Page 5 of Two-Step
My friends double over, and I cling to the rush it gives me as I face my doom.
Chapter Two
BEAU
“Besure that you know the passé composé for all the verbs we’ve studied, not just the irregular ones.” I look over the sea of faces and find two prevailing expressions: disinterest and disgust.
“But why can’t we be exempt if we have an A?”
Of course, Erin Van Buren is the one to mount a challenge. She has the third highest grade in the class, but she thinks she has the second. Erin knows she’s trailing behind Charlie Stockstill by just one point, but neither she nor Charlie knows that Greta Richard is at the top of the class.
Because Greta doesn’t boast. She’s also one of the few in the classroom who isn’t giving me a death stare.
“Parce que, Madame Van Buren, Je n’exempt pas.”Fortunately, judging by the looks on their faces, most of the class understands. And they should. This is French II. And it’s May. A fully immersed class is the way I’d like to teach, but here, at Northside High School, I’d lose most of my students. Even at the end of the year, I still have to translate for half of them. “I don’t exempt.”
“But,Monsieur Landry,that’s not fair,” Erin protests, straining forward in her desk. “Some of us have worked really hard.”
I shrug.“Mostof you have worked really hard.Allof you are taking the exam.”
A groan rumbles through the room, but from the back corner, I see that unassuming Greta Richard is wearing the slightest of smiles. She loves French. I don’t have to ask her to know that shewantsto take the final exam. She wants to answer any question I could ask of her to prove that she has mastered everything we have covered. She doesn’t have to take French III next year, but she will.
And with any luck, I’ll get to teach her again her senior year in my AP class.
I know all of this because I recognize that self-satisfied smile. It’s the same one I’d wear every time I answered a question in French, or took a French test, or, the best ever, woke up after dreaming in French with the knowledge that I had achieved fluency.
“Madame Richard, êtes-vous prêt à passer l’examen?”
Greta keeps her smile in check.“Oui, Monsieur, je suis prêt.”
Yeah, I could exempt her. And Erin. And Charlie. And half a dozen others. But where would the fun be in that? Grading their finals will be the reward after a long and, honestly, shitty year.
Grading their exams will remind me that even though most things get worse, sometimes things—skills, circumstances, even people—get better.
The bell rings, and my students bolt from their seats like they’re electrified.
“Étudiez. A lundi. Bon weekend.”
En masse, they scrape books off their desks and crowd the door, eager to leave even if they aren’t eager for their next class.
Fourth hour is right before lunch, and I have Paula Gill, my department head, to thank that it’s also my off-hour. So, like I do every Wednesday and Friday after third period, I tuck my laptop and gradebook into my satchel, lock the classroom door, and head to Camelia Court.
I have my pick of parking spots, but instead of parking close to the entrance, I stop in the shade of the live oaks at the corner of the lot.
It’s hot, and while I’m here, the car will get hotter, and I don’t want to get back for fifth hour with pit stains.
“Morning, Beau,” Rosie greets me from behind the sign-in desk. But she isn’t smiling, so I know it’s been a rough morning.
Damn.
“Gina okay?”
She wrinkles her nose. “She’s been asking for Grant again. Thought I should warn you.”
I scribble my signature in the guestbook. “Thanks, Rosie.” And then I’m headed down the east hallway.
The door to Room 172 is open, and I can hear the TV from the hall. I hesitate for just a moment until I catch Mikhail Baryshnikov’s accent and sigh in relief.White Nights.The coast is clear.
I wrap my knuckles on the door frame, and Mom looks up from her spot on her loveseat. A smile breaks over her face. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
