The New Girl (Downside) (35 page)

So it’s an improvement, all right, but Tara’s come to the conclusion that these places are all the same. It doesn’t matter what ethos they hide behind, be it Crossley
College’s pseudo-Christian morality or Kestrel Academy’s environmentally friendly New Age philosophy. As long as the kids get the grades promised on the websites, scandal is kept to a
minimum and the parents keep shelling out the cash, the wheels keep turning. In fact, all the schools she’s ever worked at are just different versions of the same machine, she thinks, wincing
as an image of Martin pops into her head. She shrugs it away. She tries to keep thoughts and memories of Martin – along with Jane, Duvenhage and everything that happened during that terrible
time – safely hidden behind a wall. She and Stephen never talk about Martin these days, especially now that Olivia’s hysterical middle-of-the-night phone calls have stopped.

She concentrates on the faint screams and laughter of the children outside in the playground. Like she’s always rationalised, she’s here for the kids. She can make a difference to
them. She’s shown that already.

Thoughts of Martin safely stowed away, the rest of the day stretches pleasurably ahead of her. She’ll spend the afternoon decorating the nursery – she can hardly recognise her
sanctuary now that the walls have been painted in a soft eggshell blue and the cot and the changing table have been delivered.

She digs in her bag for her keys, feels the smooth curve of Baby Tommy’s head pressing reassuringly against her palm as she does so. She carries him with her everywhere, has never dared
probe too deeply into why she feels the need to keep him close to her. But why should she? Now that she’s sold off her Reborn collection, has shut down her website, it seems only fair that
she hold onto one small part of her old life.

The slam of a door in the hallway outside the library makes her jump. She pokes her head into the corridor, sees Busi Gwayise, the English department’s HOD, storming out of the boys’
bathroom, two pupils slinking after him. She recognises the kids immediately – Kavish Naidoo and Morgan Ebersohn – a pair of spoilt, ultra-privileged ten-year-olds who have caused
disruption in her library classes more than once. Bullies, she thinks. Thugs in the making. She flinches as another forbidden image of Martin slides into her head.

Locking the library door behind her, Tara heads towards them. She’s never seen Busi looking so irate. He’s one of the more pragmatic members of staff, a mild-mannered, soft-spoken
man who has no time for the rabidly vegan, fringe-skirted ethos that most of the other teachers embrace. Tara’s guiltily aware that if she weren’t pregnant and things weren’t
going so well with Stephen, he’s the kind of guy she might have been tempted to flirt with.

‘But, sir,’ Tara hears Kavish whine. ‘He’s so—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Both of you to Ms Traverso’s office. Now!’

‘But, sir, we didn’t—’

‘Just go!’ Busi snaps. ‘Your behaviour is entirely unacceptable. I’ll make sure your parents are informed.’

Muttering, the two boys slump their way down the corridor.

‘Everything okay, Busi?’ Tara asks.

He smiles at her distractedly. ‘Those two. Nothing but trouble.’

‘What are they up to? Not another stink bomb, is it?’

‘No. Taunting the new boy.’

‘New boy?’ That can’t be right. How can there be a new pupil? It’s nearly the end of the school year.

Busi smiles apologetically at her and disappears into the bathroom, emerges a few seconds later with his arm around the shoulder of a small, outlandishly dressed child Tara doesn’t
recognise. School uniform is optional at Kestrel Academy (to encourage the kids to exhibit their ‘inner creative side’, according to the website) and most do this by wearing pretty much
the same shit – Ben 10 or My Little Pony shorts and tees. This kid looks like an uncool throwback to the seventies. He’s dressed in fraying velvet flares and an ill-fitting long-sleeved
dress shirt; his longish, tangled hair looks like it’s been cut with garden shears.

Busi ruffles his hair. ‘They won’t bother you again. You going to be okay, Dick?’

The boy looks up at him, glances at Tara, holds her gaze as a strange smile creeps over his face. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says. ‘But I’m just
primo
.’

Tara bites her lip to stop herself from screaming, feels her right hand reaching up to touch the faded scar just behind her ear. Fights to keep her expression neutral as she watches the kid
disappearing down the corridor.

Busi shakes his head. ‘Poor kid. Magnet for bullies, that one. Shame, someone needs to talk to his mother about how she dresses him.’ He sighs. ‘You coming to the staff room,
Tara?’

Tara manages to mumble something about having to get home to Stephen.

‘You okay? You’re looking a bit pale.’

I’m just
primo
, she almost says, bites it back just in time. Tries to swallow. ‘I’m fine. Morning sickness, you know.’

‘Shame. My wife was the same. Well, all the best. Hope to see you next term.’ Busi smiles at her, slides his hands into his pockets and ambles towards the staff room, leaving Tara
alone.

Martin, she thinks, her hand unconsciously toying with the scar on her neck again.
Martin
.

Uh-uh.
Don’t go there
. She drifts down the corridor on numb legs, pauses outside Ms Traverso’s office, ignores the two boys who are slumped sulkily on the bench outside it,
waiting to be reprimanded.

The school secretary, a jangly-earringed version of Sybil Fontein, looks up from her computer. ‘Can I help you, Mrs Marais?’

Tara breathes in. Plunges her hand into her bag and cups Baby Tommy’s head. What does she think she’s doing? She needs to go home. She’s got things to do. ‘No,’ she
says. ‘Actually, I don’t think you can.’

Barely acknowledging the secretary’s good wishes for her maternity leave, she turns away, uses her staff card to swipe herself through the security gate and hurries towards the car park.
She hesitates next to the bank of recycling bins, pulls Baby Tommy’s head out of her bag. Drops it into the bin marked ‘Plastic’, slams the lid.

She can only breathe easy again when she’s sitting in her car. Turning the radio to full blast to block out the dangerous thoughts, she guns the engine and drives away.

She doesn’t look back.

Penter shuts the door on the last brown. Thank the ether they have all gone! The Mothers always ask the same question in their nasal tones: ‘Your accent, it’s so
unusual, where are you from?’ They talk like document mascots.

‘Down under,’ Penter has learnt to respond. According to Jane, that’s a real upside location.

Some of them comment on her outfits and hair, saying things like, ‘Oh, I just love this.’ But she knows by now that these Mothers are lying. When they say they love something, they
mean the opposite. It can be tiring. And the last Mother today wanted to chatter about being a ‘single parent’. ‘It must be hard on you not having Jane’s father
around,’ it said, prating on and on.

‘No,’ Penter had replied. ‘It’s a karking relief.’

That had made the Mother close its yapping mouth!

Penter assesses the waste in the kitchen. Why are brown half-pints so messy? Her counter tops, the forespecial ones she chose from the catalogue, are littered with cupcake crumbs and smears.
Ryan will have to clean it after he’s finished in the garden. Still, this new scouting method she designed is very productive. Instead of the risk, expense and logistical complexity of
harvesting at an institution, Jane scouts the viables at the school and invites them over for cupcakes and horror movies. Once they’re gathered in the television room, Penter quickly assesses
the most optimal viables, and she doesn’t even need to leave the precinct to harvest them.

Yes. Things are progressing in a catalogue fashion. Cardineal Phelgm’s office itself has sent signals of support.

Their current precinct is more scenic than the last one, although she is disappointed that there are not any ready beans to be had in the vegetable patch. She still hasn’t been tempted to
venture outside it. It’s not that she’s afraid of going out, it’s just not necessary. Jane’s quite the opposite, using any excuse to go out with Ryan, and bringing back
tales of upside Malls and parks, which don’t appeal in the least to Penter. They sound dirty and uncomfortable. No, she’s content to stay behind the gates of the precinct. There is
always much to be done: authorising contracts and dispatching node agents to manage the repercussions of the harvest.

Penter opens the fridge and collects a batch of ready beans that Ryan purchased yesterday from a marketplace. They don’t taste as fresh and delicious as the ones that grow on the stalks,
but Penter still prefers them to the frozen convenience victuals.

She finds Jane in the television room, looking out of the window, watching Ryan pulling stray grass from around the new shoots.

Every evening now, they watch a document before victuals. Today Jane has chosen something called
A Little Princess
, which she says reminds her of the tame brown, Ryan. Penter hopes
there isn’t any love in it. She’s lost her interest in love documents, and it still embarrasses her that she went through all that turmoil about Father. She does not regret him in the
least. Like the browns say, she must have been fucking mad.

Without turning around, Jane says, ‘It’s depreciating, Mother.’

Penter sighs. ‘I know.’

It is inconvenient, but she’ll have to think about recycling Ryan soon. A pity, as he has been most loyal, altogether stopped his wandering.

‘When can we get a new one?’

‘Soon, Jane.’

‘Can I scout one? One like Ryan? I know how.’

‘Of course.’

Jane turns abruptly and throws her arms around Penter’s neck. ‘I love you, Penter.’

Penter gasps as her chest is flooded by a warm wash of pleasure. It is nothing like the ragged anxiety she felt for Father. This feeling is deeper,
blissful
. The research was right
after all.

She looks over at her daughter, and when she says the words, she now knows what they mean.

‘I love you too.’