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

subject-verb agreements. I was disappointed because she’d been my star student. When I asked her about it, she refused to meet my eye.

“I forgot to study,” she said.

The old Cynthia wouldn’t have needed to study. She would’ve known the material cold.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Cynthia?” I asked.

“Best kind, miss.”

“It’s just that—”

“Oh, miss,” she pleaded. “Can I go please?”

“See you at French club?”

“I can’t be bothered with that foolishness,” she said.

I tried not to let her comment sting.

Two days later I held the first meeting of the French club. The posters I’d pinned up in the halls hadn’t enticed many members. A few girls in my senior French class showed up, but not Cynthia. I gave them each a ditto sheet with the lyrics for two Cabrel songs and we listened to them a few times. By the third time around, Beverley was singing along. Then we broke down the lyrics.

As I’d hoped, seeing grammar and vocabulary in a song helped bring the language alive. We finished with some role play about music; the girls concocted dialogues about visiting a music store and talking about favourite bands. Despite the chatter as the girls filed out, it didn’t feel like much of a success. Five girls who were already interested in French had joined the club. I would have to up my game if I was going to get better attendance.

The following week I marched into school laden down with plastic containers, dishes and cutlery. Phonse met me at the door, relieving me of some of the load. “Staff party?” he asked. “Mr. Donovan never said nothing.”

“French club,” I said. “The way to a student’s brain is through their stomach.”

I visited each homeroom before the bell, handing out chocolate chip cookies to everyone. I told them if they came to French club, there’d be even more food on offer.

At noon, I cleared my desk and covered it with a red-and-white checked tablecloth. I stuck a small French flag in a vase and sliced a loaf of white bread, next to which I put a bowl of jam. I poured apple juice and grape juice into clear plastic cups, and for the pièce de résistance, I placed a cake in the middle of the table.

The five girls who’d come to the first meeting were back, along with a few students from grade nine. Sam loitered in the doorway but sheepishly joined the others when I beckoned. I pretended to be a waitress, handing each of them a menu/vocabulary list. The specials were a poor man’s version of croissants and jam, red and white wine, and gâteau. Beverley joined in straight away, asking for red wine and a croissant. With some coaxing, the others gradually followed suit. By the end of the session, most had ordered something en français and all of them had eaten my wares.

“Miss,” said Tim, a boy in grade nine. “Any of them cookies on the go or wha?”

“They were more of a bribe . . . I mean treat.”

“They were some good, though.”

“Tell you what, if you bring a friend along next week, I’ll bring a double batch of cookies.”

Sam stayed behind to help clean up, stacking the empty plastic cups. I told him I had a guest speaker lined up for the next meeting. “It’s a corporal from the Clayville RCMP. So I know you’ll want to come along and hear him.”

“Yes, miss,” he said. “Merci!”

Pleased with the little progress I’d made, I assigned no homework at all that afternoon. I was taking the evening off, and so could my students. But, as I tidied my desk at the end of the day, I heard shouting in the hall.

“Where’s that goddamn meddling blood of a bitch French teacher?”

As the footsteps came closer, I looked around in desperation. Then I grabbed my pointer and stood behind my desk. Into the classroom charged a tall man wearing jeans and construction boots, a baseball cap on his head. It was Roy Sullivan.

“You and that Quebec crap,” he raged. “You got no right to tell my son what to do outside school hours. Batter to Jesus, luh.”

“S-sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“Sam’s after saying he can’t help me out on Wednesday because he’s got French club. You got no right to keep him here at lunchtime. We wants him home. Plenty of small jobs to be done in the off season, before fishing starts up again.”

“I thought it might help him with—”

“With what? The RCMP?” His mouth twisted. “I’m after telling him a dozen times to give up with that foolishness. Don’t you be encouraging him, you hear? He’ll be fishing with me, like I fished with my fadder and him with his fadder before me. Stay the hell away from my son.”

“Roy?” Patrick strode into the room. “What’s all the commotion?”

Sam’s father flicked his hand at me dismissively. “This one needs to keep her oar in her own boat.” And he strode past Patrick and out the door.

I sank down in my chair, still clutching the pointer and shaking.

“Christ on a bike,” said Patrick. “That man’s a hard ticket.” He sat down on a desk and smiled at me. “Listen to me now, Rachel. Judy and I are right impressed with this French club. Don’t mind that arsehole.”

The next morning Sam came to see me. “Miss, I’m some stunned. I forgot I needs to help out at home on Wednesday so I won’t make the RCMP talk.”

“Your father came to see me,” I said, gently.

He blanched. “Sorry, miss. Was he right mean?”

“He feels strongly about fishing, I guess.”

Sam’s face sagged. “I hates it, miss. I’m not like Dad, or me brother. I gets right sick out at sea.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then said, “I don’t care, I’m still coming. I can, can’t I?”

“You’re welcome any time, Sam,” I said.

I was heartened by his fleeting smile, but I was also worried about what would happen if Sam did come back next week. I