Read The New Girl (Downside) Online
Authors: S.L. Grey
Tara digs a tissue out of her bag. ‘We should wipe some of that off your face before your teacher sees you. We don’t want you getting into trouble, do we?’
‘Okay, miss.’ Jane keeps absolutely still as Tara does her best to remove the lipstick and ghastly foundation. ‘There. Much better. You’re far too pretty to need make-up,
sweetie.’ Tara taps Jane’s cupped hands. ‘And what have you got there?’
‘A present, miss. Danish scouted it for me. It’s awesome-fuckentastic.’
‘Can you show me?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Jane opens her hands and Tara can’t hold back the scream. ‘Jesus!’
‘It’s okay, miss. It’s depreciated.’
Tara recognises the (thankfully) dead creature sitting in Jane’s palm as a Parktown prawn, a giant cricket that resembles the unholy marriage between a spider and a crawfish. ‘What
are you doing with that?’
‘It’s my chum, miss,’ Jane says brightly. ‘Like you.’
Tara hears the morning siren whoop. They should really get inside. ‘I wouldn’t show it to any of the other children if I were you, Jane.’
‘Okay, miss.’ She slides it into her pocket.
‘Shall we go inside?’
‘Yes, miss.’
Jane takes Tara’s hand, looks up at her. ‘You know what, miss?’ Jane says, putting on her American accent. ‘You’re my number one ho on the whole freakin’
strip.’ She smiles her strange smile. ‘I love yous, miss.’
Jane wasn’t in today’s starter-reader class. Really, Tara’s getting seriously worried about that kid. Well-adjusted children don’t tell virtual
strangers that they love them, even if they are quoting from some sort of gangsta flick. And what kind of mother allows their daughter to go to school made up like a child prostitute? Although
reluctant to get involved – it’s impossible to forget that the last time she interfered, her life went into freefall – she decides that she has to let someone know about her
concerns. But who? She’s never met the school counsellor – who she’s heard from Stephen was worse than useless anyway when she dealt with Martin – and she certainly
doesn’t feel like approaching Duvenhage.
She waits until the last of the reading class leaves, then knocks on Clara’s office door.
Clara glances up from her computer. ‘Is everything all right, Mrs Marais?’
‘Could I ask your advice, Mrs van der Spuy?’
‘Of course. Please, sit.’
‘It’s about Jane. You know, the new girl. I’m worried that maybe there’s something...
off
about her home situation.’
‘Off?’
‘Well, I’m worried that there might be some... neglect.’ Tara tries to hide her shock as Clara leans back in her chair and yawns. ‘I realise I might be meddling, but
yesterday she was hanging around outside the school on the main road. I offered to give her a lift and...’ And what exactly? Her mother has appalling taste in architecture and clothes? So
what?
‘Mrs Marais, I appreciate you bringing this to my consideration, but let me assure you we keep a very close eye on our learners here.’
‘Sure. I appreciate that. But it’s not just that, this morning—’
‘How is Martin doing, Mrs Marais?’ Clara interrupts.
Tara blinks. ‘What does Martin have to do with Jane’s situation?’
‘Everything fine at home?’
‘Yes. Why—’
‘But he
has
had trouble in the past, hasn’t he?’ Tara knows exactly what Clara is driving at. She may as well come out and accuse Tara of calling the kettle black. She
swallows the twinge of anger she feels, decides not to rise to Clara’s bait. Clara attempts her version of a sympathetic smile. ‘It can’t be easy being a stepmother. Really, you
have my sympathy.’
Shit, Tara thinks. Time to change the subject. ‘Um... There’s something else. This Encounters group. Have you heard of it?’
‘Of course I’ve heard of it, Mrs Marais.’
‘And... well, what goes on there?’
‘It’s one of Mr Duvenhage’s projects, I believe. Designed for our learners who need a more... directed approach. If you’re at all concerned, then perhaps you should sit
in on a meeting. I’m sure that wouldn’t be an issue.’
‘Thanks. I just might.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
Clara turns to her computer, rattles her fingers over the keyboard.
Tara slinks out, feeling as if she’s just been disciplined. She heads down the corridor, listening to the soft hum emanating from the classrooms, hurries past Duvenhage’s office. All
she can think about is heading home to Baby Tommy. Just the thought of him waiting for her in her sanctuary makes her feel calmer.
‘Mrs Marais?’ a voice says behind her. She turns to see Mr Duvenhage approaching, his pink, prissy face sheened with perspiration. ‘I wonder, could I have a word?’
Oh God. What’s Martin done now? ‘Sure. What’s it about?’
‘Oh, this and that,’ Duvenhage says. ‘Would you mind joining me in my office?’
Unlike Clara’s saccharine-postered nightmare, Duvenhage’s office is as impersonal as a bank manager’s, although Tara detects the whiff of rot from the stained ceiling
boards.
‘Please, sit.’ Duvenhage waves her towards the hard-backed chair in front of his desk. It’s way lower than his own, and Tara is forced to look up at him.
‘What’s this about, Mr Duvenhage?’
Duvenhage digs in his desk drawer, hands her a sheet of paper. She takes it from him, almost drops it when she reads the heading at the top of the page: ‘Raymond Scheider Primary School
Child Sex Abuse Scandal (US)’. Judging by the typeface and the ‘[citations needed]’ peppered throughout the text, it’s a print-out from a Wikipedia page. She’s never
read this particular account before; it’s been months since she’s dared to Google her name. She scans it quickly.
In 2008, seven children, all of whom attended Raymond Scheider Primary School in Mayton County, New Jersey, were removed from the custody of their parents amid accusations
of sexual abuse and involvement in an alleged satanic cult. The children’s welfare came under scrutiny after several teachers at the school approached the school’s consulting
child psychologist, Dr Raphael Blake, to investigate what they believed was abnormal behaviour and rumors of ritualistic abuse. Using a controversial technique called reflex anal
dilation
[1]
as well as conducting several in-depth interviews with the children in question, Dr Blake concluded that in all seven cases, sexual abuse had occurred. Dr Blake
subsequently reported his findings to the region’s child welfare office, and the children were immediately placed in foster care.
Consistently denying the charges, the parents approached the media. In 2009, after an extensive enquiry, it was ruled that the evidence was seriously flawed and the children were returned
home. The teachers’ accusations, Dr Blake’s conclusions and the welfare officers’ findings were all found to be wholly unwarranted. No foundation to the many claims of
satanic abuse was ever proven.
Two of the teachers involved, lay minister Carlos Androna, and Lana Ivey, were thought to have been influenced by their staunch religious beliefs, fuelled by rumors of a cult operating in
the area [
citation needed
]. The third teacher, Tara Elizabeth Himmelman, stated that she was motivated purely by concerns for the children, who she thought were acting ‘in a
peculiar fashion consistent with the behaviour of sexually abused children’.
[2]
The parents of the children involved have filed a class action suit against Dr Blake and the three teachers involved, citing psychological trauma, stigma and job loss. So far the case has
not come to court.
[3]
Duvenhage rests his chin on steepled hands, looks straight into her eyes. ‘You are Tara Elizabeth Himmelman, are you not, Mrs Marais?’
‘How did you find out that was my name?’
Duvenhage wafts a manicured hand. ‘Methods.’
Now where, Tara thinks, have I heard that before? ‘And you’re showing me this, why?’
‘I believe you’ve been talking to Clara van der Spuy about concerns you may have about one of our learners.’
That was fast. Clara must have been on the phone the second Tara left her office. ‘How long have you known about this?’
‘Oh, Mrs Marais, you must understand that we thoroughly research the backgrounds of all of our volunteers.’ He eyes the Wikipedia article.
‘I was sure that the parents in question were guilty of abuse, Mr Duvenhage. I still am.’
‘Yes, yes. That’s not my concern. You do understand that the school takes the welfare of its students very seriously.’
‘I see.’ Tara does see – she sees very clearly. The last thing that Duvenhage and the board of trustees wants is a re-run of the Raymond Scheider Primary scandal.
‘You’re blackmailing me.’
‘Blackmailing you?’ Duvenhage laughs. ‘Certainly not! I am simply pointing out that accusations like these... Well, as you know, they can be blown out of proportion. I know
Jane’s... family personally. They may be a bit...’ – he chuckles – ‘eccentric, but that’s as far as it goes, I assure you. Morality is important to us here at
Crossley College. It’s the basis of our very ethos. We maintain a high standard of responsibility to our learners – both within the walls of the school and within the broader
community.’
He stands up, holds out a hand. She’s being dismissed again. Clara and Duvenhage make a hell of a tag team. Tara tries not to wince as her hand is gripped by moist, pudgy fingers.
‘We do appreciate all the primo work you do for us here, Mrs Marais.’
Primo. That word again. It’s just a coincidence. A new South African buzzword that’s doing the rounds. Has to be.
‘In fact,’ Duvenhage continues, ‘Mrs van der Spuy says that you might be interested in joining us at the school on a more... permanent basis.’
Tara draws back. ‘Even now? Now that... you know?’
Duvenhage chuckles again. ‘Oh, Mrs Marais. Everyone can make
one
mistake, can’t they?’
Chapter 12
‘Mother! Mother. It is time for you to kindle.’
She opens her eyes, looks up into Father’s face, his skin bathed in blue light from the television screen. She must have fallen asleep on the couch in the television room. After last
night’s victuals, a projectile-inducing mess of soggy corn dogs and noodles that only Danish seemed to enjoy, Penter had retired here. She meant to research more of the advertisements to
please Father, but as she clicked through the channels she paused on a channel called SKY. Thinking it would be a document about the ether above her, she was shocked to see violent, sometimes
blurry images that were more disquieting than those in Jane’s documents: crying and naked halfpints, broken and burning houses, enraged browns, modified browns in sale apparel talking about
war, economic crises, bloodshed and ‘terrorists’. She watched for hours, hypnotised. She eventually realised that this SKY, unlike
Pretty Woman
or
Love Actually
was a
factual document, not a story. Why had the Ministry guidelines not warned her about this?
She touches her cheeks. Her face is wet. ‘What is wrong with me?’
‘You had a nightmare.’
She looks at the clear moisture on her fingers. ‘What is this?’
‘An extrusion of thought-seep. It won’t bother you when we return and your penetration is renewed.’
Penter knows that the question is disregardful, that if Father wants to volunteer non-essential information he will, but she can’t help herself. ‘Do you suffer
thought-seep?’
A pause. ‘Yes.’
‘And Jane?’
Father smiles. ‘She does not seem to be so affected. She’s a primo scout.’
Once again, Penter marvels at the halfpint’s adaptability. She suppresses a pang of what she understands to be jealousy. ‘Is it time for me to prepare breakfast for the
family?’
‘Almost. But first, do you want to see the viables?’
She’s not sure how to answer. Is he testing her? The selection of viables is not in her purview; she is the unit’s Mother. Father wouldn’t try to trick her into committing
disregard, would he? Only Players would do that, and playing is not tolerated in the Ministry of Upside Relations. Why does he want her involved?
She is curious, though, so she nods, hoping that he will invite her to explore his study, the only room in the house she has never entered.
He doesn’t. Instead, he plugs his gelphone into the slow tech at the base of the television. The screen flickers, and then she sees a recording of twelve small browns, six males and six
females, sitting on chairs in a large white-walled room with wooden floors, their heads drooping like the beans in the garden. She is full of admiration for Father’s methods. Not one of the
halfpints moves as he uses the device and the mark-up pens.
‘Are you sure that they will not recall their experiences here?’ Penter is confident to ask questions because Father seems so relaxed.
‘Entirely,’ Father replies. ‘The Ministry’s brain-sweep technology is perfectly efficient. The halfpints you see on screen are the viables Jane scouted,’ Father
says. ‘Halfpint browns with top-percentile destructive capacity which could be rechannelled. The viability formula for this programme is adapted from the Walters-King scale used in the
Wards,’ he continues, as if excited to be sharing the information with a willing audience. ‘The calculation is dependent on the mean actuarial concordance between poundage and
depreciation rate.’ He smiles at her confusion. ‘The halfpints whose flesh is most likely to withstand ongoing penetration renewal and conditioning.’ Penter nods. Most of the
full-grown browns scouted by Mall Management and Ward Administration have a far faster depreciation rate than normals. The theory underpinning this project suggests that halfpints will assimilate
faster than full-grown browns and last longer in the environment. She hopes so, otherwise their mission here will have been nothing but a waste of energy.
‘When will the selected viable be assimilated?’ she asks.
He shrugs. ‘A matter of shifts.’
Penter remembers an image she saw on SKY last night. A crying Mother, pleading for her offspring to be returned. They did not say where it had gone, only that it was lost. ‘If browns...
disappear... won’t this cause their families distress?’ She is not sure why this concerns her, but it does. She glances at Father to see if he finds this question disregardful.