by Amy Cross
“I think I saw something,” I tell her, looking back toward the tank.
There's no sign of anything now, however, and a moment later Mother leads me through the double doors and back out into the corridor that leads to the elevator. Looking up at her, I realize she's still talking to herself, and I don't think she even heard what I said. I could try again, but somehow I don't think she's in the mood to listen. When she gets like this, Mother always turns into a bundle of rage and I'm usually too scared to say anything. Sometimes she gets really mad and I don't even know why. Besides, she hates being contradicted.
So I stay quiet as we reach the elevator, although I can't help thinking back to the thing in the water tank. I saw a hand twice, and right at the end I think I also saw a face.
Chapter Five
“That's really good, Sylvia,” Ms. Harper says as we sit in the study room and work on my algebra cards. “You've improved a lot since last week. How about we just do one more round, and then we can break for lunch?”
She smiles as she starts gathering the cards from the table, and I watch as she shuffles. I'm pleased I've done well this morning, although to be honest I've been struggling to concentrate. There's something I really want to ask Ms. Harper, but so far I've held back all morning because I'm worried she'll think I'm stupid. Now, however, I'm starting to feel like I'll burst.
“Are you okay?” she asks after a moment. “You seem quieter than usual. And you're usually quiet as it is.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the words catch in my throat. Again, I just think she's going to think I'm a real idiot.
“What is it, Sylvia?” she continues, before glancing briefly across the room as if she's checking we're alone. She turns back to me, and now she's shuffling more slowly than before. “Is there something you want to say? You can trust me, you know.”
“I have a question,” I tell her.
“That's good, Sylvia. Questions are good. Is it about algebra?”
I shake my head.
“Is it about anything we've been doing this morning?”
Again, I shake my head.
“It's about something else, huh?” She pauses, before setting the cards down. She glances across the room again before turning to me. “Well, that's okay,” she continues, and now her voice is a little quieter. “You're almost ten years old, so you're bound to have questions. If there's something you don't feel you can ask your mother, you must feel free to ask me instead. I mean, we're kind of friends now, aren't we?”
I want to do that so badly, but I'm still worried about getting into trouble and looking like a moron. After a moment I look around the room, just to make sure that Mother isn't anywhere to be seen.
“You can talk to me, Sylvia,” Ms. Harper continues. “About anything. You know that.”
“It's about something silly,” I tell her.
“I don't think anything's silly. Not if it's upsetting you.”
I take a deep breath, but I'm still too scared.
“Is something upsetting you, Sylvia?”
I hesitate, before nodding.
“I remember when I was your age,” she continues. “I was starting to have questions about things too. Well, maybe I was a year or two older, but that doesn't matter. Sometimes things happen earlier to some people and later to others, and it's not easy to talk to your mother or... Well, I would have liked to have had someone I could ask, so you must feel free to speak to me about anything at all.” She pauses. “And,” she adds finally, “anything you say will be strictly between you and me. I won't tell anyone else.”
“Do you promise?” I ask.
She nods.
“Even if it's something really, really dumb?”
“I'm sure it's not dumb, Sylvia. Not if it's troubling you.”
Taking another deep breath, I look down for a moment at my hands as they rest in my lap. I'm scared to speak, but finally I realize that I really have to know, so I look back over at Ms. Harper and decide to try.
“Are mermaids real?” I ask.
I wait for an answer, but she simply stares at me.
“Are mermaids real?” I ask again, in case she didn't hear the first time.
She furrows her brow. “Mermaids?”
I nod. “Are they real?”
I wait.
And I wait.
She seems surprised.
“Are mermaids... real?” she says finally. “Is that what's worrying you, Sylvia?”
I nod again.
“Are you sure?” she continues. “If you're scared of saying what it really is, there's no need. If this is some kind of metaphor...”
“It's mermaids,” I tell her. “I always thought they were make-believe, but...”
My voice trails off. Mother has always told me that I must never talk about anything I see down on the floor below this one, and she was especially clear about that last night. I'm probably even saying too much already, but at the same time in my mind's eye I'm seeing the mermaid over and over again. Or rather, I'm seeing the hand, and the maybe-face. Honestly, I don't think anyone could think they saw a mermaid, and then not mention it to people.
“You want to know whether mermaids are real?” Ms. Harper says, sounding a little confused. “Why do you want to know that, Sylvia?”
“I always thought they were silly, like unicorns or things like that. Like Santa.”
“Did you never believe in Santa?”
“Mother says only stupid girls believe in Santa.”
“Right.” Ms. Harper sighs and looks around for a moment, before turning to me again. “You know, there's no harm in believing in fun things now and again,” she says cautiously. “There's no need to rush into being an adult. It can be fun believing in crazy stuff, so long as you don't get too caught up in it. If you're not -”
“But are mermaids real?” I ask, interrupting her. I'm starting to feel a little desperate. “Can you just say yes or no?”
“Do you know what fairy-tales are, Sylvia?”
I nod.
“Mermaids are a kind of fairy-tale,” she says, taking her phone from her pocket and unlocking the screen. “They're a story that people tell when they want to use a story to explain something, or to illuminate something that they can't just say blankly.”
“What does that mean?”
She looks at the screen for a moment.
“Here we go,” she says finally. “According to this, the mermaid myth goes back thousands of years, all the way to Ancient Assyria. I guess you don't know what that means, but you'll cover it some other time in your studies, I'm sure. But the point is, mermaids have been in stories for almost as long as stories have been around. I'm sure you've seen some in cartoons.”
I nod.
“Mermaids are supposed to be able to do lots of things that we can't do, Sylvia, like live and breathe underwater. They can also lure sailors from their ships, and they can call to people across great distances. Some of them are nice and friendly, but others...”
She pauses for a moment.
“Well,” she continues, “that's something to talk about another time.”
She tilts the phone so that I can see an old painting of a mermaid hugging a man. The mermaid is very beautiful, although I can't help looking at her scaly lower half and – in particular – at the fin that runs down into a rough sea. At first I think the mermaid is hugging the man, but then I realize that maybe she's actually trying to drag him down, although the man is smiling as if he doesn't really understand that he's in danger. In fact, after a moment I realize that the mermaid's tale looks like it's wrapped around the man's leg. I can't help staring at the picture, although I don't really think it looks very much like the water tank from last night.
“Does that answer your question?” Ms. Harper asks.
I look over at her.
“Mermaids aren't real,” she continues, “but that doesn't mean we can't talk about them and think about them and draw them. That's part of the fun of having an imag
ination, Sylvia. The world would be boring if we only thought about things that are real. Do you want to try drawing a mermaid later?”
“I don't know,” I reply.
“Well, maybe we can try after -”
Suddenly there's the sound of footsteps nearby, and we both turn – startled – to look over at the door. Mother's coming, although after a moment her footsteps start getting further away again, which I think means she's going to her office. Still, I don't dare even breathe for a few seconds, until I hear a sound and turn to see that Ms. Harper has started shuffling the cards again.
“Let's get on with your algebra,” she says, and she seems a little flustered, as if she's worried we were going to get caught talking about silly things. “Then we'll do lunch, okay?”
“But -”
“Let's just stick to the lesson,” she says firmly. “There's a time for fantasies, but there's also a time for algebra, and this is a time for algebra. Just forget about mermaids.”
Chapter Six
“Be very careful, because it's hot,” Ms. Harper says as I slide the tray out of the oven, revealing the six gingerbread men we baked while we were eating our sandwiches. “Oh wow, Sylvia! Aren't they pretty?”
I nod, and for a moment I'm genuinely entranced by the sight of the biscuits. They're so bright and colorful, and I want to eat them right away even though I know they're far too hot. Besides, I'd feel sick if I ate them all together, and one of them is for Ms. Harper and two more are for Mother and Mr. Randall.
I can't be greedy.
“Can you take them to the side for me?” Ms. Harper asks, as she closes the oven door. “That's good, Sylvia. Just be very careful”.
“I will.”
Carrying the tray ever so carefully, I start making my way across the kitchen. I'm very cautious with each and every step, so I walk ever so slowly. I can hear Ms. Harper putting some more things into the dishwasher, but I have to focus totally on the tray so I try to put all other thoughts out of my mind. As I get closer to the other counter, however, I'm starting to think that I'll be just fine.
And then, suddenly, I hear Mother's footsteps in one of the other rooms.
I freeze, and for a moment I almost drop the tray. As mother's footsteps get further away again, I take a deep breath and steady myself, and then I start walking again. I'm starting to feel quite proud of myself for getting this far, and -
“I saw you.”
Startled, I turn and look toward the door. As I do so, however, my foot catches against the leg of a stool and I trip, falling forward and dropping the tray. I cry out but I'm too late to save myself, and the tray crashes to the floor next to me, sending the gingerbread men spilling out and breaking as they hit the skirting board.
“Sylvia!” Ms. Harper calls out. “Are you okay?”
I look around.
Who was that other voice.
Who said: “I saw you”?
Too shocked to even know how I can reply, I feel myself starting to tremble as I see the ruined gingerbread men. I know I'm about to cry, but I'm determined to stay calm so I try holding the tears back. At the same time, however, I can feel myself shaking more and more, and finally a kind of faint, low whimpering sound comes from my lips. Tears are already starting to stream down my face, and the anger that I hate so much is rumbling in my tummy.
“Sylvia,” Ms. Harper says cautiously, kneeling next to me, “remember what we talked about before. Think of something that makes you happy. Think of something that makes you calm. Think of -”
Before she can finish, I start screaming. I feel Ms. Harper place a hand on my shoulder but I lash out, screaming louder than ever as I try to punch her in the face. And as I lose all control of my body – and as I throw myself at my teacher and she calls for help – the real me is buried deep inside my head and I'm weeping and begging myself to stop being so horrible.
***
“That was the worst one yet,” Ms. Harper says quietly, keeping her voice low as she talks to Mr. Randall in the lounge. “She was... It was like she was possessed. For a moment I actually thought I wouldn't be able to get her under control.”
“At least you did,” Mr. Randall replies. “Finally.”
“When Sylvia gets like that,” she continues, “she becomes this kind of ball of pure hatred. I know she doesn't mean to. The rest of the time she's the sweetest little girl I've ever met, but it's like there are two of her. There's the usual Sylvia, who's timid and meek and wouldn't say boo to a goose, and then there's the Sylvia who goes berserk whenever she's upset. I honestly don't know how to help her.”
They fall silent for a moment.
“Your job isn't to help her,” Mr. Randall says after a few seconds. “Your job is to educate and discipline her. She's still a child, remember.”
Taking a step forward, I peer a little further around the corner and see the pair of them at the floor-to-ceiling window, silhouetted against the London skyline.
“You don't have to work here,” he continues. “There are plenty of other positions that might suit you better.”
“Have you ever thought of quitting?”
“Of course not, but there's no shame if you want to leave. Catherine Sykes is a demanding woman, and she insists upon nothing but the best from her staff. I've learned to give her the kind of service she wants, but perhaps you're too fragile for this line of work.”
“It's not that,” Ms. Harper replies, sounding exhausted. “I know Catherine Sykes must be difficult too. It's just that her worst qualities are starting to show through in Sylvia.”
Worst qualities?
Does she mean that I'm starting to behave like Mother?
“I don't think we can do anything,” she continues after a moment. “That kid needs a child psychologist. I'd bring it up with her mother, but I reckon we can both guess how that'd go down. Right now, I can't afford to quit. I've got bills to pay, and rent. My boyfriend and I want to finally take a holiday next summer. I can't just walk out of here.”
“You just have to watch her more closely,” Mr. Randall replies. “You know what triggers her tantrums, so -”
“I turned around for two seconds!”
“And she managed to fall over. You can't turn around for any time at all. Honestly, I've never met such a clumsy child.”
“So I'm supposed to keep my eye on her all the time?”
“I know it's hard, but that's just what the job is. Babysitting. And we get paid well, so it's not all bad. Believe it or not, there are much worse jobs out there in the world.” He pauses. “Listen, I have something you might find useful. It's a kind of sedative that -”
“No!” she says firmly.
“Just consider it,” he continues. “It's a very mild sedative, so long as it's given in low doses. I got some as back-up in case I need it, although thankfully she'd never been that bad with me. It's in liquid form, so it needs to be injected, but just in case you ever feel threatened you could have some with you.”
“I'm not drugging the kid!”
“As a last resort.”
“She won't do it again.”
“Of course she will.”
“No, I really think she won't.” She pauses. “If she does it again, then maybe I'll change my mind, but for now I don't want to go down that route. I just feel like I'd be a complete failure if I even considered that option.”
“There's nothing wrong with taking precautions,” he replies. “Sylvia's a very difficult child, and sedating her occasionally would be more -”
Suddenly he stops talking. I wait for him to continue, but a moment later I hear the sound of someone coming toward the door.
I instinctively step back into the shadows.
“What is it?” Ms. Harper asks.
“Quiet.”
I wait.
Silence.
“Shit, she's not around, is she?” Ms. Harper says after a moment, her voice so low now that I can barely hear her at all. “I left her in her room for a few minutes
. I told her to stay right there.”
“I think it's okay,” Mr. Randall replies. “You should go back to her, though. God knows what she might get up to while we're here. If you like, we can talk later at the pub. I finish at ten, so I could meet you at about twenty past.”
“I'm going to lose my mind if this carries on much longer,” she says. “I've been trying to find a new job, but I just know that bitch won't give me a reference.”
Hearing footsteps, I realize Ms. Harper is coming this way.
I pull back and hurry along the corridor, scurrying quickly into my bedroom and racing to the desk. As soon as I've sat down, I turn to another page in my algebra book and pretend that I'm reading, and then a moment later I spot movement in the corner of my eye. Turning, I see Ms. Harper coming into the room. She's smiling as usual, pretending that everything is fine, although after hearing her conversation I think I can just about make out a hint of sadness in her eyes. For the first time ever, I'm starting to think that she and Mr. Randall don't like me.
“Hey Sylvia,” she says, “how are you doing in here? Are you feeling better?”
I want to ask if she really thinks I'm like Mother, but instead I simply nod.
“That's good,” she continues, and now her smile seems a little more genuine. “I think we'll have to give the biscuit-baking a miss for the rest of the day, but how about we go back to doing some algebra? That shouldn't be too dramatic, should it?”
“No,” I reply, even though I feel horribly sick, “I'm sure it won't be.”
Chapter Seven
“I heard you had a little accident in the kitchen,” Mother says as we sit at opposite ends of the dining table. “Something to do with some broken biscuits?”
“It was nothing,” I reply, not looking up from the spaghetti that I'm trying to swirl around my fork. Why is this so difficult?
“Ms. Harper said you were upset.”
I shake my head.
