New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (book club suggestions TXT) 📗

Jake and my cousin Pete escorted the girl out of the backyard. I averted my eyes as they walked past. Sheila emerged, dripping, from the pool, and my mom handed her a towel.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“You know I always like to make a big splash,” she said.

I just about managed a smile before I started shaking. My mom put her arm around me. One by one my friends approached, murmuring platitudes and saying goodbyes, despite my mom’s pleas that they should at least eat something.

Sheila went up to my room to borrow some dry clothes. Then the few of us who remained—Mom, Sheila, Uncle Scott and Pete—collected bottles and glasses. Uncle Scott insisted we eat some of the food he’d barbecued. We sat down to eat, but I kept getting up for things from the kitchen: more napkins, a jug of water, ketchup. When I came back from yet another trip, Sheila pulled me into the seat beside her and rubbed my back. We were picking at our food when Jake walked around the side of the house.

“He’s got some nerve,” Sheila said.

“Someone make him leave, please,” I said.

Uncle Scott stood up and walked towards Jake. He kept coming, palms raised, as if approaching a wild beast. “Rachel, please let me explain.”

“Unless you can tell me that girl was delusional and there’s nothing between you, I never want to see you again,” I shouted.

Pete went over to join Uncle Scott and Jake. Shortly, the three of them left the backyard. I said I was tired and was going to bed, but once I got upstairs, I stood under a hot shower crying until the water ran as cold as my heart. Now, I fell asleep, wondering if Jake and that girl were still together. Not that I cared.

11

A folded note lying on my desk first thing in the morning gave me pause. Did my tormentor have access to the school? But when I opened it up, it was Patrick’s scrawl asking me to meet him during the morning break to discuss my first probationary review. If I wasn’t so nervous, I might’ve smiled at the terminology. Probationary, like I’d already screwed up.

When I arrived at Patrick’s office, Doug was already sitting in a chair. I took the other one and said hi. While Patrick talked, Doug stared straight ahead, while I risked a few sideways glances. Doug seemed to be transfixed by Patrick’s frankly boring remarks. I tried to imagine him with Geri.

“So that date’s good, Rachel?” I half heard Patrick say.

I flushed. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Patrick repeated a date a few weeks hence and said that Judy would also be conducting class visits to see how Doug and I were getting on.

When we left Patrick’s office, I wanted to ask Doug how he planned to prepare for his first review. But he headed straight for the men’s bathroom, no doubt to escape me. It wasn’t the best place for me to loiter outside. It seemed I’d be preparing on my own.

That evening, I mentioned my upcoming probationary review to Mom during our weekly call.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

I am now, I thought.

“You’ll be great. Remember to engage the students. Don’t try to cover too much and don’t repeat the content of the reading materials.”

“Mom, it’s high school French.”

She wasn’t listening. “Oh, and ask the students for feedback at the end of the lecture.”

It was predictable from Mom. All good advice, but none of it was applicable to my situation. I was teaching high school, not university students. And no way would I be asking the likes of Calvin Piercey for feedback. I wished I could speak with Dad, but I already knew what he would have said: “Be prepared, but have fun with it.”

I decided it wouldn’t hurt to prepare extra worksheets and lesson plans in advance of any reviews. So after breakfast on Saturday, I told Lucille I was going into school to do some work.

“My dear,” she said. “You needs time off on the weekend. You looks right frazzled. I’ve half a mind to phone Pat Donovan and tell him he’s working you too hard.”

I knew her heart was in the right place, but sometimes Lucille’s fussing went too far.

There were no cars in the school parking lot, but as soon as I opened the front door, I heard Phonse playing. I dumped my bag in the classroom and went to the janitor’s room to listen. Phonse was wearing a plaid shirt and denim overalls. This seemed to be his weekend attire. He smiled but carried on playing, the bow flying back and forth over the strings while the fingers of his left hand moved up and down the fingerboard. His left foot tapped along with the beat; he was almost dancing. Then he ended the piece with a flourish and, bow still in hand, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“That was so much fun to listen to!”

“Plenty more reels where that one comes from. They gets you hopping, me fadder always said.”

“Could you teach it to me?”

“I can try.” Phonse took another fiddle from a cupboard and handed it to me, then repositioned his own, the wood gleaming like a brooch against his shirt.

I assumed the position so familiar to me after years of violin practice. Phonse tutted.

“No. Not like that, girl,” he said. “See how it’s resting on my shoulder? It’s got to be loose, but at the same time like a part of you.”

I mimicked him, aiming for a looser hold. Phonse played a few bars slowly, his movements exaggerated for my benefit. I watched carefully. Then he pointed his bow at me. “Have at ’er, girl.”

I drew the bow slowly across the strings, copying Phonse. We repeated the sequence a few times, working through the song. Once I’d mastered a line, we would repeat it. Phonse would play, then I would