Free God's Callgirl by Carla Van Raay Page A

somehow the worst. I hated being thought of as stupid, but couldn’t stop acting like a dunce sometimes. The curious thing was that somehow I stopped myself from becoming completely stupid. In class I was frequently caught staring out of the window, apparently not listening, unable to answer a question suddenly directed at me, unable to do a classroom task, but I had an uncanny ability to reproduce class lessons absolutely perfectly at exam time. This puzzled the teacher so much that she related it to the parish priest in charge of religious knowledge, who had noticed the same phenomenon. I had developed the capacity to tune in with part of my brain, while most of the rest of me was somewhere else—even I couldn’t say where that was. Part of my brain was strictly programmed to remember what we had learned in class, at least until the tests. Tests over, I could let it all slip again and wipe the slate clean.
    After I’d delivered another perfect score, the parish priest and my teacher stood on the landing leading to the upstairs classrooms, having a discussion. With the instinct of someone used to hearing the creaking of steps in the middle of the night, even when sound asleep, I was able to overhear their conversation, in spite of being out of earshot, by reading their body language and their curious looks. They were amazed by my behaviour and the odd results.
    It turned out that they had run out of new prizes and I was about to receive a leather-bound missal for the second time. It was deeply satisfying for me to have this proof and recognition. Although I was apparently good for very little, I had not taken leave of all my senses, nor of my intelligence. Somehow it felt good to understate myself, for my true potential not to be recognised.
    Nevertheless, I would often shake in terror of ‘doing it wrong’—and doing things the wrong way seemed gradually to take on a life of its own. It was as if I had sold part of my brain to the devil—and of course I had . Slowly, I lost control. I felt compelled by a frightening, mysterious force to do the opposite of what was expected of me.
    At the end of school on a freezing cold day, the senior parish priest approached me. He had a big bundle of papers in his hands and seemed anxious about them. He explained to me that he had an urgent message for the parishioners of Broekhoven One, my home parish, and would I be so kind as to drop a notice in everyone’s letterbox?
    I studied the pastor’s face. Why had he approached me and not someone else? Ah! He probably thought I was very intelligent, because he had been discussing my hundred per cent success in the religious test with my teacher.
    The priest standing before me would take it badly if I baulked. He was, after all, one of God’s ministers and mouthpieces. As soon as he had recovered from the shock, my parents would then be informed about it. This is what went through my freezing brain as I stood there submissively in the sub-zero temperature of the playground. I gathered from what he was saying that there was some kind of one-upmanship going on between Broekhoven One and the neighbouring parish, Broekhoven Two.
    ‘On no account,’ said the scheming priest earnestly, ‘must you put any of these leaflets into the letterboxes of the parishioners of Broekhoven Two.’ He went on to explain where the boundaries were between the two parishes. Some of the street names I had never heard of before. How did he expect me to know streets I’d never been to? He was anxious and nervous, and I didn’t tell him I didn’t know what he was talking about because I didn’t want to lose the image ofbeing a clever girl so soon. A bundle of papers was transferred to my hands and I set off immediately, feeling confused and shaking with embarrassment. Even with the best will in the world, I had no chance of getting this one right. All the same, most children probably wouldn’t have got it as badly wrong as I did that afternoon.