Chapter Two
The classroom door creaks in protest as it closes, but I’ve done it. I’ve officially survived my first week at a new school, in a new country, not to mention on a new continent. Pushing away from the wood, I resist the urge to dance around the room. Just as well as the door screeches open, Sadia, my classroom assistant, staggering into the room barely visible behind a tower of books.
‘Asif... I mean, sorry. The door . . .’ she apologises as I grab a few teetering copies from the top of her pile.
‘We’ll get the caretaker to look at it. It is a bit stiff.’
Placing the pile of books on a nearby desk, she slides an errant wisp of hair under her headscarf. ‘I will go now to him?’
‘No, next week’s fine.’
‘Then I will take the wowel verk for marking?’
‘The what?’
Sadia frowns, casting her gaze around the room almost as though she might find the answer to my confusion daubed on the walls. ‘Thewow-elwork,’ she says slowly, patiently. Like she’s talking to an idiot. While I stare back, probably looking like one. ‘Wowels; the a, the e, the i—’
‘Oh,vowels!You want to take the vowel worksheets home?’
‘Yes, verk-shit,’ she says, her frown deepening.
‘It totally is,’ I reply, struggling to keep my composure. ‘But it pays the bills. Sorry, of course that’s what you meant,’ I add quickly. ‘We’ll catch up next week. No reason you should work on your weekend. You can... leave now, if you want?’
She flushes pink, discomfited, murmuring something about a taxi, her head moving as though independent of her neck. I find myself mirroring her actions before stopping. Rather than exotic, I probably look stupid. Really stupid.
‘Yeah, go. Whenever.’ Feeling a little awkward, not to mention ungracious, I add, ‘Thanks for your help this week.’
My first week has passed by so quickly, and in part, thanks to her. I love being a teacher but after a few years in the profession, I’d become tired. Dissatisfied. Just a little over it.Over oversized classes, over feeling overworked.But one week into my new position and I’ll admit to being seduced by a class capped at twentyanda full time assistant, even if said assistant’s English is a little funky.
Sadia’s cheeks flush once more, this time with pleasure. Ducking her head, she straightens the scarf covering her hair as she murmurs a quietmost welcome.
She leaves the problematic door open, the courtyard beyond seeming to almost quiver in the heat. The campus is pretty big, but I’m slowly finding my way around. There’s apparently a boys’ school nearby identical to this, and I wonder if it’s just the building or if the set-up’s the same.Are their staff all male?I smother the thought in a heartbeat. So not going there, in either sense. I hardly need a paperback shrink to tell me I’m not ready for that.
My heels echo in the quiet of the room. Classrooms can be pretty sad places at the start of a new school year, unadorned and absent of the children’s creations usually displayed with pride. As much of my own classroom resources are still in another country, I’d decided to delay my own cab for a later pick-up to see if I couldn’t spruce the place up a bit with what I’d managed to find. It’s fair to say I have big plans for the place, beginning with designating a reading area that’ll be the envy of the grade. All I need to do now is hang the pink-sequined mosquito net I’d spotted while out with Niamh this weekend, thus defining a space for the sanctuary of the written word.
In other words, diversionary tactics: look, pretty pink sparkles—now sit quietly and read!
After dragging in a ladder from the store cupboard, I leave the door open. It’s still blisteringly hot and humid outside despite the late afternoon hour, but a whole day in the frigid air conditioning has my bones aching for a little natural warmth. A sudden scent of frangipani on the scant, warm breeze reminds me of home, and as I stand in the doorway, memories I’ve tried hard to suppress play out in my mind, frame by reluctant frame.
Shane stands in the doorway, murmuring endearments into his phone.
Clearly, it’s not me on the other end of the line.
The thoughts, dark and bitter, cause my stomach to coil. I’ve been through the stages: sadness, anger, denial. And I’ve bought the bloody books, before finally reaching a place of acceptance. I accept that my ex-fiancé is a whore.
‘She’s a stripper for fuck’s sakes. It’s a bucks’ night thing!’
An absolute whore.
Shuddering at the memory, I wrap my arms around my elbows and force myself back to now. Music. That’s what I need, that and a bucket-sized glass of red, but first things first. Flipping open my laptop, I select a random playlist, Gossip’sHeavy Crossangry-girl music filling the room. I begin to sway realising that this song could actually be my personal anthem—I’m determined to move in the right direction.
My spirits lift as I dance like there’s no one watching because, well, there isn’t. Always a little self-conscious on the dance floor, I relish any opportunity to get my groove on alone—sad but true—but a lot less daggy than the air guitar . . . not that this stops me from strumming a few riffs. I let the stompingly good lyrics of strength and defiance fill me as I lift a foot onto the first rung of the ladder, mozzie net and hammer tucked firmly under my arms, picture hooks dangling like broken teeth between my lips.
Humming still, I climb as high as my nerves and heels allow, reaching toward the ceiling. Footwear notwithstanding, I manage to bash a hook into submission, achieving my goal as the bright pink fabric falls to the ground in luxurious folds.
In retrospect, I probably should have ditched my heels at the foot of the ladder, but clearly too busy dancing like a loon, I find myself balanced almost at the very top. Still, a person of my stature needs all the help she can get, and as someone short and smart once said, the higher the heel, the closer to heaven I am. I snort at the thought... just as the toe of my shoe glides past the aimed for rung.
Shit.
