Sixth Hour, French, Madame Suhr

   

Sixth hour starts at 1:40 and gets out at appx. 2::25. Faces pop up earlier in the day, wink into oblivion before resurfacing in the shore of a different classroom.

In French class we are supposed to pick a French name so Madame can talk to us solely en francais. Cool Jen Phillips who is far superior than any of us picks Celine. Matt Endres picks Mattieu. Patrick, who keeps on bitching that he wishes Dist 150 would offer a  more intriguing selection of languages, like say Russian, takes the name Nikkoli.

I take the name Raoul, not only because I like it, but on KZ93 Raoul was the name of Gary Olson’s crazy dyslexic intern.

 

I am focused on the button of digits and akimbo limbs above the country I failed to attend the last two years.

I want to go running.

I want to go home to France and bite into the nipple sugar cookie splattered on the board.


I open and close the day in the classroom with the wall sized map of the country I failed to see for two years in a row.

All I really can remember from my class a la francais with Madame Breton over the summer is how to count to ten and how Andrea always smelled brand new.

I sit next to Matt Endres whom I have known since I was the size of a Goodyear tire. It is introductory a la francais.

 

You can tell back in the day she was a dish.

She speaks the most beautiful French of I have ever heard. It sounds like classical music emanating from the lips of a bird house when it exits her lips in a series of accelerated wheezes.

Unlike Madmae Breton who convened every conversation in la francais Madame starts in English. The girl who looks French with the subtle glasses who I will learn runs cross-country for the girls team is in French class.

Madame is inquiring if any of us have ever taken French before. The girl wearing the glasses said she studied it as an after school club at home. Matt raises his hand.

"I’ve had four years." He notes, his vision arrowed into the direction of Madame's kneecaps.

“Quatre ans?” Madame says, as if irked, before adding a pourquoi.  She then state sin very blatant English that you should probably be in french201.

Matt says that he went to Washington gifted.

“I had French for four years but I didn’t learn anything.”

Madame is looking at my neighbor down the street like he is lost. The cool blonde headed girl with the Metallica t-shirt  who is in almost all of my classes looks back at matt and smiles.

I raise my hand. I am the only one in the French class who is also in Madame’s home room.

She addresses me as we.

“I actually had about a month of la francais. Last summer. I took a college for kids course at ICC.”

Madame smiles.

"Madame Breton?”

I nod. Madame again says oui.

Madame Suhr is older than my parents.  I look at the French flag. I look at the atlas of the country I was denied two years in a row.

“She’s nice isn’t she?”

I nod. Madame’s smile is refulgent. She speaks French without opening her lips all the way and smiles with her cheekbones.

I think about Madame Breton. I think about how summer seemed light years ago.

I say the word we.

Meaning yes.

Falling into the reverberating chasm of sound and language again.


My first day of High school is almost stamped shut.

           We are falling into the Southside sun.