I breathed out and counted backwards from three in my head.
“You’re bursting?” I said, my voice a mix of honey and venom. “Oh dear, I hope you don’t have an accident right here in the classroom.” I repeated my command. “En français, s’il vous plaît.”
Glowering, Calvin stood and mumbled something, eyes down. I had no clue what he said and he probably didn’t either. He might have asked me to banish homework forever, or to sacrifice myself at dawn. Maybe he asked me to the prom. Whatever bon mots had dripped from his lips, from a distance, it sounded enough like French for me to smile, magnanimous as a queen, and grant his request.
After school, on my way to the staff room, I heard the steady thwack-thwack of a ball being dribbled in the gym. Making a detour, I stood on tiptoe and peeked through the window of the double doors. Doug was playing pickup basketball with a student. The boy was heading towards the basket, his left arm up to thwart Doug’s attempted steal. Doug forced him back, and the boy turned and dribbled the other way.
The sequence was repeated again, amidst mutual laughter and jeering. Then Doug grabbed the ball away mid-bounce. He deked past his opponent, performed an impressive layup and scored. He raised his arms triumphantly in the air and whooped. I pushed one of the doors open slightly, my nostrils twitching at the blend of sweat and testosterone.
Doug began imitating a sports announcer: “That basket puts Bishop ahead by two points, folks. Time’s running out. It’s not looking good for Piercey. Can he make a comeback?”
Piercey? Did Calvin have a twin? That seemed the only plausible explanation, because I did not recognize this energetic, enthusiastic—dare I say joyful?—teenager.
Doug passed the ball to Calvin and began guarding him. Calvin dribbled the ball more slowly, as if biding his time. He worked his way around the court with an easy grace, then, with one quick dart, managed to get past Doug and score. He grabbed the ball as the net released it and bounced it hard on the ground. Then he flexed his biceps and pranced in a circle around Doug.
I went into the gym and clapped. When Calvin saw me, he dropped his arms and his smile vanished. Doug picked up the ball and began dribbling towards me. Then he grinned and threw it hard.
“Let’s see what you got, Miss O’Brine.”
My hands stung on contact, but I held on. Calvin threw himself onto a low bench along the wall, but from the corner of my eye, I could see him watching me.
Thankfully I was wearing flat shoes. I dribbled the ball towards the net. When I got close to Doug, he thrust his lanky arm in my direction, but I broke quickly to his left. I could hear his feet pounding after me, so I stopped short and took aim. As the ball sailed through the net, I heard the familiar swoosh and sent a silent thank-you to Dad for all the Sunday afternoons we’d spent in the backyard shooting hoops. I turned around and flicked my hair like a supermodel. Then I started humming the Rocky theme. Loudly.
Doug stood where I’d left him, scratching his jaw, but Calvin was on his feet, whooping.
“Good on ya, maid!” he yelled.
Maid didn’t seem like the most appropriate form of address for a teacher, but I’d take praise from Calvin however it came. I picked the ball up from the floor, ready to challenge Calvin, but he called, “See yez,” and jogged off towards the exit.
“I hope I didn’t break up the party,” I said, as the double doors swung back in on their hinges.
“Nah, his mudder will be after him if he doesn’t get home. Geez, I’m thirsty. Wanna grab a beer?”
“Is that even possible in Little Cove?”
“Patrick keeps a stash in the staff room. We used to try to raid it when I was a student.”
“Is it weird to be back here as a teacher?” I asked as we walked through the deserted hallway.
“Not really. It’s been a few years and there’s been some changeover.”
In the staff room, I cleared a space at the table, while Doug squatted in front of a minifridge in the corner. “Holy frig, he’s got black arse,” I heard him say.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s Patrick’s brand.” He slid a bottle of beer down the table and it stopped right in front of me. When I read the label—Black Horse—my confusion dissolved.
“Is it special?”
“It’s a Newfoundland beer! Don’t you know there’s a beer strike on? All we’ve been able to get lately is American suds. Patrick must have stocked up ahead of time, the sleeveen.”
I took a sip of the beer. It tasted like any other beer to me, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
“Why did you come back home to teach?” I asked Doug.
“After Dad died, I felt like Mudder needed me. But she wouldn’t let me give up my studies. So when the local job came up, I went for it.”
I put my beer down. “I didn’t know your father died,” I whispered.
Doug shrugged. “It’s not something you brings up all the time, I guess.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t. My dad died in April. He was the one who taught me how to play basketball.”
Doug moved his chair closer to mine. “Well, he taught you some good. Can I ask how he died?”
“Lung cancer,” I said. “He couldn’t seem to quit, even after . . .” I stopped talking and looked out the window for a bit. “What about your dad?”
“Drowned,” said Doug, his voice clipped.
I thought about the boat that had raced past us the day Doug took me
