8
Having won the battle of the bathroom with Calvin the day before, I set my sights on the rest of the recalcitrant grade nines. I met with Patrick before school to get some advice. He suggested I assign worksheets to anyone who was being disruptive. It went against every pedagogical method I’d been taught, but those ivory tower thinkers had clearly never had to wrestle with the likes of Trudy Johnson.
“Tell them the worksheets needs to be done in my office,” said Patrick. “They’ll soon learn.”
I put in time at the ditto machine, running off worksheets on every topic known to French teachers: vocabulary, verb tenses, the negative. I inhaled the heady fumes, hoping it was the smell of another victory.
Later that day, brandishing a sheaf of worksheets in one hand and raising it above my head, I outlined my behaviour expectations going forward and the punishment that would be meted out were they not met. Minutes later, when I called on Trudy, she ignored me. I reiterated the new rules and told her that if she didn’t answer, she would get a worksheet.
Trudy didn’t respond when I posed the question a second time, so I dropped a worksheet on her desk.
“I’m not doing that,” she said.
I put another worksheet on top of the first and she muttered something. We repeated our little ditto sheet dance a third time. Then I picked up the three worksheets from her desk and made a show of straightening them into a tidy pile.
“Oh,” I said, smiling sweetly as I placed the pile on her desk. “I forgot to mention that the worksheets have to be completed in Mr. Donovan’s office. He said he couldn’t wait to see who’d be keeping him company first. I guess it’s you, Trudy.”
Trudy blanched. “Yes, miss,” she said. “I mean, oui.”
It was the first time I’d ever heard her say anything in French. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be the last.
Little victories like these, some accomplished on my own, some with Patrick’s guidance, helped me get through my first month at St. Jude’s. I was also discovering that Patrick was a bit of a maverick. Instead of traditional parent-teacher meetings, St. Jude’s held an informal session on the last Friday of every month.
“I lures ’em in here with tea and cake,” Patrick explained, rubbing his hands together like some kind of evil magician. “But then, once they’re here, bam, we talks to them about their youngsters.” Judy told me that parents tended to gravitate towards the teachers of core subjects like math and science, but that attendance at the monthly meetings was mandatory for all teachers.
I stood alone in the cafeteria on that first Friday-night session while parents and some students mingled with Doug, Judy, Patrick and even Sister Mary Catherine. The edge of my name tag began to curl away from my top, as if it, too, wanted nothing to do with me. As I patted it back down, I found myself wondering why I was even wearing a name tag when everyone within a fifty-mile radius seemed to know who I was, even if they couldn’t pronounce my surname properly.
I bristled when angry Roy Sullivan from the gas station arrived, but he made a beeline for Doug, and within seconds they were deep in animated conversation. I mentally reviewed my class lists. Sam Sullivan was a sweet, shy boy in my grade ten class. Could this be his father? Surely not. Then I saw Calvin on the other side of the room, stooped over, listening intently to a middle-aged woman. At one point he looked over at me, then quickly away again. But the woman’s eyes had followed his, and after a minute, mother and son crossed the room.
“Miss,” said Calvin. “Me mudder wants a word.”
She launched straight in. “Tell me now, is he behaving in class?”
Calvin kept his gaze down, a scuffed brown shoe digging into the floor. I looked at his mother’s neat skirt, sturdy shoes, and faded but impeccably ironed blouse. Her hopeful look was the decider.
“Calvin is trying,” I said. Very trying, I didn’t add.
He looked up, puzzled, and mouthed, “T’anks.”
“Calvin, you go on, now,” his mother said. “I’ve got more to say that you don’t need to hear.”
We watched him lope off, then Mrs. Piercey said, “Calvin is the last of my youngsters at the school. Now, tell me, Miss O’Brine, will it be third time lucky this year?”
I said I didn’t understand.
“It’s Calvin’s third year in grade nine. French is one of the subjects that holds him back.”
“How old is Calvin?”
“Seventeen.”
How did she get him to stay in school when I couldn’t even get him to say bonjour? Mrs. Piercey was obviously a persuasive woman.
“Mr. Donovan wanted to put him up to grade ten this year, but I said he’s got to get there on his own steam.”
It felt to me like Calvin had run out of steam a long time ago.
“Mrs. Piercey,” I said, struggling to find the right words. “Do you think it’s in Calvin’s best interest to stay at school? He doesn’t seem very happy here.”
“Happy?” She frowned. “My dear, happy don’t get you a job. Calvin’s staying here ’til he gets his piece of paper and that’s all.” She gripped my arm tight. “There’s a young fella up our road who quit school and you know what he’s at every day?”
I shook my head.
“He’s hauling wood. I wants better than that for Calvin.”
I admired her determination, but for the first time, I felt sorry for Calvin. A high school certificate seemed beyond his grasp, and I couldn’t think of a single job for which he’d be qualified. But I told her that I’d do what I could to help. She said
