Page 8 of The Mystery Guest

Gran shifted in her chair, looking from me to Ms. Cripps. “I don’t understand. Her progress reports indicate good grades.”

“Yes, her grades are satisfactory. Her language skills and reading ability far surpass those of her peers. She’s often a little too precocious. She corrects her classmates’ grammar and schools them on vocabulary.”

Gran suppressed a laugh. “That’s my Molly.”

“But you see, she’s…different.”

“I agree entirely,” Gran said. “She’s a unique girl. But have you ever noticed, Ms. Cripps, how despite our differences, fundamentally, we are all the same?”

It was Ms. Cripps’s turn to avoid the question. Instead of answering, she said, “Molly’s social development is subpar. She hasn’t made any friends at school. In that way, she’s a failure. Ms. Gray, I’d describe Molly’s social skills as…primitive.”

“Primitive,” I said. “P-R-I-M-I-T-I-V-E. Primitive.” I waited for Gran to approve my spelling, but she didn’t say a word. Even though I knew I’d spelled the word correctly, she appeared on the verge of tears.

I wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay and that I knew the word because of the David Attenborough documentary we’d watched together a few weeks earlier. It was about apes, such incredible animals, so often underestimated. They can use primitive tools to problem-solve, not only in laboratory and zoo settings but also in the wild. Remarkable!

“Ms. Gray,” Ms. Cripps said, “the other day Molly berated a classmate for chewing with his mouth open. She stands so close to the younger children, it frightens them. She insists on calling the janitor Sir Walter of Brooms. Some days, she hides in a washroom stalland refuses to come out. So you see, she’s not at the level of children her age.”

Gran straightens in her chair. “I agree entirely. She isnotat the level of the other children. Molly,” Gran said, turning to me. “Why do you hide in the washroom?”

“Dirt,” I replied matter-of-factly.

“Dirt?” Gran echoed, and I was so proud that I’d heard it, the delicate curl at the end of her sentence that meant she wanted to hear more.

“At recess, I was invited to play soccer with the other children. I agreed to be goaltender before I noticed the mud puddle stretching from post to post. When I refused to stand in the goal, my teammates held me in place and my shoes filled with mud. When I screamed, they threw mud at me and told me to get used to it. ‘Dirt is nothing to be afraid of.’ That’s what they said.”

Gran’s mouth opened wide, and she turned to Ms. Cripps wordlessly.

“Kids will be kids. They meant no harm,” Ms. Cripps said. “Plus, Molly has to learn somehow.”

“On that last point we agree,” Gran said. “But certainly Molly does not need to learn this way, nor should her peers be in charge of her education.”

It was an interesting statement. And I’ll admit that up to that point, it had never occurred to me that my classmates could also be my teachers. In my mind I questioned the merits of this educational approach. What was I to learn from having my face periodically forced into the toilet bowl in the washroom, or a glob of spit left in my pencil case? What was I to learn from being called Mental Molly, the Prissy Missy, Clean Machine, and, my least favorite, Oddball Moll?

It’s true, I had learned one thing from my classmates, which is that the saying about sticks and stones was all wrong. They hadgiven me ample practice at dodging both projectiles, and even when their missiles met their mark, the bruises faded over time. But words—the sting of them, the stigma—endured forever. Their words sting to this very day.

“Have you ever thought that Molly might benefit from more individualized attention?” Gran asked as she leaned forward in her chair. “Perhaps the school can make adjustments so she feels more comfortable in class. It might be good for her teachers to try new approaches to reach Molly, don’t you agree?”

Ms. Cripps chuckled then, and at the time I thought I’d missed a joke. “I’ve been a teacher for going on seven years after five years of university. I think by this point I know what I’m doing,” said Ms. Cripps. “Of course, there are plenty of options for a child like Molly, and I’m happy to send you away with pamphlets about the specialists you can hire to deal with her privately.”

“Privately,” Gran repeated. “Meaning there’d be a cost.”

“Naturally. You don’t expect educators to work for free, do you?”

“Of course not,” Gran said as she removed her hands from the desk in front of her.

“This is a public school, Ms. Gray. We can’t cater to just one girl. I teach a class of thirty-five.”

“I see,” Gran replied. “I’m afraid a specialist or private school is beyond my means.”

“You’re a domestic. A maid, correct?”

Gran nodded.

“Molly often talks about you. She wants to grow up to be just like her gran. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so they say. She could grow up to be a cleaner. Maybe a dishwasher. That seems like an appropriate career goal for a girl like her.”

Gran looked down at her lap. It took her a moment to reply. “I’m having trouble understanding how a child with good grades can be held back a year. I’m not convinced that’s the right educationalapproach. While I appreciate your opinion on this matter, may I please speak with the principal?” Gran asked.

“That’s me,” Ms. Cripps replied. “It hasn’t been announced yet, but the board thought it best to bring in fresh blood, someone…a bit more youthful. The old principal is retiring at the end of the year. She’s on leave at the moment. Stress leave,” she added in a whisper, but I heard it just fine.

---