But the girl is not something I can put in my closet. At least, not without committing some sort of felony. As I approach my chair in the very back of the room, I try to avoid looking her in the eyes, but I can’t help but notice how very, very green they are. My heart gives an involuntary burst of staccato beats when the skin between her eyes crinkle in question at my looming presence. My fingers practically itch from the need to collect this new information, and I need her out of my chair so I can sit and get in a few minutes of writing before the pain that is French class begins.
“This is my seat,” I say, and wince a little inwardly at the harshness of my voice. “Sorry.”
She blinks her giant eyes at me, and I will myself to focus on something, anything that’s wrong with her, instead of how absolutely perfect she is. The way the light from the window catches the honey undertones in her light hair. The delicate curve of her nose above two very red lips, one of which is pulled underneath a set of very straight white teeth.
I finally settle on her left earlobe. It’s slightly larger than her right one.
“I didn’t know there were assigned seats,” she says, and with seven small words, delivered in an unexpected and silky French accent, I realize I’ll need more than an abnormally large earlobe to ignore this girl.
“There’s not, I mean, not really, but I always sit here so that Madame Dupuis doesn’t call one me and—” I stop, literally biting my tongue to keep from saying anything else. My mouth has never run away like that before. Words are my domain, and I have total control of them in all situations. Except this one, apparently. I take a deep breath, remembering that this is exactly why I instituted the no-girls rule for the next three months. Distractions in the form of imperfect earlobes and perfect green eyes that make me lose my words are the last thing I need right now.
“As a new student, it’s probably better if you’re up front,” I say finally, and she frowns.
“Is it that obvious I’m new?” She sounds sad, her words barely above a whisper, making her accent slightly less prominent. I just shrug, not trusting my mouth anymore.
“Magnifique!” I hear a voice next to me, and it’s Madame Dupuis, who looks delighted to see us talking, a reversal of her usual strict no pre-class chatter policy. “Zara, c’est l’élève que tu vas aider ce semestre.”
I turn to look at Madame Dupuis, my eyes going wide at the words “student” and “help” that she just said.
“I don’t need any help.” I am not looking at the girl, whose features I’ve practically memorized by now. And immortalized in a story.
I’m halfway through writing another when my attention snaps back to the present by Madame Dupuis. “Monsieur Navarre, a word, please?” She says it in English and tilts her head to the front. I make my way through the desks of students flipping through their notebooks, looking for hints at what she might possibly have prepared for us in terms of pop quizzes. She’s notorious for bringing up random verbs and conjunctions she taught only once.
We get to her desk, and she turns slightly away from the room, her voice low.
“Your grades last semester were not particularly good,” she says, and I nod. I know this already. Hence the back of the room seat to avoid as much public humiliation as possible. “Shelfbrooke has a very high standard for its graduates.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. Considering all the money my family has poured into this place, I highly doubt I wouldn’t be able to graduate because of a low grade in French.
“I have been speaking with Monsieur Marcade.” Her mouth turns down at the corners with a small shake of her head. “And we’d like to see a more balanced approach to your studies.”
“What are you saying?” Not that I ever have any idea what she’s saying to begin with, but now she was actually speaking my language, and I was still lost. But her mention of Mr. Marcade sends a prickling anxiety up my neck.
“He has decided to institute a new rule this year. You will not be allowed to participate in the Navarre competition if your French grade does not improve.”
“What?” I shriek, and I can practically hear all the eyes in the room bore into me. I glare at everyone and they go back to studying their books in a mild panic. The Navarre name still means something to them, at least. “You can’t do that.”
“Monsieur Navarre, the school may impose whatever rules it deems necessary to maintain the educational standards parents have come to expect.”
She gives me a look, and my stomach drops in understanding. It’s my father. It has to be. Taking Latin was never enough for him. He always wanted me to take a “living” language as he called it. I never understood why, since he and I both write in English. His own Spanish is terrible, our vacations to Spain painfully awkward as I watch him struggle to order us food. But the locals are always patient with the great Humphrey Navarre, telling him how good he is, so he thinks he’s better than he is. I labor under no such illusions. I know I’m terrible. And I don’t really care.
Except apparently now I do need to care.
“So I need a tutor?” I say, and glance at the back to where Zara has her head down, writing something in a notebook.
“Yes. She’s an exchange student from France along with two others. It’s highly unusual for us to allow new students this late in the year, so part of the exchange involves her and the others providing French tutoring for those students who require additional support.”
I have no idea if this is true, though the exchange student part is obviously real. I wouldn’t put it past my father to have hired some cute French actress to pretend to go to school here, just to get me interested in the language.
I take a seat in the front, determined to do well in this class on my own, but I know Madame Dupuis won’t change her mind. If I want a shot at winning the Navarre competition, then I need to spend time with the one person who could make me lose it.
Chapter Nine
Zara
When I heard about the tutoring my parents had arranged for me to do, I thought I’d be quizzing first-year students on how to ask “où est la bibliothèque?” But now it turns out I’ll be dealing with Rex, who, in just a few short interactions, has proved himself to be the most egotistical, annoying, frustratingly handsome guy I’ve ever met. I suppose this is the kind of langue anglaise my sister had in mind for me to practice with.
When I ask—beg, really—Madame Dupuis to change her mind, it turns out there is no way out of this. It’s the only way to get a grade for the semester. They don’t have room in any of the other language classes, and it’s not like they can make a class just for the three of us. She lays it out as simply as possible: I’ll have to tutor Rex or fail French. I can only imagine what kind of reaction my parents would have to that. Sent away to work on my English and can’t even pass French.
With a brief exchange at the end of class, Rex and I agree to meet in the senior’s study room at the end of classes the next day. I spend hours that night complaining to Rosalie and Maria about it, but all they do is reassure me I can do it. Ha! Not likely. They’re tutoring happy looking second year students, both girls, and both eager to learn.
So now I’m spending my first Friday evening sitting across from Rex in the study room, our knees nearly touching beneath the tiny table. The room really is more for sitting than studying, dotted with cozy armchairs and side tables with space for nothing bigger than a tray of tea. I wonder why he suggested meeting here, but a quick glance around the deserted room makes it clear. He doesn’t want to be seen with me.
I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but it stings a little. Everyone else at the school hasn’t been able to stop staring at Rosalie, Maria, and me since we arrived, but Rex manages to avoid looking at me, even as we’re sitting at the same tiny table.
“Can we make this quick?” he says, his pen tapping out a nervous rhythm against his notebook in tandem with a jiggling foot. “I have to get back to studying.”
“This is studying,” I say,
making sure each word is pronounced as perfectly as I can manage. The combination of needing to appear knowledgeable in front of him while also irritated with him makes my hands sweat. I place them softly on my legs and smooth down the skirt of my ridiculous uniform.
“I mean studying important things,” he says.
A wave of anger starts to rise in me. “Something more important than one of the most widely spoken languages in the world?”
He rolls his eyes. “After English.”
“Before English in some circles.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And you’re the expert, I suppose?”
I want to smack the skeptical look right off his gorgeous face. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. He clearly thinks that I’m not the right person for this. I know I’m not the right person, but I’ll be damned if I let someone so arrogant agree with me.
“As the international language of diplomacy, it’s the only language other than English and the host country’s language that’s spoken at the Olympics. And while your precious Shakespeare was still trying to string two words together, nearly the entire world’s population was speaking French.”
He frowns at this, taking it all in. “Have you read much Shakespeare?” he asks, tilting his head to the side in an absurdly adorable way I try to ignore.
I shrug in response to his question, unsettled by the change in topic.
“Just Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. I’m in the middle of reading King Lear right now.”
“For class?” His eyes go wide.
I hesitate. Letting him know I’m working on the Navarre Prize seems dangerous. Would he make fun of me? From the way his friends were talking the other day, he’s obviously expecting to win.
“For the Navarre Prize,” I say, deciding to borrow a little of Maria’s boldness. I shake my hair back and hold my head up high. I have just as much a right to participate as he does. All seniors are eligible.
His face pales just a touch and I wonder if he’s scared. He shouldn’t be though. There’s no way I can win it, not against someone like him. I didn’t recognize the name at first, but his dad is one of my mother’s favorite authors. She reads the original English versions, of course.
“Well, good luck to you,” he says with narrowed eyes. I swallow, hard, my boldness quickly replaced by cold doubt.
“You cut your hair,” I say, changing the subject. The long floppy blond tresses are now shorn short, and he runs a hand through it with a frown.
“I let it grow out over break. The dean doesn’t like to see it long on guys. But it’s better this way.”
“Why?” He’s just as attractive with it like this, to be sure, but I don’t think that’s what he means.
“Less time getting ready, more time for writing.”
Woah, and here I thought he was just giving up flirting for a few months. What else has he done to optimize his chances? He’s very serious about all of this.
But I’m serious about getting back to France.
“Is it true the prize is named after your great-grandfather?” I ask.
“Is this really what we’re supposed to be doing during these tutoring sessions?” he says, crossing his arms. “Talking about my hair and my family?”
I roll my eyes and repeat the question in French. Fine, if he doesn’t want to play nice, neither will I.
“Oui,” he says, a cocky grin on his perfect face. I wait to see if there’s more, but there isn’t, just more smirking.
“I guess everyone in your family expects you to win?” I ask right away in French, and I can’t help but enjoy watching him squirm a little.
“Oui,” he says, the cocky grin remaining in place.
“You want to be a writer like your dad?”
“Oui.”
I pucker my mouth in irritation. “Why?”
The smirk disappears from his face. His eyes dart around the room, as if the answers are hanging in the air, waiting to be plucked out like cherries.
“Because...it’s very...sensitive,” he says slowly, as if he’s pulling each French word from the absolute depths of his brain.
“Sensible,” I correct.
He scowls.
“Can’t we start with conjugation flashcards or something?” he asks in English. The pain I see in his eyes stirs something in my heart. A twinge of guilt, probably, for pushing him so hard so quickly.
I shake my head.
“The best way to learn is to do it yourself,” I say in French. “My parents told me the same thing before I got on the plane.”
“Yeah but you have your friends here with you.” He crosses his arms as he replies in English. His comprehension is fine, then, he just refuses to speak it. “You’re not actually doing it yourself.”
I roll my eyes and scoff.
“Pretty sure I’m the one sitting here in this horrible uniform eating gigantic pieces of steak for dinner all by myself.”
He blinks. “What’s wrong with our steaks?”
I shake my head. I’m here to teach him the French language, not the entire French culture. It relies so heavily on food, there’s no way he could understand. If he even wants to understand.
“Well, whatever you’re eating, you’re not doing it alone. Rosalie and Maria came with you,” he says.
“Of course they came with me. They’d do anything for me. And I asked them to come.”
“Because you can’t do it yourself.” He tries this one in French, repeating some of the words I just used.
“Because I don’t have to. Why refuse the support of those I love when it only makes me stronger?”
He frowns, as if he’s never heard of such a thing. I heave a huge sigh to let him know just how irritating he’s being.
“Let’s review verbs then,” I say in English, and pull out some flashcards I borrowed from Madame Dupuis. His shoulders relax, and we spend the next twenty minutes speaking only of things related to what’s likely to come up on the next quiz.
Which, thankfully, will be written, not oral. His accent is horrible, and he’s pretty hopeless at conjugating on the spot. But when he takes a minute to think about it, rather than blurt out the first thing that pops into his mind, he gets it right. And there’s something about the way his clumsy lips curl around each unfamiliar sound that’s mildly intoxicating. There’s no way I sound this adorable when I speak English.
And there’s no way I’m this cocky about—well, anything. Even as he makes mistakes, he waves them off, as if it doesn’t matter. While I don’t think my success as a tutor depends on him actually getting better, I wish he’d take it a little more seriously. I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn English, and he’s acting like learning another language is a distraction and a pain, rather than the gift it is.
Great, now I sound like my parents before I left, rambling on about “the gift of a second language.”
We’re just about to dive into the next set of flashcards, when I spot Reggie and Bronx approaching our table.
“Looks like you’re saved by the bell,” I say, and I know by the quick downturn of Rex’s lips that I’ve said the wrong thing. I bite lip in frustration. Why is this language so hard? Why can’t their expressions make any sense?
“More like, here comes the cavalry,” he says, turning away to greet his friends. I surreptitiously take out my little notebook full of phrases and write that one down to look up later.
I smile at his friends and try not to laugh at the quick glances they give me before stepping back to wait a safe distance away. My friends and I must have really messed with the “no girls allowed” thing the other day. I don’t expect Rex to say goodbye, but he turns at the last minute, bending to grab a pen that fell to the floor at some point during the session.
“Merci,” he says quietly as he stands. “For helping me.”
I look up from my notebook but he’s already catching up with his friends.
Chapter Ten
Rex
I head to the li
brary and let out a sigh of relief when I see that my chair is empty. Finally. It’s been days, and tutoring with Zara has been taking up precious hours of writing time.
It hasn’t been totally unpleasant, of course, and it turns out she’s a very good teacher. If Madame Dupuis was this good, I wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. In just three sessions over the course of two weeks, I’ve somehow memorized a handful of verbs that have always escaped me. The difference between the passé simple and the passé composé actually makes sense. And vocabulary is sticking to my brain better now that the lips teaching me are…
No, wait, I am not thinking about her lips.
Remembering she’s entering the Navarre Prize brings back the appropriate irritation. Even if I wasn’t taking a much needed break from all distractions, I can’t think about her that way. She’s the competition.
At least we haven’t picked the same thing. After more deliberation than I’d anticipated with Bronx and Reggie, I convince them to work on a retelling of The Secret Garden. Conscious that Mr. Marcade may or may not be following up with them, I make sure to give them assignments like picking when and where to set it. Not that it actually makes a difference, since I’ve already decided. Setting it in contemporary New England will add so many layers, and the theme of rejuvenation has so many different directions it could take. I am itching to get started, eager in a way only a new project makes me.
As I pull out a notebook and settle into my chair, I realize I am smack in front of the section on Shakespeare study guides. I’m glad we didn’t pick one of his plays, but I wonder why Zara did. King Lear is not exactly light bedtime reading.
Leaving my notebook and bag in the chair to make sure no one steals my seat while I’m gone, I decide to take a quick peek at some of the study guides. She probably doesn’t need any help, and even if she did, I doubt she’d accept any from me. She speaks English so well that I’m sure she writes it just as well. During our sessions, she’s polite, but very closed off and professional. I know she’s been assigned to me, and we both need me to go to tutoring, so there’s no reason for it to be more than it is. But I feel like I should repay her in some way for all the progress I’ve made in such a short time.
Love Lessons Page 4
