The Model Student

Tilly observed this all the while. She was eleven years old: shy and retiring, small and freckled, with a spattering of brown hair.

          ‘Class,’ said Miss Burton, ‘there is a new student here amongst us, and I wish to introduce her.’ She looked to the back of the room. ‘Clare, would you come up here, please?’

          ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the girl.

          The children watched as she arose effortlessly, moved to the centre row, and glided down it, her prim shoes making no sound, her head level and chin held high.

          ‘Now, class, Clare is a very wonderful individual; you could all learn something from her.’

          ‘Clare surveyed the room with a blank stare, her eyes small and strained. She looked to Miss Burton, and Miss Burton nodded – almost invisibly.

          She began to address them: ‘I can speak and read several languages: Latin, Greek, German, French, and Italian.’

          And what about English? thought Tilly. The fool.

          ‘I am well-read in physics, chemistry, and biology, and I am well-versed in mathematics.’

          Miss Burton interrupted: ‘Yes: if I press this button, she will do a sum, or long division; if I press that one, she will do algebra, or trigonometry; if I ask her to write an essay on a book, she will do it – and she will get an A. She is a fountain of knowledge; an academic machine! You should all aspire to be at her level.’

          Miss Burton smiled smugly at the class, but then changed her expression into one of a quizzical and curious look. ‘But there’s more,’ she continued. ‘Tell us your name. What is your name? Your true name?’

          Clare wore an iron aspect. She began: ‘My name is Model Student, and you must feed me your humanity.’

          ‘And?’ pressed Miss Burton.

          ‘And I have not a heart.’

          ‘Yes!’ said Miss Burton. ‘She does not ask why; she does not even wonder why! She merely does! You may sit down now, child,’ she said.

          She returned and looked out again from the back of the room. Tilly looked amazed, her throat and body petrified – she was trying to swallow what she’d seen. She was frightened.

          Something new had entered their world. It was almost 3 o’clock, but there would be tomorrow. The days would come relentlessly and they would be asked not to dodge the blows – they would not even acknowledge them; their hearts would be turned in with their locker keys, and they would dance unknown, before savouring lips, on a black stage.