Most people didn't know that Skwisgaar was actually good in school. Not the best, he was only the best at guitar. For anything else, if he had to put forth too much effort things just didn't get done, but it seemed, for Swisgaar Skwigelf, that most things came easy. English was not one of those. Too many rules. Math had rules, physics had rules, but those rules didn't try to change him.
Mrs. Breckinmeyer, unholy teacher of English was considering Skwisgaar with a very sour expression behind her horn-rimmmed glasses indeed. She definitely wanted to change him.
"The grade on your last assignment -- I couldn't even comprehend half of it." Red ink riddled the lines of the paper she pushed to him from across her desk. "You are going to dry up all my fountain pens. This paper looks like it has been murdered."
"Metal."
"Kuksugare is not an English word."
This elicited a brief but hearty chortle from the young Swede. "Describes many English 'dos."
"What is the definition?"
"For me, its means beautiful lady nearly always."
"Okay, I am just going to have to find someone to tutor you before we get too far along in the school year. It is the beginning of October, you have a lot of time to work on this and jazz up your English vocabulary. Don't let your foreign nationality stop you, you are quite... driven when you want to be." Mrs. Breckinmeyer was being rather generous. She was sure he had the drive to play guitar, and sex drive like any other high school aged boy.
"Whys? I am not going to bes here the whole times. I's goings back to Sweden whens my mothers endorsements deals is done." The sooner the better, he thought, before his mom screwed one 'American guy with a hot accent' too many and he ended up with a sibling.
"Yes, I've seen your mother's commercials," she replied dismissively. "You are my responsibility as long as you are enrolled here. You still need to learn the material in this class. It reflects on me, are you trying to make me look bad? Furthermore," she continued, changing the subject to avoid seeing his eyes glaze over, "I want you to stop insulting little boys in my hallway."
"I's does not ins-nults anyones. I justs points out whats I see."
"Did that young man have a dildo?"
"Whats you mean?"
"This morning. You said the young man's art work looked like a dildo, did the boy make a dildo?"
"Oh. Hah. He made sirs-am-icks guitars. Art class is dildos. Everythings he does is dildos. But actuallies, it really dids looks like a dildos now thats I thinks abouts it!"
"Dildos," she snapped in a mock-Scandinavian accent that didn't quite fit Norwegian, Danish, or Swedish "is not the correct usage. Since you seem intent on using it every day, repeat after me: Your artwork looks like a Dill-do. A dildo, Skwisgaar. Dildo is not an adjective, it is a noun. You do know what a noun is?"
"Yous have great legs, Mrs. Breckins-meyers," Skwisgaar said, circumnavigating her desk and sidling up to her. "I've noun that since my firsts days here. But whats is with the poofs of your hairs? I ams thinkings your hairs looks like a dildos." Skwisgaar all but cooed the last word, making it clear that he thought his usage of English was fine. She wasn't sure if he actually understood noun and known were not the same word, however.
She sighed heavily. She wanted to change him, but she'd settle, for the moment, for just having him.
"It is a bouffant style. It was quite popular in the 60s. And thank you," she replied as Skwisgaar traced the swirl of blue vein beneath the paper-thin skin of her calf. Her husband had never paid this much attention to her, even before she developed varicose veins and had four kids and hollowed out breasts by the time she was thirty. Suddenly long fingers spread across her leg, nearly cupping it. Mrs. Breckinmeyer tensed quickly and one prescription shoe fell to the floor.
"Still, it would be more effective as an insult if said correctly," she said, plunging her foot back into her shoe and swiveling her chair to tuck her legs back under her desk. "You're trying to make me look bad, aren't you?"
Skwisgaar sucked in a quick breath through his teeth, thinking of how Mrs. Breckinmeyer looked. He leaned in closer to look her over, his gaze languishing over her body as if the hills of her breasts were hard to get past. He looked up, his beautiful pale face haloed by golden hair, and whispered: "I ams making yous looks naked, Mrs. Breckins-meyers. And its looks goods."
His lips were so full, so soft, and best of all, they spoke her name with such reverence. Faulty English be damned.
"I have another class due in here in twelve minutes."
"Lets thems watch."
"Get out, Skwisgaar. You know the rules."
Rules. He hated rules. Rules were dildos. But Mrs. Breckinmeyer's rules at least ensured he would get what he wanted, whether she knew it yet or not. It was only a matter of time. Skwisgaar would let it slide. He straightened up, swept his hair back behind him and turned to leave the classroom knowing she would watch him go.