Good Girl, Bad Girl(28)

He notices me tying one around my wrist and lets the subject drop.

Mr. Graham is in his late fifties with a long, thin face that falls like a landslip towards his chins. He whispers his greetings.

“Dreadful business. Such a shock. We’re all feeling it—the staff, the students . . .” The office door closes. “Some girls have been crying for days. I’ve called a school assembly for midday. What do I say to them?”

He seems to be addressing me. Instinctively, I understand why. He knows who I am—about my family—and thinks this somehow gives me some special insight or monopoly on words that might help children cope with loss. The question transports me back to my first day at school following the funerals of my parents and sisters. My grandparents wanted to keep my life as normal as possible, so I went back to the same school. Miss Payne escorted me to my first class. Biology. As I walked into the room, I was greeted with absolute silence. A pin dropping would have sounded like a crashing cymbal. My eyes didn’t leave the floor. I don’t blame my classmates for staring at me. I blame Elias. It was always my brother’s fault.

“Should I tell them Jodie was murdered?” asks Mr. Graham.

“I think that ship has sailed,” I reply, immediately regretting my sarcasm. I start again. “They will have heard the news. Be honest. Don’t manufacture emotions. Don’t say, ‘I know what you’re going through,’ or tell them you’ve lost someone too. Don’t offer your thoughts and prayers. Don’t look for a bright side. There isn’t any.”

“What do I say?”

“Nothing. Listen.”

“I can’t listen to them all.”

You can’t even listen to me.

I start again. “Children are especially vulnerable to grief. Some will struggle with how to communicate their sadness or confusion. Accept their feelings. Not all of them will have known Jodie, so don’t say that everyone will miss her. Say that you’re sad for her friends and her family.”

I want to warn him about inviting bereavement counselors into the school, because they can reinforce the idea that people should be traumatized. I know this because I’ve been there, passed between psychiatrists, therapists, and counselors, who squawked at me like seagulls fighting over spilled chips, spending hours telling me how I should be feeling or asking me to vent, when I simply wanted to be left alone.

Lenny interrupts: “We’re here to look inside Jodie Sheehan’s locker.”

“Yes, of course,” says Mr. Graham, picking up his phone and asking his secretary to get “Mr. Hendricks.”

“Ian is Jodie’s form tutor,” he explains. “Every child at Forsyth Academy is assigned a tutor who becomes their main adult contact at the school; someone they see every day, who calls the roll and checks their uniforms. Students are encouraged to talk to their tutor about any problems at home or at school. Issues around bullying or homework or participation.”

“Did Jodie have any problems?” I ask.

“Ian will certainly know.”

“How long was Jodie a student here?”

“Since year seven. She was quite special because of her skating. Her parents approached me and asked if we could offer her extra tutoring and waive some of the normal rules regarding attendance. We accommodated Jodie’s absences as best we could.”

Someone knocks. The door opens. Ian Hendricks is wearing casual trousers and an open-necked shirt. He’s in his midthirties, slim and athletic, with flecks of grey in a ponytail that he has twirled into a samurai knot at the back of his head. Straightaway, I clock him as the “cool teacher,” a John Keating figure who wins over his students by reading poetry or standing on his desk or quoting lyrics from the latest pop songs. I bet he has an Instagram account and uses Snapchat.

“DCI Parvel and Dr. Haven wish to look inside Jodie Sheehan’s locker,” explains Mr. Graham. “They also have some questions about Jodie. I thought you were the best person to ask.”

Hendricks looks less than keen. “I don’t have a key to her locker.”

“Well, call maintenance and get bolt cutters.”

Moments later we’re escorted along a covered walkway to a two-story brick building with stairs at either end. Children call out to Hendricks, who waves back, using their first names.

“Do you know them all?” I ask.

“Eight hundred students—I don’t think so.” He forces a laugh.

“What about Jodie?”

“I’ve been her form tutor since last year. She missed a lot of school with her skating. I helped her catch up.”

“How did you do that?”

“I collected the relevant notes from her teachers and emailed her homework and assignments.”

“Was she popular?” I ask.

“I think so. Everybody knew her.”

“Outgoing?”

“Yes.”

“Academic?”

“Not really.” He gazes past me at a window, high up on the stairwell. “Some students are naturally gifted, but Jodie had to work hard to keep up. Some of her teachers complained that she fell asleep in class, but most understood the hours she trained.”

“Did you ever see her compete?” I ask.

“No, but I used to wonder if it was cruel.”