreciate you saying that.’

We set to work. I’m so pleased I started teaching again right away. The support of my colleagues and students does me a world of good.

I write everything to be copied down on the board. From time to time I look over my shoulder at the bowed heads behind me and feel warm inside. This is the reason I teach: it doesn’t just require energy, it also gives me energy. I love my students, well, most of the time I love them. When it’s Ramadan and they’re hungry and thirsty, I feel for them. I do my best to help them get good grades, a good report and, ultimately, a qualification. Nobody can take away the joy I feel when the future of an apparent no-hoper looks promising. Not even Bilal can take that away.

I bump into Jan on my way to the staffroom afterwards. Rather than ask me how I’m doing, he says that telling everyone my story is causing unrest and suggests I be more discreet.

I ignore him. Telling it over and over again reduces the chaos in my mind. But during the lunch break, I do feel the need for some quiet time.

‘I’m off for a wander,’ I say to Jasmine. ‘Do you want to come?’

She shakes her head and points at her pile of test papers. ‘I still have to get through these.’

‘Can’t they wait?’

‘Sorry.’

‘All right.’ I put on my coat and get an apple from my bag.

Jasmine turns to the test papers again, but then looks up and says, ‘You’ll be careful?’

The note of concern in her voice touches me. We look at each other. ‘I’m only going to walk round the school.’

It’s wonderful to be outside. It’s always so stuffy in the staffroom during the breaks. As I cross the playground, I toss my hair back and take a bite of my apple. Students nod shyly at me here and there or wave and come over.

‘Miss! Miss! Have you marked the tests already?’

‘I can’t do my talk today, Miss. I didn’t get much sleep and I don’t feel very well.’

I keep the conversations short, promise to give their tests back this afternoon and tell Fatima that she simply has to give her talk, whether she’s got her period or not. I up my pace and walk around the school. The sun has broken through and I’m enjoying its warmth and the fresh greenery.

And then I see him.

Bilal is standing on the other side of the street, wearing a hoodie, surrounded by friends. The shock is acute. He stares at me. My heart hammers in my chest and my step falters. What to do? Go back? Walk on? Show him that I’m not afraid of him?

But I’m almost rigid, rooted to the spot, and my eyes are locked on him. It’s more than obvious that I’m terrified.

A smile spreads over his face; there’s no warmth to it. He
nudges one of his friends and points to me. Four faces turn towards me. One of them is taking into his mobile, but cuts the call off immediately.

I look at my watch, pretend to start, as if I’ve realised I’m late for something and spin on my heels. I walk straight into someone. He grabs my arms and I scream.

‘It’s me! Don’t panic!’

Luke.

I take a shaky breath. ‘I almost jumped out of my skin.’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Come on, the bell’s about to go.’

‘Were you having a walkabout too, or…?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I heard that Bilal had been spotted in the area and then Jasmine said you’d gone outside.’

‘You’re so sweet, you really are,’ I say. ‘I wonder what Bilal and his friends would have done if you hadn’t turned up.’

‘To be honest, I don’t think I’d have deterred them if they were planning something,’ Luke says. ‘They were probably just trying to provoke you.’

‘I hope they aren’t going to make a habit of it. I was really scared.’

‘It might be better if you don’t go outside on your own for the time being.’

I give him a sideways glance. ‘Do you think it’s that serious?’

‘Bilal Assrouti is bad news,’ Luke says. ‘I once made him clean the classroom as punishment and got a brick thrown through my window every night for a week.’

‘Really?’ I say, shocked. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’

‘You had your own stuff going on.’

‘Did you report it?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t want to make things worse.’ He sighs and runs his hand through his blond hair. ‘So all he learned was that he can get away with anything. That’s why I think it’s better if you report it. The more complaints the police get about Bilal, the more they’ll have on him. But I’d keep quiet about getting them involved.’

Luke knows that I’m in turmoil about whether or not to go to the police. He gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder and says that he’ll always be there for me if I want to talk. We walk through the chaos of bags and knocked-over chairs. The bell goes as I enter the staffroom.

‘Blown away the cobwebs?’ Jasmine puts a pile of corrected papers into her bag and smiles.

‘Bilal was there,’ I say. ‘On the other side of the street.’

‘No! What did he do?’

‘Nothing. He was about to cross the street when Luke turned up.’ I stroke Luke’s arm; he’s standing next to me rummaging around in his pigeon hole.

‘Accidentally on purpose,’ he says.

Jasmine frowns. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Me neither,’ Luke says.

‘What don’t you like?’ Nora is walking past. Hans, who is leafing through a teaching magazine, follows the conversation with his usual frown.

‘Bilal was outside waiting for me,’ I say – a slight exaggeration.

Nora looks at me, worried.

‘Nothing happened. But I don’t feel very relaxed about him hanging around here.’

Nora nods. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

‘I’ve never had a problem with that boy,’ Hans says.

It sounds like an accusation and I swivel to face him. ‘I’d never had any problems with Bilal before either. It could happen to any of us, Hans.’

‘I wouldn’t have provoked him,’ Hans says.

Count to ten. Just count to ten before sinking your nails into his face. Jasmine is quicker.

‘Don’t be stupid, Hans. You know those boys are provoked by anything these days. If I remember right, Bilal accused you of being racist because you wouldn’t bump up his exam mark by ten per cent.’

‘And then I explained that marking the exams didn’t have anything to do with racism. You just have to know how to handle them.’

‘Oh, and I don’t know how to?’ I flare up.

‘Looking at someone’s crotch isn’t the approach I’d recommend.’

I feel myself flushing. How does Hans know that? Who’s helped that rumour into the world? Hans and Nora leave – her expression has turned sceptical.

As Luke and I walk to our classrooms he says, ‘You look worried.’ He’s broken into my thoughts – I’d forgotten how perceptive he can be.

‘I’m worried they’ll be waiting for me at my car.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Luke promises. ‘It’s not a problem. From now on I’ll go everywhere with you if it’s necessary.’

I hesitate, but not for long. I’m not easily frightened, and I don’t like accepting help – being helped feels like a kind of failure. I’m used to solving my own problems. Nevertheless, Bilal’s predatory gaze follows my every step.

‘Okay?’ Luke asks. He knows me by now.

I give a very slight nod.

I wait at the door for my students before each lesson, making comments, cracking jokes or telling one of them off for misbehaving. This afternoon I’ve got a pleasant but restless class of first years.

‘Saïda! How long have you been wearing a headscarf?’ I ask as she walks past me and into the classroom.

‘Since now,’ she says, raising her chin.

‘Was that your choice or did your parents make you?’

‘I decided myself.’ She responds fast, too fast.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘As long as that’s the case.’

‘Don’t you believe me or what?’ Saïda asks, annoyed. She takes out her mobile and checks her make-up in the reflection of the screen.

‘Of course, if you say so. Put your phone back in your bag, please.’

Saïda rolls her eyes, punches in a number and walks to her seat, phone to her ear.

‘Yeah. What’s up? I’ve got Dutch now. Yeah, with her. Shall I send a photo?’ She watches for my reaction out of the corner of her eyes.

I tap the board, the lines the previous class were given as punishment and Saïda hangs up. Not straight away, but still, she hangs up.

I’ve got a difficult relationship with Saïda. She’s precocious, assertive, not openly rude, but cuttingly scornful. Her group blocks me by speaking their mother tongue – Turkish.

As I begin the lesson, Saïda says something to her friends. All four of them burst into loud giggles.

‘Saïda, please repeat what you just said in Dutch.’

‘You wouldn’t want to know what she said, Miss,’ Zahra says.

Saïda gives her a poisonous look and immediately gets one back from Zahra. I let out a silent sigh. At moments like these I’m fed up with teaching, tired of being by turns prosecutor, defendant, educator, referee, confidante and enemy.

‘The next person who speaks any language other than Dutch, gets fifty lines. I’ve got a thumping headache so please bear that in mind.’

They’re quiet. I don’t hear a peep out of them for the rest of the period. I give them a reading assignment so that they can work independently, and walk between the desks, offering assistance here and there. Looking at their bowed heads softens my mood. Even Saïda is working hard, and every now and then one of them will look up at me, as if to check that I’m all right.

I’m always filled with satisfaction if I can keep my students under control without raising my voice. My classes used to be chaos. I’d get the kids quiet only for them to be disturbed a few minutes later by latecomers. After a lot of backchat, I’d send the latecomers to get a note, and then they’d return ten minutes later and disturb the class all over again. One way or another, I could never keep them fully quiet, but I got used to the gentle
murmur which always hung in the room and which could blow up into a storm at the most unexpected moments. The art was in circumnavigating the storm or quickly dampening it. During my first year of teaching, all my energy went into maintaining order.

My father was responsible for the turnaround. One day I’d gone over for dinner, exhausted and burnt out, and had poured my heart out to my parents. If there was anyone who’d understand, it was them.