I sigh and head toward my first class of the day: French. I slip into my usual seat toward the back of the room. Both Jess and Chaewon take Spanish, so I’m on my own during French, which is a shame because it’s probably the most communicative subject I’m taking. Especially this year, when it seems that all we do is practice for our orals.
“Bonjour!” Ms. Kelly walks into the classroom, past the row of desks where I’m sitting to the top of the class.
“Bonjour,” everyone says back with as much enthusiasm as, well, students forced to come into school at eight-thirty in the morning.
Ms. Kelly’s eyes scan the classroom. I slink back in my seat, hoping that whatever she’s searching for, she doesn’t find it in me. Her eyes don’t rest on me. Instead, they flick to the top of the class where Chyna is sitting next to Flávia. They’re whispering to each other—quiet as anything. I’m surprised Ms. Kelly noticed.
But she has. Maybe because this has become Chyna and Flávia’s daily routine in this class. Usually she doesn’t mind, but she doesn’t seem to be in the best of moods today.
“Flávia,” Ms. Kelly says in her stern I’m-not-taking-any-bullshit voice. It’s the voice that makes everyone behave immediately, no matter what. Because Ms. Kelly is not one to put on that voice willy-nilly.
“Yes, Ms. Kelly?” Flávia asks. She’s all wide-eyed innocence. I narrow my eyes at her, even though she can’t see me. I hope she can feel my glare burning through her.
“Parlez français en cours de français,” Ms. Kelly says with raised eyebrows.
Flávia smiles sweetly. “Bien sûr.”
But it seems Ms. Kelly knows as soon as she turns her back, Flávia and Chyna are going to go back to speaking English again.
She heaves a sigh and says, “I want you to take your things and sit beside Nishat for the rest of the class.”
The smile vanishes from Flávia’s lips. She turns around, searching for me. Our eyes meet—for a moment. She looks away and frantically shakes her head.
“Mais non, Ms. Kelly,” she says. “S’il vous plaît. Je ne parlerai pas anglais.”
But Ms. Kelly simply shakes her head, turning away from Flávia and Chyna’s row and taking her seat behind her own desk.
I can see Chyna leaning over to whisper something to Flávia as she packs up her things. Then she slinks to the empty desk beside me. She slumps down in her seat. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak to me.
Ms. Kelly prattles out more instructions that I barely listen to because Chyna is looking back at me over her shoulder, shooting me a glare. Like this is my fault.
“I’m going to ask Ms. Kelly if I can move up,” I say to Flávia. I’m about to put my hand up to get her attention when I feel Flávia’s hand on mine. She pulls my arm down and looks at me with her eyebrows knit close together.
“Don’t do that.”
“You’re not going to tell me what to do.”
“Girls, I want to hear French, not English!” Ms. Kelly calls from the top of the class in our general direction.
“Ms.—”
“Oui, Ms. Kelly!” Flávia says before I can get her attention. Then she turns to me and whispers, “Ms. Kelly already moved me. If you ask her to move you she’s going to know something is wrong and then the entire class will know something is up. I’m not going to let you air our dirty laundry.”
“We don’t have any dirty laundry.”
“You know what I mean.”
I see Ms. Kelly looking at us with a frown so I quickly try to switch to French—even though my French is still rusty from an entire summer of not speaking it.
“Je m’en fous,” I say. “Je ne veux pas tu parler.”
“Je me veux pas tu parler aussi mais …” She slows down, her eyebrows furrowed in thought as she tries to piece together the next sentence. “Nous … devons. Nous sommes … stuck with each other.”
I frown. There’s a mix of anger and guilt gnawing me from the inside out. I guess the anger wins out because the next words out of my lips, in terrible, awful French are, “Tu es méchant.” It’s the only insult I can think of in French. It’s childish and ridiculous but saying it makes me feel a weird sense of pride.
Flávia looks taken aback. She looks around like she’s waiting for Ms. Kelly to step in and tell me to stop being mean to her in French. I’m pretty sure Ms. Kelly doesn’t care if we’re insulting each other—so long as we’re doing it en français.
“Non, tu es méchant,” she says.
“Wow, original,” I whisper.
“Et … tu es un balourd.”
I don’t know what that means but it sounds meaner than méchant so I look at her with wide eyes. How dare she call me a balourd!
“Well, tu es un batard,”
“Tu es un imbécile.”
I’ve run all out of French insults that I know, but I don’t want to let Flávia have the last word.
“Tu es une commère.”
Flávia frowns. “Je ne suis pas.”
“Oui. Tu … as dit … aux gens que … je suis une lesbienne,” I say, before dropping my voice to a whisper and adding, “You’re the only person in this whole school who could have even suspected my sexuality. Don’t pretend.”
She blinks at me in silence for a moment. I have to say, she’s a phenomenal actress, if nothing else.
“You think I sent the text?” Her voice is soft and low, like she’s genuinely surprised that I think this.
“You, or Chyna. She’s always happy to spread gossip about me. Or anyone.”
Flávia shakes her head. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I would never do that. And … I didn’t tell Chyna anything. Not about us …” she trails off, holding my gaze for a long moment. That word “us” hangs between us heavily. As if there was an us, is an us, could be an us.
She looks away, back at her desk. She stares at the wooden desktop where girls from the last few years have scratched in their graffiti: Their names, random doodles, math equations obviously meant to help them cheat.
“I’m sorry.” At least she has the decency to look slightly ashamed. Her head is bowed down low. I thought I would feel proud for finally confronting her, for making her feel some shame, but I don’t. Instead, discomfort settles into my stomach. Making her feel shame doesn’t undo what’s happened. It doesn’t change the shame I’ve been feeling for the past month … for my whole life, really. It doesn’t change anything at all.
“Look … you have no reason to believe me, but I could never do that to someone else. Maybe it was Chyna, but she didn’t find out from me, I promise. I’m sorry if it was her, though. And I’m sorry … I’m sorry for yesterday.”
I don’t want to believe her. I shouldn’t believe her. After everything else, I have no reason to believe her. But her words, the “someone else” echo in my head. I could never do that to someone else.
She’s looking at me, eyes wide with expectation and a vulnerability in her expression that I’ve never seen in her before.