Shadow Sister. Литагент HarperCollins USD
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I pick up a plastic spoon and toy with it. ‘He would rather I didn’t report it to the police. He said he’d get in touch with Bilal’s parents this afternoon, and he’d suspend Bilal immediately.’
‘Okay. And what else?’
‘Legally speaking, Bilal’s got the right to take his final exams here, but he’ll be barred from entering this building. He’ll take classes at the other site.’
Jasmine nods. ‘The sooner they get him away from here the better. That does seem the best solution to me. Jesus, just the thought that he might pull a knife on me! I’d die of fright!’
I bend the plastic spoon, making a white crease in the plastic. ‘But I wonder if I should go to the police.’
Jasmine frowns. ‘You should really, shouldn’t you?’
‘It wouldn’t do much for the school’s reputation, but on the other hand.’ I look at my friend despairingly. ‘What kind of signal would that send out, that a student can threaten a teacher with a knife and the only punishment is being sent to work in another building?’
‘And a suspension.’ Jasmine adds.
‘A suspension?’ The spoon snaps. I put the pieces down. ‘He’ll get a week’s holiday, watch a bit of MTV.’
‘That’s true,’ Jasmine says, ‘but what do you expect the police to do? The most they’ll do is caution him. If we reported every threat that was made in this school, we’d all be out on the street in no time.’
‘That might be true,’ I say heatedly, ‘but what kind of school is this then? Not reporting him means that the students have the upper hand, that they can do whatever they want.’
‘They can,’ Jasmine says soberly, ‘and you know it.’
I do know it. The power of the students, protected by their parents, is growing and growing. When I was at school, just the threat of being sent to the deputy head’s office was enough to stop me in my tracks if I was fooling around in class. These days they just laugh at you. Once, a student I’d sent out stood outside the classroom windows and dropped his trousers.
If you telephone the parents to ask them in for a chat, they never have time and they aren’t interested. If they do turn up, they barely understand what you’re saying because their Dutch is so poor – or they promise they’ll give their son or daughter a good hiding which you then desperately try to talk them out of. Often, they’re defensive. How dare you?! Are you saying they aren’t good parents? Isn’t it the school’s job to sort out problems? Isn’t that what they’re paying taxes for?
Victor, one of my colleagues, was once punched by a father.
‘What should I do, Jasmine?’ I ask. ‘What would you do?’
‘I’d sleep on it.’ Jasmine gets up to make another coffee. ‘Think it over.’
We sit there together, drinking our coffee in silence. I look at Jasmine over the rim of my cup. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
She rests her hand on mine. ‘Just go home,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you this evening, all right? And whatever you decide, police or no police, I’ll stand by you.’
I’m glad I never cycle to work, even though the weather’s lovely for the end of April. I can’t take my bike because I have to rush off at the end of the day to pick up my six-year-old daughter from school. To my shame, she is sometimes there waiting for me, holding the teacher’s hand. But not today. It’s Monday, early in the afternoon, and I’ve got plenty of time to tell my story to the police.
If I decide to.
As I cross the playground on my way to the car park, I catch myself looking around. The sight of every dark-haired, broad-shouldered boy gives me a jolt and I only feel safe once I’m in my car with all the doors locked.
As I join the busy Rotterdam traffic, it all comes back to me, piece by piece.
From the moment the lesson began, Bilal had been looking me up and down. I was wearing a skirt – not a mini-skirt, it was to the knee – and high black leather boots. Slouched in his chair, Bilal looked from my legs to my breasts and then back again.
Ignoring things is always the best approach, so I carried on with the lesson. Until Bilal raised his hand.
‘Miss?’
‘Yes?’
‘You look really hot today. Are you going somewhere?’
There were some repressed giggles, but most of the room gave Bilal a cold stare.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep such thoughts to yourself, Bilal.’
‘I bet you would,’ Bilal said. ‘You know what we call women in Morocco who walk around like that?’
I gave him a warning look. I’d recently made clear to the class the consequences of swearing, specifically of using the word ‘whore’.
Bilal sat up straight, leaned towards me as if in confidence, and said, ‘Prostitutes.’
Anger coursed through me but I managed to control myself. ‘Do you have chewing gum in your mouth? Do be so kind as to put it in the bin.’
Bilal worked his long body out from under the desk and walked, with the same sly grin, to the bin. He spat out the gum and went back to his place. As he prepared to sit down again, he stared leisurely, suggestively, at my breasts.
That’s when I did something wrong. I should have told him to leave the classroom and report to the headmaster, but instead I looked at his crotch, my expression scornful. It happened so quickly – I shocked myself – I realised I was making a mistake, but it was too late. Bilal had seen it. His expression changed from sly to hard, his lips thinned and his eyes filled with a threat that set all the alarm bells in my body ringing. I stepped backwards and that’s when he pulled the knife.
The memory fills me with a burst of confidence. I’m going to go to the police; of course I’m going to go to the police.
I head back towards the centre, brave the traffic along the Coolsingel Canal and turn off into a side street called Doelwater Alley. I park there and look over at the ‘swimming pool’, as the mint-green tiled police station is known.
But I don’t get out of my car.
My eyes sweep the alleyway and the square in front of the police station, searching for Bilal. He isn’t here. Of course he isn’t here, but he might come out from behind a parked car once I get out of mine.
I don’t really expect that to happen, but my heart pounds away all the same and I wonder whether I’ll be able to get any words out once I’m inside.
I need to get a grip on myself. A glass of iced water would do me good, but all I’ve got is a mouldy tangerine lying next to the gear stick.
I take a deep breath. Would Bilal really have stabbed me? I’ve known him long enough not to believe that. Yet, that look in his eyes when I provoked him…Who knows what I triggered in him? Even though I have a good relationship with most of the students from immigrant families, I’ll never truly understand them.
I imagine Bilal being interrogated – he might have to spend some time in a prison cell – and then I see the Bilal I’ve always known, an arrogant but intelligent boy who is probably already regretting what he did. Maybe Jan is right and I’d only make it worse by reporting it.
I don’t know how long I sit in my car, but at some point I wake up from my stupor and drive home.