Free Shadow Sister by Simone Vlugt Page B

being racist because you wouldn’t bump up his exam mark by ten per cent.’
    ‘And then I explained that marking the exams didn’t have anything to do with racism. You just have to know how to handle them.’
    ‘Oh, and I don’t know how to?’ I flare up.
    ‘Looking at someone’s crotch isn’t the approach I’d recommend.’
    I feel myself flushing. How does Hans know that? Who’s helped that rumour into the world? Hans and Nora leave – her expression has turned sceptical.
    As Luke and I walk to our classrooms he says, ‘You look worried.’ He’s broken into my thoughts – I’d forgotten how perceptive he can be.
    ‘I’m worried they’ll be waiting for me at my car.’
    ‘I’ll walk with you,’ Luke promises. ‘It’s not a problem. From now on I’ll go everywhere with you if it’s necessary.’
    I hesitate, but not for long. I’m not easily frightened, and I don’t like accepting help – being helped feels like a kind of failure. I’m used to solving my own problems. Nevertheless, Bilal’s predatory gaze follows my every step.
    ‘Okay?’ Luke asks. He knows me by now.
    I give a very slight nod.
18.
    I wait at the door for my students before each lesson, making comments, cracking jokes or telling one of them off for misbehaving. This afternoon I’ve got a pleasant but restless class of first years.
    ‘Saïda! How long have you been wearing a headscarf?’ I ask as she walks past me and into the classroom.
    ‘Since now,’ she says, raising her chin.
    ‘Was that your choice or did your parents make you?’
    ‘I decided myself.’ She responds fast, too fast.
    ‘All right,’ I say. ‘As long as that’s the case.’
    ‘Don’t you believe me or what?’ Saïda asks, annoyed. She takes out her mobile and checks her make-up in the reflection of the screen.
    ‘Of course, if you say so. Put your phone back in your bag, please.’
    Saïda rolls her eyes, punches in a number and walks to her seat, phone to her ear.
    ‘Yeah. What’s up? I’ve got Dutch now. Yeah, with her. Shall I send a photo?’ She watches for my reaction out of the corner of her eyes.
    I tap the board, the lines the previous class were given as punishment and Saïda hangs up. Not straight away, but still, she hangs up.
    I’ve got a difficult relationship with Saïda. She’s precocious, assertive, not openly rude, but cuttingly scornful. Her group blocks me by speaking their mother tongue – Turkish.
    As I begin the lesson, Saïda says something to her friends. All four of them burst into loud giggles.
    ‘Saïda, please repeat what you just said in Dutch.’
    ‘You wouldn’t want to know what she said, Miss,’ Zahra says.
    Saïda gives her a poisonous look and immediately gets one back from Zahra. I let out a silent sigh. At moments like these I’m fed up with teaching, tired of being by turns prosecutor, defendant, educator, referee, confidante and enemy.
    ‘The next person who speaks any language other than Dutch, gets fifty lines. I’ve got a thumping headache so please bear that in mind.’
    They’re quiet. I don’t hear a peep out of them for the rest of the period. I give them a reading assignment so that they can work independently, and walk between the desks, offering assistance here and there. Looking at their bowed heads softens my mood. Even Saïda is working hard, and every now and then one of them will look up at me, as if to check that I’m all right.
    I’m always filled with satisfaction if I can keep my students under control without raising my voice. My classes used to be chaos. I’d get the kids quiet only for them to be disturbed a few minutes later by latecomers. After a lot of backchat, I’d send the latecomers to get a note, and then they’d return ten minutes later and disturb the class all over again. One way or another, I could never keep them fully quiet, but I got used to the gentlemurmur which always hung in the room and which could blow up into a storm at the most