by Tillie Cole
CHAPTER 4
No ordinary teacher
After a lazy summer of acclimatising to our new homeland, arriving at The Calgary School of Excellence to prepare for the impending new term was a tad daunting.
The building was enormous and, by the looks of things, had cost a fortune to build. It boasted an ice hockey rink, American football pitch and state-of-the-art gym. It just screamed money.
I could tell from the outset that this was going to make or break me as a school teacher. However, if there was one thing Natasha Munro could do, it was teach.
Fast forward thirty minutes and I was sitting in the principal’s – Mrs. Thomas’ − office, where she went on to tell me about the school, the ethics and rules. It was strict, a lot stricter than my old school, but I had expected it. That was stressed further by her horrified expression as she watched me unwrap my rolls of army camouflage and cow-print wallpaper for my display boards which had me quickly feeding them back into my oversized bag, along with the other contraband items I’d normally use to spruce up my classroom. Come on, a mini Henry Hoover for the desk is just too cute!
She showed me the classroom and gave me time to settle in and get everything sorted for the pupils, who would be coming in tomorrow.
Just before she left, she asked, “Natasha, can I have a word with you in my office at one?”
“Sure.” I answered hesitantly.
With a smile, she assured me, “No need to worry, you’re not in trouble.”
“Phew! That’s a relief.”
“Okay, I’ll see you this afternoon.”
At twelve fifty-five that afternoon, I knocked on the door of Mrs. Thomas’ office. She shouted me through, and asked me to take a seat.
I had met Mrs. Thomas during our Skype interview and subsequent web-based planning meetings. She seemed nice. She was in her late forties and was from Vancouver. She was married to a Scottish man who had moved to British Columbia in his twenties to coach rugby. I put her good sense of humour down to this, and suspected that was why she seemed to like me so much. You know, Celtic clans sticking together.
She had talked to Maureen several times about my teaching practice and how to ‘best utilise my skills’. I assumed, or rather hoped, that this was the reason for this impromptu meeting.
“Natasha, I have an interesting proposition for you. I have a project that I have been working on. You seem like an approachable young woman and Maureen has told me how good you are with the kids, especially the naughty ones. Is that true?” she queried.
“Well, yes, I suppose. I haven’t had many problems with discipline in the past. I feel most kids like me,” I shrugged, wondering where this was going.
“Obviously, my intention is that you are going to be running the performing arts programme after school, and we have a few students who, for various reasons, have begun misbehaving in class. Nothing big, just bad attitude, being rude to teachers, getting in fights, ditching classes, that kind of thing.
“This summer, I read an article about a teacher in Australia who became a mentor to children just like ours, and, through performing arts, managed to help them work through their problems. After talking to you and Maureen, I have been convinced of you being able to do this. What do you think?” She sat back in her leather swivel office chair and awaited my response.
“It sounds amazing!” I answered back excitedly. “I’d love to see if I could get through to them. Oooh, I’m already getting ideas of how to help. One question though, do I find out why they may be acting up, for example their family situations?” I asked.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Thomas explained. “That’s the kicker. You go in blind. There are laws, etc., on why, but also some information can’t be shared as per request of the families. They fully support the initiative, but for their own reasons ask that you don’t ask questions or delve into the girls’ backgrounds. With one girl in particular, a Miss. Jones – this is her first year here, she has just transferred from another school in the local area in which she only lasted one year due to personal issues – discretion is imperative,” she informed me, stressing the point.
“Okay, intriguing, but I respect the need for privacy. It’s a prestigious school, I’m sure that means some of the students come from powerful and prestigious parents. I’m kind of on the right lines, huh?” I cheekily probed, knowing by her small smirk that I was close to the mark.
“You could say that,” she hesitantly agreed.
“And a badly-behaved child would not be good for such a parent’s social reputation?” I continued, fishing for more details.
“You’re good, Natasha, but not as on the mark as you think. Some of the secrecy is for the child’s sake too, just keep that in mind,” she said pointedly, staring at me over her Chanel glasses.
“Right,” I said, chastised. “Well, I’m in. When do I meet my little delinquents?”
“Tomorrow. You will have four afternoons a week with them. We are going tough on these girls. Like, Private Benjamin-tough. Intense and quick, to get them back into mainstream classes,” she winked.
“Well in that case, I’d better get organised,” I said, rising from my seat. “Thanks for this, Mrs. Thomas. I’m excited about the challenge, and I’m flattered that you think I’m good enough to take it on.”
Getting out of her seat, putting a hand around my shoulders and walking me to the door, she added, “Natasha, call me Mandy. I think you and I will get on great, and if you tame these wild ones and get the superintendent off my back, then I’ll be extremely grateful.”
Walking back to her desk, she added, “I see a big future for you here, Ms. Munro.”
With a bounce in my step, I rushed back to the classroom, grabbed the key to the dance studio, and began to prep for my biggest challenge in teaching to date.
Arriving home that night, I was greeted by the wondrous smell of homemade lasagne and a pizza Margherita brought back by Tink from the restaurant.
“Hey, Pinky, how was your day? Do you like the school?” Tink asked while plating up the yummy grub and pouring out two glasses of prosecco.
“Tink, I love it! The facilities are out of this world, and the staff are really nice. It’s a dream come true. Plus, I kind of got put on a special project today,” I confided.
“Really? On your first day? You casting-couching your way to the top or what?” he laughed.
“Not quite. But it is exciting.”
Tink placed our dinner on the table and gestured for me to sit. Raising his glass he announced, “Buon appetito”, and began tucking in.
“So, don’t keep me in suspense, what’s the project?” he asked.
“Well, it’s working with the bad kids really. Well, as bad as a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-year school can produce. My principal wants me to work with a group of girls who have been acting out. I take them four times a week at first and, through performing arts, try to change their attitudes in regard to confidence and their studies. From the sounds of it, some of these kids have got it pretty stressful at home and are basically being little shits because of it. So… Natasha Munro to the rescue!” I announced in my best superhero voice, although it came out a bit more like Scrappy Doo’s ‘Puppy Power’.
I was happily eating my carb-fest, dreaming of the Oprah-style counselling sessions I was going to have with my new ‘projects’, when I noticed Tink’s lip was wobbling.
Looking at him and wondering what the hell was up, I reluctantly asked, “What’s wrong, chuck?”
“We need to go back to Newcastle. I’m going to pack,” he declared as he bolted for his bedroom door.
“What???” I asked in shock.
He glanced back, lips trembling once again and threw himself on the couch. “Wil, you can’t work with kids like that here. They have guns. Oh, my Gods of glitter, I can see it now. It’ll be on the news, ‘Teacher tied up, tortured and shot five times in the head. Her best friend had to identify the body’. I can’t see you dead, Wil. My sensitive disposition c
annot handle that kind of bloodshed!”
He was hysterical by now.
“Tink, a) They don’t have guns in Canada – that’s America, you idiot; b) I’m working in the most expensive school in Calgary, maybe even Canada. I hardly think I’m working with the Bronx kids here, do you?” I soothed.
Looking slightly calmer, he answered, “Really? There’s no danger?”
“Well, not like you are thinking. I’m not Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, you nugget. I don’t think skipping a few classes qualifies as on par with drug-dealing and gang affiliation, do you?”
“But Wil, they’re rich, they could get you assassin–"
“Tink! Can you hear what you’re saying? Its three girls and performing arts, for Christ’s sake! What they going to do? Take me down with a hitch-kick and a full box split?” I stood, exasperated.
“Wil, look at me.”
I bent down, giving my hands over at his insistence.
“Two words: Black Swan. That girl was fuuuuucked up, and she was into performing arts. Just saying, sausage. Crazies are everywhere!” he nodded his head sagely and pursed his lips in warning.
“Yeah, I know, I friggin’ live with one!” I exclaimed, gritting my teeth and clenching my fists to the sky. “Now, get up. My pizza’s getting cold.”
“Fine, but I’m getting you pepper spray and a taser first thing tomorrow. Any bitch steps out of line on you and you pierce her with 50,000 volts of electricity. Now, that’s a fucking floor show I’d pay to see!”
CHAPTER 5
Thank you for the music
The first day of term went really well. The kids in general were some of the most well-behaved I had ever come across; a harsh stare would shut them up. I’m not used to kids not being even just a little bit lippy. At times, it creeped me the hell out. They all sat glaring at you hanging on every word you said, in a manner a bit reminiscent of The Village of the Damned.
My accent wasn’t too misunderstood – apart from being asked why I called everyone ‘man’ and why I said ‘like’ after every word – and we were able to communicate well enough.
I was a bit of a surprise to most of the kids though, judging by the number of puzzled looks I got when I referred to Hitler as “that feisty bloke with a dodgy moustache from Austria”, but I was confident they would get used to me. Most commented that they had never had a teacher that looked like me, and a few of the braver ones had asked if my eyelashes were really mine. I said yes; well, if I pay for the individual extensions it gives me ownership, right?
All in all, I judged it to be going well.
The time soon came for my specialist performing arts sessions, where I would meet the three members of ‘Destiny’s Delinquents’, as I had decided to call them. Looking at the files, they seemed okay. All fifteen to sixteen, all pretty, and all brimming with a bitchy attitude.
When I walked into the dance studio they were already sitting behind their desks, awaiting my arrival. As they caught sight of me, I could see faces react in curious surprise at not having the bald Shakespeare teacher they were expecting, but me, a curvy brunette dolled up to the nines. Got to love the impact of a hot-pink peplum dress on any occasion!
“Are you our new teacher?” asked one of the Motley Crew.
“I certainly am,” I confirmed, “and you are?”
“I’m Sarah Black,” she answered proudly.
“Ah, Sarah, yes. How are you today?”
“Okay I suppose. What’s your name?”
“I’m Ms. Munro.”
“Where are you from? You sound weird,” she laughed, trying her best to be condescending.
“I’m English, Sarah. That okay with you?” I asked, glaring at her over the top of the paperwork I was pretending to fill in.
“Well, err, yeah. I suppose,” she mumbled, hunching over the desk and looking at me warily.
Hard work? She just shat herself at my stern voice and Ice Queen cold stare!
“Okay, so who is Victoria York?” I asked, looking up at the other two girls.
A raised hand identified a thoroughly bored girl who looked like she wished that she was anywhere but there right then.
“Right, so that just leaves Boleyn Jones,” I said, pointing in the final Delinquent’s direction.
“Yep, that’s me,” she said moodily.
“Boleyn? I love that name. I’ve never heard it as a forename before. Are you named after Anne?”
“Yeah, I think so. I hate it,” she mumbled.
“Why? You were named after one of the most famous royals in English history. The mother to arguably the best monarch England has ever seen. I got to tell you, I love it. If you have any of the spark that your namesake did, you and I will get along just fine. And I promise that I won’t behead you if you do something wrong. How’s that sound?” I teased, gaining a little smirk and a shrug from her.
“Right, my little girl band, jump up and go to the costume closet. You have twenty minutes to put together the best Lady Gaga outfit I’ve ever seen. We are going to start with a themed movement class, and if we are dancing to Gaga you got to have a costume to match.”
“What?” they screamed in horrified unison.
“Off you go. Unless you want to spend your afternoon parading those outfits throughout the school...?” I threatened.
At that, they shot out of their chairs and to the closet, huffing and puffing all the way.
This was going to be a piece of cake!
Over the first term, my classes went from strength to strength, and my after-school performing arts group were gearing up to put on their production of Les Miserables. My Moody Triad were, well, less moody and more open to all things theatre. Even the timid Boleyn Jones was crawling out of her shell, and consequently making new friends and becoming a lovely young lady. She would be 'mainstreamed' in no time.
I had recruited Mandy Thomas to help cast the parts for the upcoming challenging musical. We were the Pop Idol panel of The Calgary School of Excellence, and I had appointed Mandy as our honorary Simon Cowell, due to her dangerously high-waisted trousers (power trousers, she called them) and the fact that when Jonathan from Grade Nine had auditioned with a rendition of One Direction’s ‘What Makes You Beautiful’, she had stopped him midway-through and told him he was ‘distinctly average’ and that he ‘should try a more feminine song to suit his mousey-type vocals’.
Cut. Throat. Honesty.
We were nearly done for the day, and I was slightly concerned that I had not managed to cast ‘Fantine’, the lead female role. The door to the studio creaked open as we were packing away our things, and Boleyn Jones came through hesitantly.
“Boleyn? Are you okay? Do you need to see me?” I questioned.
“Erm, kind of,” she replied, biting her bottom lip.
“Well, what is it, honey?” I implored.
“I… I would like to sing for you,” she stated in a hushed tone.
I stared at her, gobsmacked, “You want to sing? You want to audition? I didn’t know you could? You never have in class before,” I said with a shocked voice.
“I… I can a bit… I think. I just get scared I'm not good enough. Can I just let you hear, and if I’m bad you can just pretend I never did it?” She shuffled her feet nervously.
“Boleyn, I’m so proud that you would even audition, it takes guts. By simply doing this, it shows how far you've come in such a short time," I praised.
“Come on, Boleyn. Let’s see what you’ve got,” barked Mandy.
Boleyn put her iPhone into the speaker and stood centre stage, looking small and timid behind the microphone.
I recognised the song immediately; it was Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’. Mandy and I looked at each other and cringed. It was a tough song, even for the best and most seasoned of singers.
Boleyn moved to the mic and looked up, staring straight ahead – confidence transforming her face.
Wow.
Her voice was velvet. She began to sing, and from
her little mouth came the voice of an angel. It was breath-taking. Move over Charlotte Church!
Mandy dropped her pencil and grabbed my arm, her mouth hitting the floor. All I could do was stare – stare and listen. Stare as the shy, introverted girl was gone, transformed into the embodiment of confidence, owning the stage and captivating us, the audience. She was outstanding. I had never heard anything so beautiful.
Beside me, I heard sniffling, and saw the janitor had stopped her cleaning of the studio to watch with tears streaming down her cheeks, mesmerised by the timid little Boleyn girl lighting up the room.
I had found my Fantine, and Boleyn had found her passion, and by the looks of it, the key to her salvation. She looked so… happy.
The song ended and silence descended on the room. Boleyn, once again head-down and trembling, asked softly, “Ms. Munro, was that okay?”
I walked up to the stage, noticing that the whole time she was watching her shuffling feet. “Boleyn Jones. Where have you been hiding that? You were perfect. Look at me.”
She glanced up shyly.
“You were perfect,” I repeated in all sincerity. She smiled and whispered her thanks.
In my best X-Factor voice, I took her hand and shouted, “Boleyn, with two yeses, you are going through to boot camp! You are my top choice for Fantine!”
Three days later, I posted the cast list, and Boleyn suddenly found she had a new family of friends. Casts are always close, and The Calgary School of Excellence performance crew immediately took her under their protective wing. It was rewarding to see.
Later that afternoon after school, a knock on my classroom door interrupted me from the marking of a million essays on the Black Death that I had to get done by the next day.
As I opened the door, I was greeted by a fifty-something-year-old woman with dark brown hair and a kind smile.
“Ms. Munro?” she enquired.
