The Good Samaritan
Page 45

I started by grading her English essays and tests a little lower than Mrs Simmons had. At first it was an A– instead of an A. Next time, it had slipped to a B+, until by the end of my first month with her, she was averaging Cs. Each time I handed the class their marked papers, I took a moment to her watch her scowl as she hid the disappointing bright-red grade on the top left-hand corner of her page from those around her. After the second month, she snapped.
‘Why do you keep giving me bad marks, sir?’ she demanded after waiting until the rest of the class had moved on to their next lesson.
‘I don’t think you’re understanding what I want in your answers,’ I replied.
‘Mrs Simmons never graded me like this.’
‘I’m not Mrs Simmons.’
‘She said English was one of my top subjects.’
‘Your grades tell me otherwise.’
Her face dropped, and the first of several crocodile tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. I remained stony-faced. She had to learn that reaction wouldn’t work on me, otherwise I wouldn’t gain her respect. Instead, I pointed out that some of her reasoning was valid but next time she needed to back up her theories with evidence in the text. Only, when each ‘next time’ arrived, her grades remained the same, or lower. She could only look on, bewildered, as her classmates maintained their marks. I was slowly chipping away at her confidence.
Her essays became longer and longer as she attempted to read between the lines and cover every single point she thought I might be looking for. I marked her down for rambling. One report on Of Mice and Men was so obviously cut and pasted from the Internet that I called her out on it in front of the rest of the class. I swallowed my smile as her face turned scarlet. She’d been expected to take her GCSE in English literature a year early. But when I gave her my predicted grade, she decided against it.
I’d hoped Effie would eventually start questioning her abilities in other subjects, too, but it happened faster than I’d expected. Underneath her bravado, she was much more sensitive than I’d given her credit for. Her standard of work across the board was sinking. Her history, geography, and philosophy and ethics teachers told me her essays were vague and her coursework lacked cohesion. It was as if she were second-guessing everything she wrote, even in subjects like maths, for which there could often only be one definitive answer.
And without her intelligence to lord over her classmates, she did what all bullies do and found another way to seek attention, by playing up and distracting everyone else. One evening after the final school bell rang, I asked her to stay behind and she joined me in my office.
‘I’m not going to lie, I’m concerned about you, Effie,’ I began, and handed her a mug of coffee. She tried to hide her surprise that I was treating her like an adult. ‘Is there something you want to talk to me about?’
‘To you?’ she scoffed. Her default setting of arrogance remained. I had more work to do.
‘Is everything okay at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is all good with your parents?’
She paused before she nodded.
‘What about here at school? I know the other girls haven’t been kind to you lately. Is that what’s bothering you? Are you being picked on?’
She shot me a glance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Are they teasing you about your grades and your – how do I put this properly – your appearance?’
‘My appearance? What are you on about, sir?’
‘Oh, sorry, I’m speaking out of turn. It’s none of my business. I just wanted to make sure none of it was getting to you. You’re a normal size for a girl your age, so please don’t listen to what people who claim they’re your friends say about you behind your back.’
Anger spread across her face. ‘Who’s been talking about my weight?’
I feigned irritation at myself. ‘Oh, Christ, look, I’m not good at this kind of thing. The other teachers said I shouldn’t say anything to you and should let the girls get it out of their system.’
‘The other teachers? You’re all talking about me? And what girls?’
‘It’s not for me to name names, but I reprimanded some of them when I heard them being nasty about you in the corridor. I don’t like people who laugh about others behind their backs. You’re not overweight and you’re not stupid.’
She perched on the edge of her seat and sucked in her cheeks. ‘How many? Who?’
‘It doesn’t really matter.’
‘Bitches . . .’ she huffed, folding her arms and sinking back into her chair. ‘I bet it was Britney and Morgan.’
‘Ignore those two,’ I replied. ‘You don’t need people like them in your life. Or Melissa or Ruby.’
‘Them as well? Will you tell me if you hear anything else?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Please, Mr Smith.’
‘Okay, but I won’t be naming any more names.’
She muttered a thank you under her breath and left. And later, when she’d been excluded for a week for starting a fight with Britney and giving Morgan a nosebleed, I couldn’t help but feel smug. I watched from the sidelines as Effie’s clique shrank and she became more and more isolated from her classmates. I’d send her father regular progress reports, but began secretly including Laura in the emails, too.
I’d set a date with her father when I’d met him in November to see him again four weeks later to discuss how Effie was doing. I could only hope the emails Laura had been receiving would spur her into action. But I’d also need to up the ante with her daughter.
I organised regular one-to-one private meetings with Effie each Monday and Friday after school in my office, listening to her as she complained about the teachers and girls who ‘had it in’ for her. Sometimes I’d add fuel to the fire by lying to her about what I’d heard other teachers saying about her in the staffroom.
Less than three months into our time together, and she was thinking of me as a confidant. And as the weeks progressed, I sensed she felt it was becoming something more.
It began with the opening of an extra button on her shirt for our meetings, then a little more lip gloss to make her pout shine. When I stood with my back to her, pouring hot water into our mugs, I saw her checking out my arse in the reflection of the window. When I turned, she averted her gaze.
I saw our closeness as an opportunity to learn more about her home situation.
‘Why don’t you ever talk about your mum?’ I asked. ‘You mention your sister and your dad, but never her.’
‘I’m not allowed to.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s . . . she’s not like other mums.’
‘In what way?’
‘I heard about what happened to your wife.’ The sudden change in direction took me aback.
‘What did you hear?’ I asked.
‘That she . . . you know . . . killed herself.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I nodded.
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you got a new girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Are you looking for one?’
‘Not at the moment, no. But eventually, maybe, yes.’
‘Why did she do it?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever really know. People are complicated and we don’t always understand why they do what they do, even when we think we know them.’