Getting Over Charlie Miller

Chapter Four - All About Aaron

The minute I stepped into my French classroom, I wanted to leave again. The situation could have been a hell of a lot worse: given that it was an A Level lesson, there were just ten students. This time last year, there would have been a minimum of twenty. Twenty people listening as Sophie shouted across the sparsely decorated classroom.

‘Louise Eugenie Shaw. What exactly happened between you and Aaron Hill yesterday?’

As it was, only ten people were subjected to the horror of my middle name. Along with a piece of potentially reputation ruining gossip. I could have killed Sophie right there on the spot. A smile appeared on my face as I imagined tackling her to the floor and wringing her neck. Okay, too far.

I walked briskly to a seat as far away from Sophie’s as possible and unpacked my bag. It was freezing in this classroom. I shivered as I pulled my black blazer tighter around my body. Tapping the dusty radiator next to me I realised in disgust that it wasn’t even turned on. What kind of an establishment was this?

So deep was my disgust that I’d failed to notice Sophie travelling to take the seat next to me, plonking down with such weight that a pathetic poster detached itself from the wall and crumpled onto the desk. Making an effort to ignore my best friend’s persistent staring, I got out my phone and deleted five new messages. No new emails. Outside, the clip clop of high heels against the wooden floor echoed down the corridor. Here came Madame Smith.

The heavy blue door swung open to reveal the petite femme. Madame Smith was seventy six, and had been teaching here for centuries, as far as I could tell. She was as French as they come, contrary to her surname which had been acquired from her English husband. Her kitten heels clip clopped some more as she made her way over to the wooden desk in order to pick up a board marker and rubber. The woman stood on her tip-toes and waved the rubber high above her black afro of hair in an attempt to reach the writing at the top of the board. Mature from my class of sixteen year olds, I know.

Without turning around, a command in a heavy French accent came from the small woman’s mouth. ‘Sophie Lane, you get off my furniture and sit in a chair before I ask you to leave my classroom immédiatement!’

With a heavy sigh, Sophie flopped into the plastic grey chair beside me and popped a stick of gum into her mouth, leaning over to offer me some. I declined, and copied down the writing from the board: ‘The Subjunctive.’ This was going to be a long lesson.

***

My prediction had been proven correct by the time that the school bell deigned to save me from my distress. Madame Smith had quickly given up on the subjunctive when paper planes had been introduced by those of us who weren’t all too keen on learning. What did we do instead? A speaking lesson. That’s right. My French teacher allowed us to converse in pairs about any topic of our choosing, as long as it was in the language of love.

‘Qu’est-ce a passé entre toi et Aaron?’ Sophie had asked innocently, studying my face.

I’d raised my eyes to the gum-covered ceiling as she rolled her rs suggestively. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, Soph!’

‘En Français!’ Madame Smith had clapped her hands aggressively, storming over to my desk. ‘Répétez, s’il vous plait!’

‘Je ne veux pas parler au sujet d’Aaron !’ I’d liked how the French allowed me to talk with attitude.

Just as Sophie had worked out how to continue to press for information in French, the bell had rang out, proving that one really can be saved by the bell. How cliché. I’d gathered my stuff up swiftly in an effort to lose Sophie, and had made it halfway down the corridor when she caught up. I really needed to go to the gym.