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

I twirled a strand of my hair and looked out the window.

“Okay,” I said. “Have you heard from Jake?”

“Yup.”

“Has he asked about me?”

“Yup.”

“Are you going to answer every question like that?”

“Yup.”

“Seriously,” I said, pinching her ankle.

“Ow.” She removed her feet from my lap. “You can’t touch me, miss, I’m telling the principal.”

“Sheila, talk.”

“He’s not going out with that . . . bitch anymore. He said he messed up. He said he was an idiot.”

“He got that right,” I said.

“Yup.”

We finished our beer and I put the empties in the box beside the fridge.

“Rach,” Sheila said. “He asked me how he could get in touch with you.”

“Did you tell him?”

“I wouldn’t do that unless you were on board with it. Oh, and he also belatedly offered to pay for my ruined dress. You know, the one that doubled as a swimsuit.”

As we headed for the door, she added, “Should I have given him your number?”

“Nope.”

24

Even though Sheila had only spent a few days with me, I was lonely after she left. As I made the first commute of 1986, I felt a pang when the morning DJ played Paul Young’s “Every Time You Go Away.” It was all very well having Wilf at the coffee shop, but I needed to make some friends in Clayville. I changed the radio station, although it didn’t matter much. The turnoff for Bob’s Cove was coming up, and as soon as I passed it, I would lose all reception.

I’d once asked Lucille how she managed to get radio reception, and she told me that she had a booster antenna on top of her house. It was only when Sheila and I spent the night at Judy’s that I’d discovered cable TV existed in Little Cove. Judy said Lucille didn’t have it because she wasn’t much for television herself and didn’t want boarders hanging around in her living room every evening.

As I turned into the school parking lot for the new term, my stomach flip-flopped. I was looking forward to seeing Doug. We hadn’t spoken much at Eddie Churchill’s party. When I reached my classroom, Doug was there waiting for me, which I took as a good sign.

“So you didn’t go home for Christmas.”

It was an accusation. Doug’s arms were folded across his chest, his face pinched.

“No.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“But then you shows up to the party, mummering, and ignores me all evening.”

“I didn’t ignore you. I wanted to talk some more, but then Phonse asked me to play. Besides,” I said, “I called you a few days later. Your mother said you had gone hunting.”

“Oh, forget it.” He brushed past me. “I don’t know why I cares anyway.”

“Doug, wait,” I said, but he kept on walking.

I rubbed my eyes in frustration. Then, worried I’d smudged my mascara, I went to the women’s bathroom. As I repaired my eyes, I spoke to my reflection in the mirror.

“I don’t know why I care either. He’s got a girlfriend, anyway.”

“Is that you, Rachel?” a voice called from one of the cubicles. “Who are you talking to?” A toilet flushed and Sister Mary Catherine emerged.

“Would you believe, Sister,” I said, “I’m talking to myself. I thought I was alone.”

I made to leave, but she positioned herself in front of the door.

“We are never truly alone,” she said. “God is always with us. He sees what you do.” Her eyes drilled into mine. “And so do I.”

I put one hand on the wall for support.

“My dear, I have seen you and Mr. Bishop together.” She spat the last word out like a bit of spoiled fruit. “I think that young man may be developing feelings for you. We can ill afford another scandal at St. Jude’s.”

“There’s no scandal.”

“Good,” she said. “But I’m asking you to remember your position as a Catholic teacher, all the same.”

Years of Catholic schooling had taught me there was only one acceptable answer.

“Yes, Sister.”

So, Doug was mad at me again. What else was new? I put any thoughts of him aside and went to see Patrick about setting up a French club. Doug would not be getting any credit for the idea from me.

“Excellent idea, my dear,” he said. “I loves how you gets stuck right in.”

I paled at the thought of how differently the conversation might have gone if I’d raised the possibility of a remedial English club. Patrick suggested I announce the club right away at assembly.

Ten minutes later, I gripped the podium and looked out at the student body, filling them in on my plan. The general vibe in the gym was boredom. Cynthia was sitting near the front, eyes down, fiddling with her pencil case.

“We’ll meet at lunchtime on Wednesdays,” I said. “Everyone’s welcome, even if you aren’t studying French. We’ll look at French culture: food, music, films. And I’m going to try to bring in some guest speakers.”

No one looked at me. No one cared.

“Does anyone have any questions?”

No one raised a hand.

“We’ll do role plays, too. Ordering in restaurants, job interviews . . .” I was boring myself at this point. “So I hope to see many of you there!”

My first lesson after assembly was senior French, a class mostly made up of girls. I unrolled a picture of Francis Cabrel, all long hair and moustache, and pinned it to the bulletin board. “In French club next week, we’ll listen to the music of Francis Cabrel, but today I thought I’d give you a taster.”

I inserted the cassette. “This song is called ‘Je l’aime à mourir,’ which basically translates to ‘I love her to death.’” I waited for the collective swoon and was not disappointed. I pressed play and we listened to Cabrel crooning about his lover.

“Oh, miss, what does it all mean?” asked Beverley in a breathless voice.

“You’ll have to come to French club to find out.”

After class I asked Cynthia to stay back. She hadn’t done her homework and just before Christmas had failed a pop quiz. It was sloppy, careless work: missing accents and incorrect