Eternally North (6 page)

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.

“Yes, please come in.
Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Mrs
Nor–,… erm I mean Mrs. Jones.” she announced, a little
flustered.

“Oh, you must be
Boleyn’s mother?” I asked, shaking her hand.

“Yes. I really just
wanted to come and see you and meet the woman who is changing my
daughter’s life,” she said, smiling.

“Excuse me, I don’t
understand. You mean me?” I questioned, shocked.

“Ms. Munro, since you
came to this school and started working with her she is a completely
different person. She smiles. She’s happy, she sings all day, and I
didn’t even know she
could
sing.

“Boleyn doesn’t
have an easy time at home, and has to live an unusual and, let’s
say,
unique
life. She moved against her wishes to Calgary two
years ago, and has been in two schools already, and hasn’t
responded to anyone as she has done to you,” she announced kindly,
with a face full of gratitude.

With a lump in my
throat I replied, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you. That’s
the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” I confided.

Getting up, Pamela took
my hand again and pulled me in for a hug. “I know it may be your
job, but it's her life and it's got a whole lot better since you came
along,” she flattered, patting my hand.

With that, she turned
and walked out of the studio. I waited two minutes, and then began
shimmying around my classroom with ‘Spice Up Your Life’ playing
in my head. I grabbed my bag, and decided to ditch the rest of the
marking; this called for a hot tub celebration!

As I headed to the
door, I punched a
Breakfast Club
-style arm up in the air, and
with a loud shout of,
“She shoots, she scores!”
ran to my
Smart car, eager to tell all to the other Oink Fairy.

Les Miserables
was shaping up to be the best production I had ever put on, and I
couldn’t have been happier, but the stupidly long hours and huge
pressure made me look forward to the October break like I’d never
looked forward to a holiday before.

With only getting a
week off school, I had decided not to go home for a visit – it took
me four bloomin’ days to beat the jet-lag anyhow – so I planned
to have a nice chill-out week in Calgary, all kicked off with a night
on the razz with Tink.

I arrived home at five
o’clock after finishing some paperwork, and I was excited as hell
for a good night of drinking. Tink was at the restaurant and wouldn’t
finish until ten that night, and I was to meet him there, prepped and
ready to go.

In true Geordie style,
the beauty regime had started the previous night with a soak in the
bath for about an hour, using a good exfoliating brush to get my skin
as smooth as Bruce Willis’ head. I’d then applied fake tan, a
Natasha Munro-trademark three times, to make sure I was totally
tan-tastic, although the outside observer may say that I resembled a
recently creosoted fence. Yes, my sheets were completely ruined, but
vanity costs, people!

So, the perfect
night-out colour achieved and a large glass of pinot grigio in hand,
I concentrated on meticulously curling both my hair and my 18-inch
clip-in hair extensions; applying lots of helpings of bronzer; gluing
two layers of fabulous strip lashes firmly in place (anymore and your
eyelids will struggle to function, believe me); sticking on nails
like talons; adding a thick coat of scarlet red lipstick; and
finally, whacking on the shortest dress I owned and the highest
sky-scraper heels you can imagine! I was good to go.

Looking at the clock
and feeling a little bit tipsy from the wine and obligatory few
cheeky sips of sambuca I had consumed, I realised that it was only
just eight in the evening and that I was two hours early. After
twiddling my thumbs and searching for something to do, I decided I’d
go to the restaurant early and hang out in the back with the staff. I
quickly called a cab, and fifteen minutes later arrived at a very
busy Ristorante Girasoli.

In the months that we
had been in Calgary, I had been to the restaurant more times than I
could count. I always used the staff entrance, as they all hung out
there when things were quiet or when the wait staff were on their
scheduled breaks. There was always someone to talk to and always
music playing, with each staff member rotating their iPhone playlists
– although the back room was always a lot quieter on Tink’s
playlist night –
funny, hmm?

The best thing was that
you could have a laugh and talk without the patrons seeing you. Tink
had truly landed on his feet working there, and he knew it too. The
Italian contingent of Calgary were some of the nicest people we had
met since we had moved. I had become a bit of a permanent fixture on
weekend nights, always showing up to neck a grappa or two just before
closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.

I swung open the back
door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’
tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this
was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’
coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began
bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of
servers.

As the chorus kicked in
I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction,
who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In
hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would
usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him.
However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over
his throat.
Mmm, strange.
But in my alcohol-addled brain, I
thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity
and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding
routine.

When I made it to the
group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began
dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync
with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she
missed him
‘so, so bad’
.

When I looked up, I saw
several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing
down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight,
Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.