Lucky

My schedule was printed on a blinding white piece of paper and handed to me with a small smile. The owner of such a smile, a woman dressed all in red was talking to me, and I was smiling and nodding and pretending to understand. I nodded one last time, and then I turned and walked out into the shining hallways of my new high school.

God help me. Please, I’m begging you. Just one moment of pity, I would be so grateful.

Everything was so bright here. Everything made me want to close my eyes, or put on sunglasses or at least shade my face against the glare. I stood in the hallway and watched a slouching underclassman inch by. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the light.

She rounded a corner, and then she was gone.

I looked at the piece of paper in my hand.

French. I didn’t speak French. I didn’t speak anything besides English, Pig Latin, and a bit of German. I had asked for German. And I had gotten French. I frowned at the paper as if it was its fault.

This school didn’t teach German. That’s why I was in French. That’s why I was late to French instead of German. Late to class on my first day. As if I wasn’t uncomfortable enough with this whole ordeal. I mean, starting a new school sucked anyways, but this was high school. Where everything mattered. I didn’t know what shoes to wear, or if eating outside was acceptable. I didn’t know which water fountain actually sputtered out water, or which bathrooms were the best to smoke in. I didn’t even know if smoking was cool here. What if this school was filled with straight-edge hippies that shunned tobacco and only ate organic bananas? What would I do then? I didn’t even like inorganic bananas, and for God’s sake…how could a banana be anything other than organic? It grew off of a fucking tree. How much more organic can you ask for?

“Jesus Christ.” I said out loud. Half of me wanted to look up, as if a tall dude in a white dress would be staring at me in a benevolent manner, the other half told me to grow the hell up.

A teacher walked by, he was tall and round and he was looking at me as if I was the crazy one. I stared right back. He kept walking, only glancing over his shoulder at me.

French. French. French. Room 310. French. Taught by A. Kelly. French. El Frenchais?. French couldn’t be hard. I mean…Jesus.

I looked down the too-bright hall, and then I began walking. Room 310, where were you?

~*~

Room 310 was at the end of a very long hallway, and it was across the hall from both a bathroom and a water fountain. This teacher was either fucking the principal, or was the anti-Christ. No one gets such an excellent room assignment without either boinking the principal, or scaring the shit out of him. I shifted my bag from my left shoulder to my right, and stood awkwardly outside the room. Somewhere down the hall, a class laughed, really laughed. Not a polite, muttered laugh when the teacher tried to crack one, but a happy laugh. Someone must’ve fallen.

I shifted the bag back to my left shoulder, and reached up to touch the part in my hair. I ran a finger down it, making sure it was still straight, and then I smoothed it down. I adjusted my sweater, making sure it hung just right. I looked down at my beat up high tops. I reached down and touched the worn, bright pink lace that was threaded through the right shoe.

“Why is your lace pink?” I said, smiling at him.

“It’s lucky.” He reached down and touched it, and then smiled up at me. “Here. Don’t take my word for it. Touch it. You’ll get lucky.”

“That’s bullshit.” I laughed at him, but I touched it anyways. “I don’t feel lucky.”

He straightened up, and then took my face in his hands. “I do.” He whispered, right before he kissed me.

Stop it. Stop it. That’s not going to get you into French. It’s gone. I stood up, my heavy bag weighing me down, almost as far down as the pink lace peeking up from my shoe.

I shook my head, and then I reached for the door handle.

The entire class looked up. The teacher, Madame Kelly, stopped scratching nonsense French phrases on the board and looked at me. Everyone looked at me. The only noise came from a pencil as it made a break for it and landed on the floor with a clatter. I swallowed, and kept my eyes on the blonde woman at the front of the room.

“Oui?” she said.

We…we…what?

I opened my mouth, and then closed it. I was making a wonderful impression. I must look like a friggin’ basket case.

“Yes?” the teacher said, stepping forward. Oui meant yes. I knew that. I had known that. I knew that.

“I think I’m in this class.” I said, holding out my schedule.

She took it, her pink nails carefully avoiding my hand. Jesus, she was gorgeous. Definitely boinking the principal, I decided.
“Ahhh…oui, oui.” She said again. “Yes, you’re in this class. I remember, I got the email this morning.”

I licked my lips, not knowing how to respond to that. She handed me my schedule, and motioned me to the class.

“Comment vous appelez-vous?”

What the fuck did she just say to me?

I stared at her. She repeated it, as if suddenly I would understand. When I said nothing, she laughed and said, “Your name! Your name! What’s your name? Tell me, tell the class!”

Oh. Shit.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Um. I’m Emma. Emma Cross.”

“Non, non! En francais!”

“Oh. No. I, um. I was in German, at my old school. I don’t speak. I don’t speak…French.”

She stared at me.

“Sorry.” I mumbled, looking down at my shoes.

She laughed again. “Well, welcome to French!”

I glanced at the class. This woman was heavily medicated. There was no doubt about that.

“You can sit behind Steven. This row! Everyone move down one so we can keep it alphabetical!”

The row shuffled to life, and then Madame Happy Pant’s hands were guiding me to a seat next to a window, still chattering in French, like it would suddenly sink into our unwilling skulls, and we’d suddenly be bilingual. I collapsed in my desk, my bag falling to the ground, and I stared at the pink lace in my shoe. Lucky? Right. This was pure, undiluted luck.

The guy in front of me turned around suddenly. He wasn’t attractive…or at least not to me. He had dark hair that badly needed a cut; it kept falling in his eyes. I hated that. It was so annoying. His clothes were a little shabby, and his hands were covered in blue and green paint. He held a hand out to me, and I realized he wanted me to shake it.

“I’m Steven.” He said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Yea…I figured.” I took his hand and gave it a shake, it was dusty with paint residue, but his grip was strong.

“You’re Emma.” He said, still talking as loud as he pleased.

I dropped his hand, and I looked down at my desk. “Yea. I figured that out too.”

He laughed, and turned back in his seat, his shoulders still shaking with a chuckle.

I looked at my pink lace, and I felt a hot surge of memories waiting for me.

But Madame Happy was chattering again, and Steven was chattering back in flawless French, and I was unhappy, and I was alone, and I missed Bryan.

I missed Bryan the most.