Page 7 of Even Werewolves Learn

Not being able to do whatever I want whenever I want, right before I have to be “in character” to start teaching, is already hard enough happening once.

I don’t think I’ll be able to take it if it’s like this all year long.

And so I try not to think about it as I call the names of my new students. With each name that passes, I wonder if they’re human or shifter, and I know it’s wrong of me to ask myself this, but I can’t help myself. I wasn’t given a list stating if my students are humans or otherwise, and except for the male who decided my classroom was his before class, I have no idea who is what.

I know it’s probably so I don’t act differently with them, but I’m pretty sure it’s also David’s idea to keep us in the dark. He probably thinks there are more chances for us to mess up if we don’t know who’s a shifter.

The joke’s on him, though, because I treat all of my students the same way.

Even when they unsettle me.

Even when I can feel their eyes on me while I call each of the students’ names.

Even when they smirk at me when I call their name—Louis Dumont.

I will not let it be seen that this unassuming name makes me feel something dangerous.

I will not.

“Good afternoon, class. I’m Miss Jardin. I’ll be your French teacher this year. You were sent files with the content of the year’s lessons. Don’t get scared by the size of it. It covers more than a year in case some of you make faster progress. If anyone didn’t get the files, please let me know,” I say before taking a pause.

Unless someone didn’t give the right email at registration, everyone should have the files. I made sure of it myself a week ago.

“I don’t,” Louis says as he raises his hand nonchalantly.

Of course, if one was missing something, it had to be him.

“For today you should be okay. All the lessons are already stored on your desk, but come after class so we can check the email you provided at registration,” I tell him like it’s nothing.

I take a deep breath and walk to the writing screen before looking at the class.

“I need to evaluate your level in French. Some of you might have a base understanding without knowing. Some others might need to start from scratch. So turn on your desk screen and open the file called Evaluation initiale. The marks for this test won’t go toward your yearly ratings. They’re purely informative for me, so don’t worry about not knowing anything. It’s a totally normal thing if you’re starting from scratch. I’ll adapt the level of exercises we do to each of you based on the tests.”

I hear a few groans in the room.

Yes, I know. No one likes starting the year with an evaluation.

But to date, that’s the best way I've found to be able to actually make it work for everyone.

“Hurry up,” I tell them when I see that only a couple of students have switched on their desks. “You have thirty minutes, and then you can go for today.”

I look at the time on the vintage clock on the wall. It’ll make them get out fifteen minutes early if they respect the timing—which I know is often not the case—and then I’ll be able to breathe again before my next class.

The next hour will be with the third year: a smaller class that is almost completely fluent. An easy class.

But that’s not why I need to breathe.

Louis’s presence has been rattling my pre-established schedule, and I don’t do well with inconveniences.

I need a couple of minutes to “recalibrate” before the next class.

They all start their tests, and I should be able to relax while they do, but I can’t.

I switch on my own desk and click on my email to see if anything arrived. It’s blessedly empty. Which makes me wonder if my interweb is working, because knowing David, I’m surprised he hasn’t sent an email already to unsettle me in the middle of this new class.

But that’s not why I can’t relax.

No, the reason I can’t relax is due to the fact I can feel eyes stuck on my person even without looking up.