The New Girl (Downside) Read Online Free

takes her time crafting a gentle, encouraging response, providing the link to the rates section on her website.
    Disappointingly, the second message looks like it’s probably spam. It’s from a Yahoo account, the sender’s name listed as ‘varder batiss’. No message in the subject
line. She opens it anyway. ‘We require baby,’ is all it says.
    Tara snorts. Don’t we all, she thinks, pressing delete.
    A cough makes her jump again, and she looks up to see Clara van der Spuy standing in front of the desk, smiling fixedly at her.
    Tara feels guilty colour flushing her cheeks. It’s not as if she’s doing anything wrong – volunteers are allowed to use the library’s computer – but Clara’s
perennial self-righteous expression always makes her feel as if she’s nine years old again. Tara has no idea how old Clara is – she could be anywhere from fifty to seventy – and
she appears to have an inexhaustible supply of high-necked sensible blouses and tweed skirts. According to Malika – the font of all school gossip – before she joined Crossley College,
Clara spent years teaching English at one of those old South African colonial institutions. Tara has no problem imagining Clara happily teaching apartheid dogma and stamping the word
‘Banned’ on any slightly controversial book that came her way.
    ‘Sorry about this, Clara,’ Tara says, trying to smile. ‘Just killing time before I fetch Martin.’
    ‘It’s
fine
, Mrs Marais. I was just popping in to add the new books to the catalogue. But I can wait until you are finished.’
    Taking the hint, Tara quickly clears her browsing history and gathers her stuff together. She pauses, remembering that strange new kid. ‘Hey, Clara, what’s up with that new
girl?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘She came into the library earlier. Could be one of the outreach kids. Weird hair colour, might be slightly disabled.’
    Clara squishes her lips in disapproval. ‘You mean
physically challenged
, Mrs Marais?’
    Jesus, Tara thinks. Excuse me for breathing. ‘Yeah. She told me her name but I couldn’t quite catch it.’
    ‘I can’t say I have a clue who you mean, Mrs Marais.’
    ‘Really? I was worried she might have hurt herself.’ She shrugs. ‘Hey, maybe I just imagined her.’
    Clara doesn’t crack a smile. ‘I don’t think that’s likely, Mrs Marais.’
    ‘Please, call me Tara.’
    ‘Best not to,’ Clara says. ‘It’s good to keep on formal terms. It confuses the learners otherwise.’
    ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.’
    Clara relaxes; her smile actually reaches her eyes this time. ‘Yes. We do appreciate all the good work you do here for us, Mrs Marais.’
    Tara steps out into the corridor. With the children gone now, the building feels more soulless and utilitarian than usual, as if it shrugs off the kids’ energy every day like a dog shaking
fleas off its back. Not that there’s all that much energy to shake off. Even in the heart of the school morning, the kids who attend Crossley College are more subdued than the kids who
inhabited the smelly chaos of the schools she’s taught at over the years.
    She heads out into the sunlight, sneakered feet crunching on the raked gravel. The grounds are similarly deserted and silent, just the distant buzz of a whistle and muffled yells from the sports
fields. Ahead of her, a rangy figure emerges out of one of the maintenance sheds. Tara hesitates. If she carries on walking, their paths will cross. She pretends to fumble in her bag as an excuse
to stop. She’s seen him before, of course. Well, she could hardly miss him; his appearance is so totally at odds with the rest of the staff. According to Malika (who imparted the information
in a slightly breathy fashion) he’s the new maintenance man. He’s swarthy-skinned, wild-haired, always looks dishevelled, but in a cool way like the hard-eyed alternative kids who used
to hang out on the fringes of her own high school.