Eternally North (5 page)

“No problem, my
Canadian ham sandwich. It’s probably more for me than you anyway!”
he winked teasingly, lowering me back to my feet.

“Ha! Probably! What a
bloody big hot tub,” I commented, staring in fascination at the
neon UV lights flickering below the surface.

“Well, I plan on
entertaining…
A LOT
, so thought I’d make plenty of room. So
many Canadians and so little time!” he sighed dreamily, staring at
his new toy.

“Ewww, invest in a
good water filter, please. God knows what I could catch after you and
your ‘friends’ have ‘relaxed’!” I said, turning up my nose.

“Hey! Give me some
credit. You know my motto, Wil,” he trilled, looking and pointing
at me to give him an answer.

“Yes, unfortunately I do:

‘
If a lad should catch my eye,

Enough to say ‘howay, way aye’,

Play it safe, just in case,

And sheathe it tight, from tip to base!’

“Ugh, I hate saying
that!” I exclaimed with a shiver, even though I’d delivered
Tink’s charming ditty with the accompanying actions of bending an
imaginary person over doggie-style and repeatedly slapping their
arse.

“Well, none of my
precious baby batter will be floating by your head as you relax with
a daiquiri, okay, sausage?” assured Tink.

“Erm… yeah thanks,
chuck,” I replied, trying to move the conversation on.

We walked to the edge
of the balcony, and looked over at the hustle and bustle of a new and
exciting city.

Tink put an arm around
me and asked, “Are you happy, Wil?”

I turned to my slightly
vulgar but always loveable BFF and declared, “You know, I genuinely
am. I’m so unbelievably excited for this new chapter in our lives,
and to be doing it with you is the icing on the cake,” I said,
cuddling into the nook under his arm.

Sighing deeply, he
kissed my forehead, and said, “Love you, Wil. Always have, always
will.”

Smiling, I answered
back. “You too, chuck. Always have, and always will.”

“Honestly, you’re
my soul mate. It’s such a bugger that you don’t have a nice big
juicy dick.”

Shaking my head, I
retorted, “Yeah, but I’m happy with what I’ve got, thanks. But
speaking of big dicks, aren’t you expecting company of the
glorified-waitress variety?”

Chuckling, he glanced
at his Rolex. “Yep, in twenty minutes.”

“On that note, I’m
going to unpack and catch a few Zs… I’m goosey-goosed!”

After unpacking and
sorting out my whopping big new bedroom, I climbed into my California
King sporting 1000 thread count sheets, and had drifted off to sleep
before my head had even hit the pillow.

Tink arrived back after
a few hours, and, being a good boy, returned alone; he may talk like
a two-bit dollar whore, but he does have some morals. Well, most of
the time anyway. It seemed the lights of downtown Calgary could wait
– he was too excited to try out his new Jacuzzi.

Hearing him fire up the
bubbles, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my favourite red polka dot
one-piece, and we wasted the evening knocking back the champers
provided by Suzy and singing to the Britney back-catalogue.

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 cannot 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!”

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?