The New Girl (Downside) (7 page)

How could she have sailed through that and allowed a little snot like Martin to push her over the edge?

She knows she should really phone Stephen, tell him what’s happened before Martin gives his own version of events. But she can’t face hearing the sigh in his voice. The unspoken
‘I thought you said you were
good
with children, Tara.’

Maybe she’s overreacting. It was a just a slap. Big deal.

But it is a big deal. At least to her.

She doesn’t have to be in the library until ten today, for the first batch of readers; she usually uses the time to head to Woolworths and stock up on groceries, dropping them off at home
before she heads back to the school. But today she doesn’t have the energy. She can’t bear the idea of going home, knows she’ll just end up brooding, obsessing about Martin. She
could always go and sit in the library, help Clara catalogue the books. Or maybe hole up in the staff room while the teachers are at assembly. Volunteers are allowed to use the facilities, although
Tara never has. In her opinion, the teachers are as cliquey as the Mother Tribe. No, the library will do.

The security guard hasn’t yet locked the front gate so she’s able to slip in without ringing the bell. She can hear the muffled boom of a man’s voice echoing from behind the
double doors that lead into the hall – a blank-walled area with pointless arched steel roof struts that make the space look more like a pretentious modern-art gallery than a school.

Curious, she tiptoes over to the doors, pushes one of them open slightly and peers in.

Mr Duvenhage looms over the lectern on the stage at the far end of the hall, staring down at the orderly rows of children sitting cross-legged on the floor below him. The teachers are perched on
chairs along the sides of the hall, and Tara spots Clara sitting stiff-backed at the piano a few feet from the front.

‘I’m afraid I have a rather serious issue to air,’ Duvenhage is saying. ‘I have heard disturbing reports from Mr Duma that several pieces of chewing gum have been found
stuck under the desks. I don’t think I need remind you that desecration of school property is...’ – he pauses – ‘
sickening
. Does anyone want to admit to this
crime? Or perhaps one of you
saw
someone doing it?’

Holy crap, Tara thinks. Is he encouraging the kids to rat on each other? She’s amazed to see several hands shooting up into the air. She recognises Martin’s chunky frame in the third
row from the front; realises that he’s one of the kids squirming with enthusiasm to be picked.

‘Very well,’ Mr Duvenhage says, pointing down at him. ‘You. Martin Marais. Please stand up.’ Martin gets to his feet, turning around to grin at one of his friends.

‘It was Kyle de Villiers, Mr Duvenhage,’ Martin says. ‘He did it. I
saw
him.’

‘I see. Thank you, Martin. You will be rewarded for your honesty.’ Mr Duvenhage clears his throat. ‘Kyle de Villiers, please stand up.’

A skinny child with a shock of black hair stands up, his hands twisting behind his back.

A chill creeps up Tara’s spine. She’s reminded of that Shirley Jackson short story she used to teach – ‘The Lottery’. She doubts the kids are going to start lobbing
stones at Kyle, but even from her post at the back of the room, she can sense the atmosphere in the hall, a pregnant mix of excitement, schadenfreude and fear.

Mr Duvenhage peers down at him like a vulture assessing a carcass. ‘Is Martin’s assertion true, Kyle?’

Kyle nods miserably.

‘What do we say to Kyle, children?’

‘Bad eggs will be thrown out, good eggs will be served,’ the children drone in unison.

‘Correct. Kyle, I will see you in my office after assembly for castigation.’

Kyle nods, murmurs, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and sits down.

Poor kid, Tara thinks. She is uncomfortable with Mr Duvenhage’s disciplinary methods but has to admit they probably work. She’s fairly sure it’s the last time Kyle will be
tempted to ‘desecrate’ school property, and come to think of it, since Duvenhage was appointed, Stephen hasn’t once been called in to discuss Martin’s behavioural issues.
Not that his behaviour at home has improved, but she supposes it’s a start.

Mr Duvenhage claps his hands. ‘Today’s theme is belonging. Please stand for this morning’s meditations.’

Tara’s phone beeps and she steps back, shutting the door softly behind her. She fumbles it out of her bag, clicks onto her inbox. Sees she has one text message from a private number.

Varder Batiss. It has to be. But her cell number’s not listed on her website. She taps in a reply.
number?>

Methods? What methods?

What in God’s name does that mean? Tara paces back and forth in front of the door, trying to phrase a reply.
baby?>

< I’m concerned about this commission>Should she be more specific? She doesn’t want to offend this Batiss person if he or she is, in fact, a
grieving parent.

Before she can craft a response to this, another message pops up. It’s from ABSA customer services, alerting her to the fact that her account has just been credited with R75021.67.

She stares down at it, unbelieving.

She quickly does the maths. That’s nearly ten thousand dollars! Way too much.

Jesus, she thinks. Is this Batiss person serious? Could this be some kind of scam? But for the life of her she can’t figure out what kind of internet scam-artist deposits seventy-five
grand into their target’s account up front. No, Batiss must be deranged in some way; highly eccentric, perhaps. What should she do? Should she take advantage and just run with it? After all,
this could set her free. Keep her going until her permanent residency comes in. Hell, if what she’s heard about the South African Home Affairs Department is true, seventy-five grand could
buy
her permanent residency.

Her phone beeps again.

She types in

but something stops her from sending it straight away. She needs to consider this. There must be some kind of catch.

The sound of singing floats through the door. She recognises the tune, realises that it’s one of the songs the beardy religious group used to sing to the kids back in New Jersey, a simple,
catchy number that she would catch herself humming for days afterwards. Still, as much as she dislikes it, the sound of it sparks a wave of homesickness and regret.

She pushes the door open again as carefully as she can, peers through it, sees Clara banging away at the piano, Duvenhage leading the children in song, his voice deep and strident.

Tara remembers that the irritating tune wasn’t the only reason she disliked it; its message is dodgy as hell:
don’t be an individual, kids, it’s safer to follow the
herd
. She’s about to close the door when Duvenhage suddenly stops singing. He’s too far away from her to be sure, but she has the distinct impression he’s staring straight at
her.

She jumps back as if she’s been caught doing something illegal, fingers slipping on the door; it shuts with a thunk. She hurries down the corridor, knowing that she’s overreacting
(so what if she looked in on the school assembly?), but she only relaxes when she hears the sound of singing starting up again.

She stalks past the school secretary’s office, turns the corner to the library. She tries the door – it doesn’t give. Locked.
Goddammit
. She’ll have to get the
key from the rack next to Sybil Fontein’s desk. And while she’s there, she can root around, see if there’s a couple of Disprin to take the edge off her headache.

She retraces her steps, is about to enter the office when a man slips out. Tara steps back to give him room, then realises that it’s that new maintenance man – the pirate. She finds
herself blushing, running a hand through her dirty hair. She’s uncomfortably aware that she’s not wearing any deodorant; that she’s dressed in a pair of baggy leggings and a faded
Obama-For-President T-shirt – the first clothes that came to hand when she flumped out of bed. God, she must look awful.

‘What are you doing here?’ she blurts.

‘I work here,’ he says.

His eyes skate over her face, her hair, down her body, linger, for some reason, on her sneakers. It’s a shameless, almost brazen, assessment, as if he doesn’t care if he’s
making her uncomfortable.

‘You’re American,’ he says.

‘That obvious, huh?’ She crosses her arms over the slight bulge of her stomach. ‘Um... how long have you been working here?’

‘Why?’

‘Just making conversation.’

‘Why? I don’t know you, you don’t know me.’

What to say to that? Tara can’t tell if he’s being plain rude or trying to be witty. She’s saved from having to answer him as a door slams, followed by the scuffle of feet
approaching down the corridor. The assembly must be over.

He ducks his head, brushes past her. There’s plenty of room for him to pass, but she feels the bare skin of his arm sliding against hers.

A mass of children streams towards her, en route to the classrooms on the first floor, and Tara’s struck again by how subdued they are; there’s barely a whisper or a giggle, just the
shush-clump of their shoes as they shamble along. She presses herself against the wall to give them room.

She feels a tug on her hand, sees the new girl staring up at her. She looks grubbier than she did yesterday, streaks of grease in her weird dyed hair, her makeshift uniform leaking threads. If
she’s not an outreach kid, could she be a neglected child? In this sort of privileged school? Why not? After all, it happens everywhere, however prosperous the area. She should know.

Tara smiles down at the girl. ‘Hello. I remember you from the library. What’s your name again?’

‘Jane, miss,’ the girl whispers.

‘Sorry?’ Tara’s sure she heard something else yesterday.

‘Jane. My name. It goes like this: Jay Ay En Ee.’

‘That’s a pretty name,’ Tara says, hoping she sounds convincing.

The kids streaming past them don’t give the girl a second glance, although a couple of the reading-difficulties kids wave shyly at Tara.

‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

The girl nods.

‘And... do you like the school?’

Jane bares her teeth in that strange approximation of a smile Tara remembers from yesterday. One of the girl’s incisors looks like it might be rotten, the grey enamel pitted with white
flecks, as if she’s tried to cover it with Tippex. Poor kid.

She sees Martin shuffling past. He scowls at her, whispers something to the boy next to him – a kid Tara recognises as Jonah Hallock, another thug in the making – and smirks.

‘Freak,’ Jonah hisses as he passes the girl, slipping away before Tara can remonstrate with him.

‘Mrs Marais!’ she hears Clara calling over the heads of the kids. The girl skitters into the throng, her limp less pronounced than it was yesterday. The other children part to make
room for her, as if they don’t want to brush up against her.

Tara tries to smile as Clara approaches. It isn’t reciprocated. ‘That’s the child I was talking about yesterday,’ Tara says, gesturing at the girl’s back.
‘The one who came into the library.’

‘Oh yes. You mean the new intake.’

‘Is she...’ Tara searches for the right word, but in the fog caused by her increasingly throbbing headache all she can come up with is ‘normal’, which won’t go down
well in this environment where students are ‘learners’ and remedial kids are ‘learning-challenged’. ‘Is she... okay?’ is what she finally settles on.

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t she be?’

‘She’s limping. And the other children don’t seem to—’

‘It can take a while for new learners to feel at home in Crossley College,’ Clara interrupts. ‘I’m sure the other children will make her belong soon enough.’
Strange choice of words, Tara thinks. ‘What are you doing here at this hour, Mrs Marais? You are far too early for library duty. Is everything in order?’

Tara imagines spilling her guts to this woman.
Oh, it’s nothing really, Clara. I hit the crap out of my stepson and a creepy stranger wants me to make them a replica of a possibly
dead, but certainly mutilated, baby.
Yeah, that would go down well. ‘Everything’s fine. I... um, thought I’d pop in early and help you with the new books.’

‘I see.’

‘Um... I caught a few seconds of the assembly. Is that normal? Asking kids to rat on each other?’

Clara stiffens as if Tara has personally insulted her. ‘I’m sure you understand the need for strict discipline, Mrs Marais. Now that we are no longer able to use physical methods, Mr
Duvenhage likes to emphasise teamwork and sharing and caring – collective responsibility, if you will. You are, after all, not from this country, are you? Some of our practices must seem
strange to an outsider.’

‘I guess.’

‘But who knows, perhaps you won’t
always
be an outsider.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

Clara leans in closer, as if she’s about to impart something confidential, and Tara’s hit with a whiff of her lavender scent. ‘You have a teaching degree, do you
not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I believe you’re just waiting for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn before you find yourself a position?’

Now how in the hell does she know that? Tara wonders. She’s never discussed this with Clara before, and she’s only mentioned her past and her ongoing war with Home Affairs in the
vaguest terms to the members of the Mother Tribe. ‘What are you getting at, Cl— Mrs van der Spuy?’