New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (fun books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

revelling in the smoke-free meal. The pizza wasn’t quite as good as Luigi’s, where Sheila and I often dined back home, but it came close. Afterwards I opened Lucille’s box and found a fresh loaf of bread, a jar of her famous blueberry jam and a can of evaporated milk. I put the so-called milk in the centre of the mantelpiece, a souvenir of my time at Lucille’s. A carton of fresh milk was stowed in my fridge and I vowed to never run out.

Digging further in the box, I found a hooked rug and a quilt, neither of which I had seen before. The quilt featured a simple pattern, blue and red fabric squares in repeating rows. But the rug was a heavily detailed winter scene: a frozen bay, on which dozens of children played while dogs jumped between them. Beyond the bay, a series of colourful houses spread up the hill, a long plume of white smoke rising from each chimney. It was far too beautiful to go on the floor. It was a work of art. That evening I hung it on the living room wall and toasted its creator, lifting a mug of hot chocolate, made with fresh milk, of course.

15

A week into my new commute to Little Cove, I was still leaving Clayville quite early in the morning, honing my mental map of the numerous potholes along the way. On the Monday of the second week, I pulled over at the same spot where I’d first met Phonse. The bay was the calmest I’d seen since my arrival, reflecting the hues of the houses curled around it. Although still low in the sky, the sun cast a soft light. It was a glorious November morning, heralding great things: all homework would be handed in, the grade nines would pay attention, and Calvin flipping Piercey himself would stand up and tell me he’d spent the weekend reading Proust’s À la recherche de . . . who’s kidding who.

I thought I would arrive at school before anyone else, but there was already a car in the parking lot—Judy’s. She met me in the foyer.

“Morning, Rachel,” she said. “I’ll be observing some lessons today.”

“Oh. Patrick mentioned a date later in the month.”

“Yes, he likes to be organized with his reviews,” Judy said. “I likes . . .”

Ambush? I wanted to say.

“. . . to keep it casual.” She consulted her planner. “Let’s see, what class can I visit this morning?”

I didn’t answer but crossed my fingers that she wouldn’t pick . . .

“I’ll start with grade nine.”

I must have winced, because she added, “I’m sure it will all be grand. But if not, we’d better nip any problems in the bud.”

ANY problems? Don’t you mean MANY problems, Judy? I didn’t say.

“We have some time before first period,” I said. “Would you like to review my lesson plans?”

“That’s okay, you can surprise me.”

Conversation turned to my new home. We stood chatting about the delights of Clayville, and Judy told me that she and Bill often drove over for Tony’s Pizza and to hit the liquor store. We were still chatting when Doug arrived.

“Some fine day for November,” he said.

“Fine day for your first assessment,” said Judy. She told him she’d be in to see him after lunch. As she walked off towards her office, Doug cursed.

“Gentle Jaysus in the garden. So much for winging it today. I’d better get something planned right quick.” He jogged down the hall to his classroom while I fretted off to mine.

On the way, I passed the shrine to Mary, set in a small recess in the hall. I reached out and patted her right foot. It felt cool and smooth, like a beach rock. How many teachers had reached out to her in times of trouble? Her serene face revealed nothing.

Since my arrival in September, Judy had been nothing but friendly and helpful. But when she arrived at my classroom, she was wearing a blazer—a blazer! She might like to keep things casual, but I knew this was serious. This was my career. This was me being assessed. This mattered.

Judy slid into an empty desk at the back of the class, rested her chin in one of her hands and smiled at me. I took a deep breath in, then released it, ready to begin. But my usually boisterous students were quiet. I asked several easy questions, part of our habitual warm-up, but no one volunteered an answer. They kept their heads down, so I couldn’t even catch anyone’s eye.

The silence grew uncomfortable; I tugged at my sweater, feeling the heat rise. Why had I worn a turtleneck today? As I went to open a window, Judy picked up her pen and began to write. I could just imagine her assessment: “Class unresponsive. Rachel unprepared.” In my misery, I realized it would also work the other way around: “Class unprepared. Rachel unresponsive.”

From the window, I lurched to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. Something about its familiar weight grounded me. Have fun with it, I could almost hear Dad say.

Screw the lesson plan. I quickly wrote two verbs on the blackboard: aimer and détester. Then I told the class in French that I hated peanut butter, but loved ice cream.

“Now,” I said, “I want all of you to tell me about your likes and dislikes. En français, bien sûr.”

I looked expectantly around the room, but no one wanted to share. The seconds ticked by. Then, slowly, like a wraith sent from the netherworld to haunt me, a long white sleeve rose. What the hell? The hand at the end of the sleeve belonged to none other than Calvin. Nervous twitch? Nope. Son of a . . .

It was impossible not to call on him. No one else had volunteered. “Oui, Calvin?” I said, my voice squeaking like a smoke detector in need of a new battery.

He put down his hand and began to speak. In French!

“Je . . . déteste . . . .”He stopped, and looked around the room. “Je déteste . . .”

I waited for him to reveal his hatred