I decided to try again. “Peter,” I called, as a paper airplane floated in from the left and landed on the register.
“Who threw that?” I said, then wished I hadn’t. No one was going to claim responsibility. I threw the paper airplane in the garbage, then walked over to shut the classroom door.
“Quiet, please,” I called loudly, followed by “Silence, s’il vous plaît.” My remonstrations were in line with Canada’s bilingualism, while the students’ indifference seemed to mirror the views of many Canadians about that policy.
Finally, I climbed up on my chair. “Hey,” I yelled, abandoning bilingualism and maybe self-control. “Shut up, right now. Or you’ll all have detention.”
Was I even allowed to give detention? And had I really told a class to shut up in my very first lesson? Sheila’s prophecy had come true; I was the bitchy new teacher. But it worked. They began to settle, turning around and opening pencil cases and notebooks. “Don’t smile until Christmas,” one of my teaching professors used to say. It seemed unlikely I’d be tempted otherwise with this crew.
“Peter Cahill.”
“Here, miss.” Skinny and gap toothed.
“Trudy Johnson.”
“Yeah.” The corner of her lip curled upwards, as if reaching for the pockmarks on her cheeks. She wore a scarf in her hair, lace leggings and stacks of bangles on each arm, in clear homage to Madonna. I briefly wondered where she’d managed to find clothes like that around here.
“Calvin Piercey.”
No one answered but a tall boy raised his hand in the air, middle finger extended. I looked away, shocked. When I looked back, the hand was down and so was he, slouched so low in his seat, he was practically horizontal.
“Can you sit up, please?”
He muttered something under his breath and a few students snickered. Had he sworn at me? With that accent, who could tell? I let it go. If I was going to help Calvin get out of grade nine, I might have to let a few standards slide.
“Miss,” said the boy behind him. “Can I ask you how to say something in French?”
“Oui!” I exclaimed.
My first opportunity to impart knowledge and demonstrate the importance of learning a second language! Who said the grade nines were difficult?
“How do you say seal, miss?” he asked. “Like in the seal hunt, right?”
My head filled with images of seal pups, their eyes pleading with the camera. In the weeks since I’d accepted the job in Newfoundland, the topic of the seal hunt had come up a few times. Some of my friends thought it was barbaric, others defended it as an important regional industry. Either way, I didn’t know how to say seal in French. I’d always excelled at French, which had driven my decision to study it at university, but in all those years of study, this was not a word I’d ever come across.
For a minute I was stuck. Then I remembered Dad saying that a teacher should never be afraid to admit a gap in their knowledge. No one ever had all the answers and that was an important lesson, too.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But we can learn it together.” I picked up my Collins-Robert French-English Dictionary and flicked through the pages until I found the entry: seal 1. n. phoque m.
In other words, a masculine noun, pronounced fuck.
That little phoquer had clearly known exactly what he was doing when he asked the question, but I wasn’t going to play along. Further up the page I spotted the French for sea lion and seized upon it.
“Lion de mer,” I said, writing it on the blackboard for good measure and ignoring the jeers of “That’s not right, miss.”
Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the lesson, talking above their chatter about my plans for the year and my expectations of them. Then it was straight on to two more lessons with grades seven and eight. Mercifully, those students weren’t such hard work.
Still, by lunchtime, I was exhausted and starving. At breakfast Lucille had mentioned that Patrick always treated the staff to lunch from the takeout on the first day of school. The smell of deep-fried fish wafted from the staff room. I would’ve killed for a burger.
My fellow teachers sat around the table, reaching for cardboard cartons and passing around packets of ketchup and vinegar. Doug motioned vigorously at the empty seat beside him and pushed a carton towards me. Did I have to sit beside him?
“Proper scoff on the go, right,” he said.
I tilted my head, trying to figure out what he meant. From across the table, Judy spoke. “You’ll have to get used to our Newfinese.”
“Is that what you call the Newfoundland accent?” I asked.
“You mean Newfunland,” said Doug.
It hadn’t been much fun so far, but I kept quiet.
“It’s pronounced Newfunland,” he repeated. “Like understand. Understand Newfunland.”
I nodded, then opened a cardboard carton and poked at the fish with a plastic fork. It was soft and flaky and, I quickly discovered, the best fish I’d ever tasted.
Judy was watching me. “You like?”
My mouth was full, so I gestured with my hands.
“So good you’re speechless?” When she smiled, a gold tooth gleamed.
I swallowed and said, “I have died and gone to fish heaven.”
There was a tsking sound on my right. It was the nun from the morning assembly. Her black veil framed a sharp face and square glasses. Two strikes against me and it was only lunchtime. At least my offending thighs were hidden under the table. I pasted on my placid Catholic schoolgirl smile and introduced myself.
“Yes, it’s quite obvious who you are,” she said.
I had a long history of bad relationships with nuns and it seemed this one would be no different. Why was it that most brides of Christ seemed to be stuck in such an unhappy marriage?
Judy leaned across
