AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my
first IaHB fic, so I'm really sorry if the characters seem not-themselves. Also
sorry about the large quantity of French in this first chapter…uuuugh, I wrote
it right after writing a French essay, so I kind of had it on the brain. I
promise I'll actually start something somewhat resembling plot sometime in the
very near future. :-P Criticism is veeeeeeeery welcome, 'cause I know this
could use a lot of work. Sorry it's so short and boring right now….
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no
money, don't sue.
"Bonjour, classe!" Monsieur LeBon eyed the class with a
deadly stare. "Comment allez-vous ce matin? Comment est-ce que vous passiez vos
week-ends?"
Hank Beecham sunk down in his chair, trying to capture
that mysterious "don't-call-on-me" slouch. He must appear attentive while not
overly brilliant or interested. He shifted uneasily, lacking the cover of Jamie
Waite in front of him.
"Ah! Monsieur Beecham!" Hank rolled his eyes. That slouch
needed work. "Ton ami, Monsieur Waite, oú est-il ce matin?"
"Ummmmm…" Hank straightened, scrambling for a probable
answer as to Jamie's whereabouts. At least he wouldn't have to use the past
tense. "Je…je crois il est mauvais."
Hank sighed in relief, wondering why some of his
classmates were stifling giggles.
"Oui, Monsieur Beecham, I know that Monsieur Waite is
evil, but what is particularly wrong with him this morning? Utilisez le
verbe avoir Monsieur Beecham. Avoir. Je crois que Monsieur Waite a
mal ce matin, oui? Et quoi d'autres expressions est-ce qu'on veut utiliser
avec avoir?"
And Hank was off the hook, slouching comfortably as
Monsieur LeBon spouted off the other expressions with the verb "avoir." Hank
dutifully opened his notebook, copying down "a mal—to be sick" and circling it
with a careful hand. He paused to wonder if Jamie really was sick, or if he was
just ditching again. Not like ditching even really affected Jamie's grade any.
That kid couldn't get a bad grade in French if he tried to…he just pulled B+
after miraculous B+.
Hank turned his attention back to Monsieur LeBon. "Ouvrez
vos livres, classe!" He exclaimed excitedly. "Tournez à la page quatre-vingt
dix-sept: les quotations fameux."
Hank dredged his book from his backpack, pausing to
translate the page number: four twenties, a ten, and a seven. 97. He wondered
if the French really said numbers like that, or if Monsieur LeBon just invented
that to keep them busy.