New Girl in Little Cove

in my pocket.
I wrote my name on the blackboard, in my very best teacher writing, then turned to face my invisible students. They were exceedingly attentive, if devoid of personality. The classroom too was dull; its only adornments were tiny pinpricks on the bulletin boards and paper remnants stuck to the walls. The boxes I’d shipped from Toronto were neatly stacked in a corner; it was time to make my mark.
An hour later, autumnal displays and vocabulary posters had lifted the decor. But I spotted an errant pink ribbon dangling like a pig’s tail from the ceiling, high above my desk, too high to reach. I poked around the supply cupboard at the back of the room, finding notebooks, rulers, erasers and, aha, a pointer. I was ready to duel with the offending ribbon.
I climbed onto the desk and repeatedly swiped, pinata style, at the ribbon, but still it taunted me. I put down the pointer and balanced one foot on the chair back. I had just put my other foot onto the blackboard ledge when the chair wobbled. I managed to complete my transfer to the ledge before the chair crashed to the floor, the noise resonating in the silence. Spread-eagled against the blackboard, I had no idea how to get down, let alone grab the damn ribbon.
Chalk particles tickled my nose. What would happen if I sneezed? Would the force knock me backwards off the ledge? Above me, the clock ticked loudly as the seconds slid past. Prickles of sweat bloomed on the back of my neck. How badly would I hurt myself if I jumped backwards? Or could I land, ninja-like, on the desk?
There was jaunty whistling now, and then footsteps in the hall. Phonse? A janitor could get a ladder. Then again, did I want anyone, even an old man like Phonse, to see me squashed up against the blackboard like a swatted fly?
The wooden ledge began to creak beneath my feet, focusing my mind.
“Excuse me,” I called.
The footsteps came closer, then a deep voice boomed, “Jaysus God tonight, woman. You trying to be Spider-Man?”
It wasn’t Phonse, and whoever it was, I hated him already. “I’m about to fall!”
In seconds, a hand was on either side of my waist, gently supporting me. The warmth from his hands penetrated my shirt and my cheeks grew hot.
“Okay, you can let go,” he said.
But it felt like I was superglued to the blackboard. “I, I can’t.”
“Relax, I got you.”
I took a deep breath, dropped my arms and let go, sliding slowly down the length of him. I smelled soap, wool and the sea. When my feet were on the floor, he released his grip. I turned around and saw a red sweater first. I had to look way up before I found a face. His blue eyes held my gaze until I looked down, brushing chalk from my shirt and pants.
“Do you work here?” I asked.
“Starting tomorrow.” He offered his hand. “Doug Bishop. Science and phys ed teacher.”
“Rachel O’Brien,” I said. “French teacher.”
“The mainlander,” he said. “What in the name of God were you doing perched up there?” He gestured towards the ledge.
“I’m a new teacher,” I said. “It’s my first classroom.”
Doug nodded as if that made perfect sense, then said, “I’m a new teacher too, but I didn’t get the memo about testing the strength of the blackboard ledge.”
When I explained my ribbon fixation, he righted my chair, stood on it, and pulled down the ribbon. Then he bowed low, presenting it with a flourish. His dark curls were inches from my hand and I nearly brushed them reaching for the ribbon.
“Thanks,” I said.
“T’anks,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“That’s lesson one. Newfoundlanders don’t say thanks. We says t’anks. Usually followed with b’y.”
“Bye, like goodbye?”
“No, girl. B’y like boy, or someone might say to you, t’anks, maid.”
“Made? Like thanks, I’ve got it made?”
He laughed, “I’ll stay away from duckie for now.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Stick with b’y,” he said. “Go on, give ’er a go.”
“T’anks, b’y,” I said.
“Proper t’ing,” he said.
“What?”
“Never mind. That’s lesson two.” He gave me a wave as he left, calling over his shoulder, “No more climbing without a safety net, okay, Spidey?”
I found myself hoping that the nickname wouldn’t stick.
Back at the boarding house, there was a cold plate on the table, along with a note from Lucille. She was gone to a neighbour’s and I shouldn’t wait up. I pulled the plastic wrap off the plate—chicken breast, potato salad and coleslaw. The radio was on low; a mournful country singer lamenting about a man who’d done her wrong was the soundtrack to my solo meal. I could relate all too well.
I clattered my dishes into the sink, then wandered outside and thought about all the street noise I wasn’t hearing, unlike back home in Toronto. Eventually, a blue sedan drove slowly past and the driver waved. A boy in the passenger seat stared at me, craning his neck, until the tail lights disappeared down the hill.
When I went back inside, the phone was ringing. I followed the noise into the living room, where matching floral couches were smothered in doilies and the lampshades retained their plastic wrap.
“Hello?” I said.
“Rachel? It’s Sheila.”
I sat down. “Do I know a Sheila?”
She played right along. “Let me refresh your memory. Best friend? Since kindergarten?”
For a minute I was that shy little girl who’d clung to Dad’s hand until Sheila Murphy dragged me over to the dress-up corner, where she plunked an old veil on me and asked me to marry her. Her teddy bear had performed the brief ceremony.
Now I said, “Oh, that old bag.”
Sheila laughed. “So?”
I filled her in on Little Cove and its bleak consumer outlook. Then I moved on to the runaway priest.
“Wow! I bet he’s gorgeous. Is he? Is he dreamy?”
Classic Sheila question. In grade twelve she had lusted after an earnest young seminarian; more recently we’d watched The Thorn Birds miniseries together. It had revived Sheila’s fascination with priests while at the