"You have to conjugate être in the conditional."

"What's that?"

"Cato, you're in AP French. You don't know conditional?"

"Come on. Just tell me what to do. You're good at French, not me."

"Take the future root and add the imperfect endings."

Blank stare.

Sigh.

Bell.

"You might consider reviewing your French IV material," I say drily as I make for the door. White numbers circle around the black combination lock on my locker, and kids swarm the hallways, rushing to see their friends. My thoughts are jumbled, the day a complete blur. And it's not even half-over.

"Clove, if I don't pass this class they won't let me volunteer for the Games." Cato's voice is in my ear, and for some reason a strange butterfly sensation resonates in the pit of my stomach. I'm not in Monsieur's classroom anymore in the seat in the exact center of the classroom, sitting next to Cato. And yet, he's here, talking to me. "Help me, please."

I turn to face him, but we're not sitting down anymore. I look up.

"Are you asking for test answers?" Scowl.

"Are you offering test answers?" Playful smirk.

"No. I'm not." Locker slam. Walk away.

"Wait, Clove!"

No waiting.

XXXXXXXXXXX

I'm always the first to French class. It's probably because it's my favorite and best class with my favorite teacher. Just as I sit down and pull a new stick of gum out of my backpack, Cato slides into his seat next to me. Why is he here early? He's never early.

"Hey Clove." Hopeful smile.

"Hi." No eye contact.

"What's wrong?" Confused frown.

Head shake.

"I wasn't asking for test answers yesterday, you know."

Silence.

"I was kidding around. I didn't actually want them."

Nothing.

"Clove."

Nothing.

"Clove!" Shake. Shove.

"What?!" Exasperated stare.

Shocked expression. "Nothing."

« Bonjour, classe! Aujourd'hui nous lirons une petite histoire dans les livres. Ouvrez les textes à la page deux cent quatre vingt dix huit. »

Hard cover textbooks smacking the desks. Pages flipping.

"Clove," he whispers. "What did he say?"

Sly smile. « Comment? Je ne peux pas te comprendre. En français, s'il te plait ? »

Blank stare.

"At least try to speak French. You're never going to get anywhere unless you put in some effort to do the basics."

Pause. Um. Pause. Um. « Qu'est-ce que … Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit ? En anglais ?»

Gentle demeanor. "He said we're reading a story in the book."

"Oh. What page?"

« Comment? Je ne comprends pas. » Smirk.

« Quel page ? »

Encouraging smile. Softened eyes. "298." Flipping pages. Interest.

Long lecture. Easy comprehension. Confusion everywhere else. Boring story. Monotonously thorough repetition.

Bell.

Rush to the door. Rush in the hallway. Clicking combinations. Spinning numbers. Warm hovering presence. Familiar cologne.

"Clove?" Innocence.

Grunt.

"Can you," unsure, "tutor me?"

Mumbled agreement. "Yeah. When."

Shuffling feet. Nervous. "Come over my house later. After dinner? Around 7:30?"

Locker slam. "Okay. Seeya then."

I can feel his eyes on me. Why is he looking at me? I curse myself but look over my shoulder, and see his body positioned leaning sideways against the locker next to mine. His smile grows and he looks over me while I give him a confused look before turning back around and continuing down the hallway towards the stairs on my way to precalculus.

I don't learn a thing about trigonometric functions from the unit circle that class.