The New Girl (Downside) (3 page)

‘She in your class?’

Skye looks at her blankly. Tara knows that he isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but it’s hardly a challenging question.

‘You know her name?’ she tries again.

‘Can’t remember,’ Skye mumbles, bending one of the book’s pages into a triangle. Tara would usually discourage this, but in her opinion the only fit place for a book as
stultifying as
Tina and Kevin Go to the Zoo
is the recycling bin.

The end-of-class siren whoops, making Tara jump as usual, and there’s the screech of chair legs scraping on wood as the kids stand up quietly and file out.

‘Hey,’ Tara says to Malika, who’s busily rummaging through her Louboutin bag. ‘You see that weird-looking kid who came in here just now?’

Malika shrugs. ‘They’re all weird at that age, aren’t they?’ She yawns, drags her fingers through her hair. ‘God, library duty is so boring. I can’t believe
you signed up for another year. How on earth do you put up with this every day, Tara?’

Tara shrugs. She started volunteering at the library last year to demonstrate to Stephen that she was at least trying to be involved in his son’s life (pointless, really, as the little
snot couldn’t care less if she was here or not). Maybe she does it to get out of the house, as a tenuous link to her former profession, or to prove to herself that at least she’s doing
something useful while she waits for her permanent residency to come through. Although helping privileged Joburg kids with their remedial reading isn’t exactly on the same level as, say,
counselling AIDS orphans in the townships. Anyway, if all goes to plan – if her business takes off – she won’t have time to volunteer here, will she?

But she isn’t about to go into this with Malika, a member of that tribe of primped, alien women who waft in to fill in at the library and tuck shop, their bodies sculpted by Zumba classes
and Botox, clouds of expensive scent trailing behind them as they clack through the corridors. Sure, they’re friendly enough to her, but Tara’s never managed to penetrate the clique, or
make anything approximating a friend. Plus, she hasn’t missed the contemptuous glances Malika tends to direct at her old Levi’s and battered sneakers.

Malika makes a show of glancing at her phone. ‘Do you mind packing up? I’ve got to meet my personal trainer at three.’

‘Sure,’ Tara says. She doesn’t really mind. She’s still got an hour or so to kill before Martin finishes rugby practice. Besides, she wants some time alone on the library
computer. Her cellphone network is down again and she hasn’t been able to check her emails on her BlackBerry all day.

It doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes to re-shelve the books; the class today was small and in any case there aren’t that many books to choose from. Most are dull, storyless
starter readers along the lines of
Tina and Kevin Go to the Zoo
, but since Mr Duvenhage became head other, more disturbing, books have appeared on the shelves. Sinister self-published
morality tales with amateurish illustrations, most of which involve a child getting his or her comeuppance in ways that pretty much amount to child abuse. Titles include such gems as
Lying
Means Crying
and
Malicious Molly Makes a Monstrous Mistake
. At the beginning of the year, she’d enthusiastically brought in a selection of
Winnie the Witch
and Roald
Dahl books, but Clara van der Spuy had nipped that in the bud: ‘We try not to encourage this kind of distorted thinking, Mrs Marais. It’s not really in line with the school
ethos.’

Tara slips into Clara’s small office at the back of the library, trying to ignore the saccharine baby-animal posters, complete with captions, that are tacked up all over the walls. Since
she was last in here, Clara’s added a glossy image of a pair of terrified-looking kittens (‘I can haz friend’) and a soft-focus photograph of a traumatised baby gorilla
(‘Needz a hug? Try me’) to her collection. Tara fires up Clara’s computer and quickly logs on to her website. It’s only been up and running for a month, and she still feels
a thrill when she scrolls through the photographs. She checks to see if her clients have posted their promised recommendations on her feedback page (they haven’t), then clicks onto the Gmail
account she uses solely for her work (her
hobby
, Stephen insists on calling it).

There are two messages – not bad. She opens the first, which is from a Susannah Ferguson, subject line: ‘I Love Baby Paul!!!!!’

‘Hi Tara! My name is Susannah and I am interested in adopting Baby Paul. He is soooooo beautiful. Please how much is he? I will pay anything!!!! Is 900 rand enough? Do you do lay-byes
too?’

Tara smiles to herself. She knows most people can’t afford her rates, and while she’s tempted to cut the price, it’s a fraction of what they go for in the States or the UK. She
keeps telling herself she’s not in it for the money, but since Stephen started whingeing about cutting back, she decided to do what the self-help books encourage and ‘turn her passion
into profit’. She takes her time crafting a gentle, encouraging response, providing the link to the rates section on her website.

Disappointingly, the second message looks like it’s probably spam. It’s from a Yahoo account, the sender’s name listed as ‘varder batiss’. No message in the subject
line. She opens it anyway. ‘We require baby,’ is all it says.

Tara snorts. Don’t we all, she thinks, pressing delete.

A cough makes her jump again, and she looks up to see Clara van der Spuy standing in front of the desk, smiling fixedly at her.

Tara feels guilty colour flushing her cheeks. It’s not as if she’s doing anything wrong – volunteers are allowed to use the library’s computer – but Clara’s
perennial self-righteous expression always makes her feel as if she’s nine years old again. Tara has no idea how old Clara is – she could be anywhere from fifty to seventy – and
she appears to have an inexhaustible supply of high-necked sensible blouses and tweed skirts. According to Malika – the font of all school gossip – before she joined Crossley College,
Clara spent years teaching English at one of those old South African colonial institutions. Tara has no problem imagining Clara happily teaching apartheid dogma and stamping the word
‘Banned’ on any slightly controversial book that came her way.

‘Sorry about this, Clara,’ Tara says, trying to smile. ‘Just killing time before I fetch Martin.’

‘It’s
fine
, Mrs Marais. I was just popping in to add the new books to the catalogue. But I can wait until you are finished.’

Taking the hint, Tara quickly clears her browsing history and gathers her stuff together. She pauses, remembering that strange new kid. ‘Hey, Clara, what’s up with that new
girl?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She came into the library earlier. Could be one of the outreach kids. Weird hair colour, might be slightly disabled.’

Clara squishes her lips in disapproval. ‘You mean
physically challenged
, Mrs Marais?’

Jesus, Tara thinks. Excuse me for breathing. ‘Yeah. She told me her name but I couldn’t quite catch it.’

‘I can’t say I have a clue who you mean, Mrs Marais.’

‘Really? I was worried she might have hurt herself.’ She shrugs. ‘Hey, maybe I just imagined her.’

Clara doesn’t crack a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s likely, Mrs Marais.’

‘Please, call me Tara.’

‘Best not to,’ Clara says. ‘It’s good to keep on formal terms. It confuses the learners otherwise.’

‘Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Clara relaxes; her smile actually reaches her eyes this time. ‘Yes. We do appreciate all the good work you do here for us, Mrs Marais.’

Tara steps out into the corridor. With the children gone now, the building feels more soulless and utilitarian than usual, as if it shrugs off the kids’ energy every day like a dog shaking
fleas off its back. Not that there’s all that much energy to shake off. Even in the heart of the school morning, the kids who attend Crossley College are more subdued than the kids who
inhabited the smelly chaos of the schools she’s taught at over the years.

She heads out into the sunlight, sneakered feet crunching on the raked gravel. The grounds are similarly deserted and silent, just the distant buzz of a whistle and muffled yells from the sports
fields. Ahead of her, a rangy figure emerges out of one of the maintenance sheds. Tara hesitates. If she carries on walking, their paths will cross. She pretends to fumble in her bag as an excuse
to stop. She’s seen him before, of course. Well, she could hardly miss him; his appearance is so totally at odds with the rest of the staff. According to Malika (who imparted the information
in a slightly breathy fashion) he’s the new maintenance man. He’s swarthy-skinned, wild-haired, always looks dishevelled, but in a cool way like the hard-eyed alternative kids who used
to hang out on the fringes of her own high school. Dangerous.
Sexy
dangerous. Like a gypsy; maybe a pirate.

But he doesn’t even turn his head in her direction. Feeling like a fool, she hurries towards the parking lot.

Martin’s waiting by the car, kicking at the back tyre. ‘Where were you?’ he whines. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’

Tara knows this isn’t true. She’s five minutes late, if that. ‘Sorry,’ she says anyway. ‘Hey, how was school?’

He shrugs.

‘What would you like for supper?’ she asks brightly as he straps himself into the back seat. ‘How about chicken?’

‘I hate chicken,’ Martin mumbles.

‘Okay. Steak and fries, then.’

‘Whatever. Oh, and by the way, in
South Africa
we call them
chips
.’

‘Not at McDonalds,’ she says, trying to make a joke of it. ‘You order fries there, don’t you?’

Martin mumbles something that sounds like ‘totally lame’.

She zoots down the driveway, pausing to let a Land Rover with tinted windows pull out in front of her. The driver sticks her hand out of the window, waves her thanks with a flick of her
cigarette. Tara squeaks into the traffic, which, as soon as they reach the first intersection, slows to a crawl.

Martin’s phone beeps out a gangsta-rap riff. ‘Ja?’ He sighs and kicks the back of her seat. ‘It’s Dad. Says he’s been trying to get hold of you.’

She reaches back for the phone, which is slick with Martin’s palm sweat. ‘Hey, honey,’ she says into the handset, automatically checking the mirrors for cops.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Stephen says. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all day.’

‘Sorry. Problem with the network again. What’s up?’

Stephen huffs as if the vagaries of her cell provider are her fault. ‘One of Olivia’s clients needs her to go to Cape Town.’

‘What? When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘
Tomorrow
? And she’s only just told you?’

‘It’s not her fault. They sprung it on her.’

Bullshit, Tara thinks, smothering a bitter response. She hates it when Stephen defends Olivia, which he seems to do more and more these days, but she can’t let Martin hear her bitching
about his mother. ‘Right. So that means...?’

‘We’ve got Martin for another week.’

Goddammit, Tara thinks. Just what I need. ‘Okay,’ she says, hating herself for giving in so easily. ‘No problem.’

‘You okay to man the fort? I’m going to the gym after work, might be back a bit late.’

‘I was hoping to get some work done tonight, Stephen.’ At least when Stephen’s around Martin is forced to be civil to her.

A pause. ‘So? Martin’s hardly a baby. He can look after himself, can’t he?’

‘I guess.’

‘See you later.’

‘Love you.’ But he’s already hung up. In the rear-view mirror she sees Martin miming vomiting. She has to slam on the brakes as the taxi in front of her screeches to a halt,
feels the bite of the seat belt digging into her breasts.

‘Don’t you know how to drive?’ Martin says. ‘I could have
died
.’

Good
, Tara thinks, furiously flicking on the radio and turning it up too loud. She does her best to concentrate on the Katy Perry track filling the car with perky good cheer, but her
palms are aching from gripping the steering wheel.

Martin pushes past her the second she unlocks the security gate, making a beeline for the kitchen. Tara hesitates in the corridor. All she wants to do is lock herself into her sanctuary, but she
forces herself to follow in Martin’s wake, stepping over the shoes he’s kicked off, the discarded backpack that’s vomited pencil shavings, an apple core and textbooks over the
tiles. Whenever she’s alone with him, her insides feel like stretched rubber, a twanging anxiety that’s grinding her down. Sometimes she fantasises about secretly dosing him with
Ritalin, or even better, tranquilisers. Occasionally these fantasies turn darker – a swift plane or bus crash perhaps (instant and painless; she’s not a monster).

Martin’s already foraging in the fridge. She knows that the glass of milk he’s pouring will sit, untouched, next to the couch until it grows a skin, until
she
clears it
up.

‘Don’t forget to do your homework before you watch TV, Martin.’

‘Ja, ja.’

‘You need any help with it?’

‘Course I don’t. What are you? Stupid?’

That’s
exactly
what she is, she thinks. Putting up with this crap. She can almost hear her mother’s voice: ‘You made your bed, Tara. This is what you get when you
steal another woman’s man.’ It still rankles that her mother didn’t come to the wedding last year. Stephen offered to buy her a plane ticket, but she didn’t even respond to
their emails until three weeks after the event.

And anyway, her mother’s right. She
did
steal him, didn’t she?

She’s done her best to connect with Martin; tried to imagine how she would have felt if her father had left her mother and married someone else. For the first six months after she moved
in, Stephen had been supportive, sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry, my baby,’ he’d say when he caught her crying after Martin had called her a bitch, or refused to eat the lasagne
she’d spent hours making from scratch. ‘It won’t be long before he accepts you.’ Deep-fried bullshit with a side order of crap, she thinks. And Stephen’s no longer
quite as supportive; she knows he thinks she’s not trying hard enough, although God knows what he expects her to do. It’s not as if Martin treats only her with contempt. She’s
lost count of the number of times Stephen was called into the school last year to discuss Martin’s ‘anti-social tendencies’ with the counsellor. The kid’s a spoilt brat and
a bully. Plain and simple.