“How would I know what he looks like?” I said. “He ran away, remember?”
“True,” she said. “Just like you.”
I had nothing to say to that, and after a brief pause, Sheila carried on talking.
“Big day tomorrow. You ready?”
“I’m nervous,” I said. “No, make that terrified. And I have PMS.”
“Perfect,” said Sheila. “You can be the bitchy new teacher that all the kids hate.”
There was another pause, then she said, “Have you heard from your mom?”
“No, but don’t forget the time difference between here and Australia.”
“I can’t believe she went,” Sheila said.
“She promised my dad she would take the sabbatical,” I said.
“Still.”
“On his deathbed, Sheila.”
“I know. Still.”
Mom was a law professor who also took on casework. I knew Sheila thought Mom was selfish to take the sabbatical so soon after Dad died, and part of me agreed. But Dad had made her (and me) promise. And above all else, I wanted to honour Dad’s wishes.
After Sheila said goodbye, I clutched the receiver to my chest, wanting to keep the connection for a minute. Then I hung up and went upstairs to unpack.
My room was fiercely tidy. The narrow bed was topped with a thick quilt, a repeating pattern of evergreen trees in each square. On the floor was a hooked rug, depicting a boat out at sea. They were the loveliest things in the room. There was a peg on the back of the door with a few hangers, and I hung what I could there. The rest of my clothes went in the pine dresser.
When I got under the covers, shifting in the unfamiliar bed, Lucille was still not home. A sliver of moonlight curled around the curtains, and in the distance a dog howled. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself in front of a class of eager students, their hands raised like pointers. Instead I saw myself teetering on the ledge, flattened against the blackboard, having to be rescued by Doug. I found myself hoping that he wasn’t going to tell everyone. Then again, after what I’d been through with Jake this past summer, I was used to public humiliation.
2
The next morning, a slow rumble shook the stage as the students pushed into the gym for assembly. I tried to make out individual faces, but it was a blur of freckles. Onstage, I forced myself not to fidget, but instead to project a non-existent inner calm. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them again quickly when my skirt rode up. I tugged the fabric back down as inconspicuously as possible. The skirt hadn’t seemed so short when I tried it on. Then again, it was Sheila who convinced me to buy it, and she tended to err on the side of vamp.
To my right, Judy Doyle, the vice principal, was wearing pants and a blouse with huge shoulder pads. I had met her briefly before assembly. She looked confident and at ease, as opposed to easy, which seemed to be the look I was projecting. A glance to my left, and my fears were confirmed. A nun, lips pursed, was looking with disdain at my thighs. The ratio of thigh to skirt was clearly not to her liking. What was it? Two-thirds thigh to one-third skirt? I never was very good at fractions.
Patrick walked to the microphone, yesterday’s casual look replaced with a suit and tie. He told the students to settle down; they moved more quickly then, organizing themselves, cross-legged, into rows. A few older boys lounged at the back, but when Patrick called out, “Look lively now, b’ys,” they sat up straight. Patrick welcomed them all back, singling out the grade sevens, new arrivals to the high school. He was a natural speaker, confident and funny.
“Some changes to the teaching staff,” he said. “You all knows Mr. Bishop, of course. He’ll be whipping our sports teams into shape in no time.”
I was confused. Doug had said he was new, like me. But Patrick was already moving on. He caught my eye, then turned back to the students. “And this year, we has our first mainlander. How about that, a CFA?”
While the students hooted, I tried to parse this acronym. CFA: F would obviously be French, maybe C was certified . . . but what was the A? Not assistant. I might be probationary, but Patrick knew I was a fully qualified teacher.
“Yes, Miss O’Brine is a come from away,” Patrick said. “They don’t grow them very tall up in Toronto, do they?”
My face burned, causing him to add, “She only landed here yesterday, so I don’t know too much about her, but she goes some red.”
Which, of course, made me blush all the harder. Judy discreetly rolled her eyes at me. The nun clenched the rosary beads that hung from her belt; my first day and she was already praying for me.
Patrick briefly noted my double major honours in French and education, my student teaching award, the year I’d spent in Quebec City, and my glowing academic references. I looked out at the student body. Were they wondering how, with all I apparently had going for me, I’d wound up in Little Cove? Or was that just me?
Once he’d introduced all the staff and finished his remarks, the assembly ended and we teachers filed out ahead of the students. Judy touched my arm as she passed. “Let’s catch up at lunchtime, Rachel,” she said. “Good luck.”
I knew I might need it. My first-ever lesson as a qualified teacher was grade nine French, the very class Patrick had warned me about. There were only ten pupils in grade nine, but the noise they made in the hall as they approached my classroom sounded like a hundred. I waited at the blackboard, smiling hard, as they sauntered in, sat down and continued talking with each other.
The register shook in my hands. I tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with someone.
“Peter Cahill,” I said.
No one replied.
“Peter Ca—” I stopped. No
