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This time he does look up. It is no more than a second, but his eyes are wide and scared.
‘I would never go in your house,’ he says. ‘That’s breaking and entering. That’s trespassing.’
He is telling the truth; she has no idea why she knows this, but she does.
‘So that’s what you were doing outside my house last week? Checking on me?’ She lays her hand softly on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘It’s OK. I’m not angry. I just want to clear this up. Can you talk about it?’
‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’ He stares at his shoes. All she can see is his greasy hair, his parting a ruler-straight line. ‘You’re so kind to me and I just wanted … I just wanted to make sure you were safe.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be safe, Sean?’
He shakes his head but still doesn’t look up.
‘Sean?’
‘You looked scared. In week two. She was …’
‘She was what? Who was? Who was what, Sean?’
‘Nothing. No one. You said someone had written something about you. You looked scared, so I was worried. I was only trying to make sure you were OK, Miss.’ He is breathing deeply, his eyes darting, his hand working his zip so hard she fears it might burst into flames. Poor guy. She has completely stressed him out.
She lets her hand fall. ‘Oh, Sean, it’s so kind of you to look out for me like that. Thank you.’
He steals a glance, drops his gaze once again. ‘That’s OK. I wasn’t busy.’
‘Well, it’s really kind. But I don’t want you to do that anymore, all right?’ She keeps her voice low and gentle. ‘I’m not scared, I’m fine. I’m much better now that I know it was you, but if you’re waiting outside my house again, that might make me feel scared, even though I know you’re only looking out for me. The thing is, we had to call the police last week, and if they catch you there, you’ll be in trouble.’
He twitches, begins to move from one foot to the other and back. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry, Sean. Nothing to be sorry about, all right? Just … just best not do that again, that’s all.’
‘OK.’
She is about to continue on towards the classroom but stops.
‘Did you write those poems, Sean?’
‘What poems, Miss?’
‘What I mean is, did you write the poem in week one and leave it anonymous?’
‘I only wrote my poems with my name on.’ He meets her eye. ‘For copyright.’
She holds his sad blue eyes with hers. ‘All right, Sean. It’s OK.’
‘Miss?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I won’t come near your house again, sorry.’
Daphne arrives and places a multicoloured knitted flower on Samantha’s desk.
‘I made you a corsage,’ she says and smiles. ‘I hope you like it.’
‘Oh my goodness, thank you!’ Samantha inspects the tiny stitches, impossibly neat, the thin green stem, the bright leaves fanning out. Really, it is a thing of wonder. She pins it to the lapel of her coat. ‘I love it!’
‘You are kind.’ Daphne fixes her with her watery stare. ‘And kindness is to be encouraged now more than ever.’
