Drew’s hand on my arm.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Ex-boyfriend?” Drew asks.
“God, no.” I frown. “Guy I met yesterday.”
“Well, then I’m glad I met you today, so I get the privilege of sitting with you. What year are you?”
But I don’t get a chance to answer because our professor walks in, plopping a leather satchel on her desk and clapping her hands.
If I didn’t know better, I’d be willing to bet Jed’s signed Sammy Sosa baseball cards that Audrey Tautou, French actress and star of my favorite movie, Amélie, is my French professor. Suddenly I don’t care about Zeke’s hand and the redhead’s coy laughter, or even the slightly uncomfortable feeling of Drew’s hand still on my arm, his faint, stale breath I can’t help but notice because he’s sitting about a foot closer to me than I’m comfortable with. In her black-and-white crisp sundress, red sandals, and bright matching nails, my French professor might be my dream grown-up. Move aside, Alice Tremberly, Madame Joliet is my new spirit animal.
“Voilà, bonjour à tous! Welcome, everyone. Je suis vraiment heureuse que vous êtes ici. On va passer deux mois ensemble.”
Her voice is cheerful, like she’s inserting a smile between the letters one at a time as she scans the room. And though she does appear to be genuine in her excitement for us to spend the next two months together, it can’t possibly be more than I am.
“Did anyone have a hard time understanding what I said just now? Was I too quick for anyone?” Her English is only slightly accented.
Redhead raises her hand, giggling slightly. Madame Joliet strolls over to her, a piece of paper in her hand. “Your name, dear?”
“I’m Stephie Shaw. I’m not technically registered for this class but I was supposed to be in Spanish, and I thought it might be more fun to take French. Since I’ve never taken it before?” She glances over at Zeke beside her, and he grins back.
I want to hurl.
“Well, Stephie.” Madame Joliet smiles, the name sounding ten times more elegant when she pronounces it. “I’m sure the French department would love to have you as a student. This class, however, is an intermediate-level class, which means you need a solid knowledge of French in order to participate. Why don’t you go over to the Modern Languages office on the ground floor and inquire as to whether there are still places in Beginning French?”
Stephie’s smile falters, and she looks over at Zeke as though there’s a chance he might be able to intercede. Oh no, Madame, perhaps she thinks he’ll say in his all-powerful Greek god way, while Stephie speaks no French at all, she can absolutely handle this intermediate French class. I will tutor her. I will spend every day and every night speaking with her in French, in bed and out.
I’m so caught up in my daydream that I miss Stephie’s exit, and only catch up when the wooden classroom door bangs shut.
“Bien. What I’d like to ask you to do,” Madame Joliet begins in a slightly more rapid-paced French, “is write a few sentences about yourself that you’d like me to know. Where you’re from, what you’re studying during the year, why you wanted to be in this class. Where you learned French. It’s not a test. I’m not grading you. I just want to know a bit more about you. D’accord?”
We all nod. I grab a sheet from my notebook, my stomach turning. What if my French isn’t good enough? What if I get bumped down to Beginning French with Stephie?
The anxiety that races through me as I carefully write my name at the top of the page makes it such that I don’t even notice that Madame Joliet has come to stand in front of my desk. With Zeke.
“Can we speak outside pour un moment?” she asks, her words flowing between the two languages. I glance over at Drew but Madame Joliet is only looking at me.
I nod. “Should I—” Merde. Should I be speaking in French? “Devrais-je prendre . . .” and then I just point at my bag, and she shakes her head.
“It’ll be just a minute.”
She swings open the door, and I meet Zeke’s eyes, which are just as confused as mine. Could this be about the coffee? But then why Zeke and not Drew?
Madame Joliet bites the edge of her lip but stays silent until the door is closed behind her. It’s only then that I realize that she has two stapled packets, one with