I try to be quiet and not interrupt Madame Labelle, so I put the late pass on her desk and slide into the first chair I see. It's only after I sit down that I see Heather is next to me. I didn't even know she was in my French class. She gives me a quick glance, but she's paying attention to Madame Labelle. I think she's still mad. But then I think, Maybe she's not mad, maybe she's just a good student.
Madame Labelle is speaking in French. She told us yesterday that the best way to learn a language is to hear it spoken, but that seems backward to me. It would make more sense for the learning part to come first. I admit, it sounds nice—kind of singsong, like the way you talk to a pet—but I doubt I'll ever catch on to what any of it means.
Heather is still paying attention, but every few seconds she looks down at her desk. I see that she's drawing something. It's in pencil. I watch her scritch and scratch on the pad, but I can't make out what she's sketching.
Madame Labelle is tall and thin and she's wearing a short, sleeveless dress, so you can see how muscly her arms and legs are. She has on green high heels, and they click on the checkered tan-and-brown tile. She does this thing where after every sentence she turns on one pointy heel and clicks off in a completely new direction. Usually she turns on a brown tile, but sometimes on a tan one. She clicks to the left. She clicks to the right.
When she starts clicking my way, I realize I'm in trouble.
Madame Labelle is looking at me and she's waiting for me to say something. After a few seconds, she taps her ear and says a word that sounds like Ay cootay and then she turns to a boy named Gregory, who says something like "Germ lapel Gregory."
Then she turns to Heather, who is hiding her notepad on her lap, under the desk. Heather says, "Germ lapel Heather."
So then Madame Labelle looks back at me and even I can figure out what I'm supposed to do. "Germ lapel Joseph," I say. Madame Labelle gives me one of those warning smiles that aren't really smiles at all, and clicks off to the front of the room, where she turns her back to us and starts to write on the whiteboard.
I start to copy what she's writing, but it's hard when the letters seem randomly lined up and apostrophes are flying all over the place. Then I hear a thunk and I look down to see that Heather's notepad has slid off her lap. It lands in the aisle between us. Madame Labelle hardly even glances over her shoulder. Since it's coming from my general direction, she probably assumes it's just me being my usual clumsy self.
When I lean over to pick up the notepad, I see what Heather's been drawing. It's Madame Labelle, but she's a frog, with long muscly legs and high heels. I try not to laugh as I hand it back to Heather. She takes it without looking at me, puts it back on her lap, and gets back to copying down what Madame Labelle is writing: "Je m'appelle ..." and then, "Comment t'appelles-tu?" I copy it as well as I can. My mom took French, and she works at Maison, which is a French name, so I figure I can ask her what it means later.
The rest of the period goes by in a blur of gargled "r"s and puckered "ooh"s, and when the bell rings, I run after Heather.
"Heather, wait up," I call out, trying to sound like we're old friends.
She stops and turns.
"You draw really well," I add.
Heather shrugs. "I got in the habit at my old school," she explains, "when I got bored in class."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," I say, even though boredom isn't really my main problem. "You should draw Mr. Tompkins. The principal. He looks like a walrus."
"He might be more manatee than walrus," she says. "You can't jump to conclusions. You have to study someone to know for sure."
As she's talking, I feel like she's studying me that way. I wonder if she notices how my backpack is riding low on my back, weighted down with Get in Shape, Boys! Or how my sweatshirt doesn't have buttons or a zipper, because I only wear buttons or a zipper if I absolutely have to. I wonder what animal she'd draw me as. After this morning, probably some annoying insect or a monkey. I hope I'm not a monkey.
Maybe it's not too late to change her mind. "I'm sorry about before," I say. "About not believing you. I bet she's a really good athlete. That girl you told me about. I mean, she'd have to be, right? If she won a medal?"
"A gold medal," she says.
"Right," I say. "I thought you were tricking me. A lot of people do that here."
"That's mean," she says. "To trick somebody."
"That's why they do it," I say.
She's studying me even harder now. She stares at me for what seems like a whole minute, then she gets a kind of half smile on her face, like she's made up her mind. Like she's decided that I'm some kind of furry, harmless creature. A gerbil, maybe. Or a hamster.
"We had a walrus type in Cherryfield," she says. "Mr. Sammell. I drew every teacher like ten times. Cherryfield is pretty small."
"Smaller than Lakeview?"
"Way smaller. My mom grew up there. She was Blueberry Princess three years in a row." I can't tell if she's proud of that or not. It sounds more like one of those things you've heard your parents say a million times and now it's just annoying.
"There isn't an anything princess here, is there?" she asks me.
"No."
"And Lakeview isn't the anything capital of the world?"
"I don't think so."
She nods. Then she says, "So, you going to the track meeting later?"
"Um, yeah. Sure," I answer, trying to sound like it was never in doubt.
"Okay. See you there," she says, starting down the hallway.
"Wait," I call after her. "What was her name again? The Olympics person?"
"Stephanie Brown Trafton," she calls back, "Beijing 2008 Summer Olympics, gold medal in discus, two hundred and twelve feet, five inches." Then she breaks into a trot, and just like on the track this morning, she's gone.
