Chapter Two: Speaking English
Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I know Christian is terribly OOC, but after all, he's a cross between our lovable Chris and the stuffy Professor Higgins. Of course, some of you wanted him grumpy, so this is right up your alley... I personally find him adorable.
* * *
"Professa?"
Christian Higgins gave a heavy sigh as he turned in his chair to regard the student addressing him. "It is ProfessOR, Charity. Haven't you learned better than to go around dropping "r's?"
"Yes, Professor, sorry sir."
"What can I do for you today?"
"It's about my grade, Professa... I mean, Professor."
"What about it?"
"I don't think it's right."
He flipped open the gradebook that lay on his desk. Charity Stevens... an F. "Well, Charity, I do believe that it is the correct grade, but I agree with you on the subject that it should not be an F."
"So you'll change it?"
A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. "No, that is not what I said. I meant that you should not have failed English. You should have worked harder and then you would have received a higher grade percentile."
Tears welled up in the young girl's eyes. "But Professa! I can't fail English! What's up with that? My mom'll kill me! Be serious, man."
"I am... 'being serious.' You deserve the grade you received."
The girl glared at him before storming out of his office. "This is crap."
A moment later, Henri Pickerding, the French professor, hobbled into his office. "What was that all about, old friend?"
"Crap, from what I've been told."
The elder professor smiled at his friend over his spectacles. "Kids these days, eh?"
Christian stood up from his desk. "Let me ask you something, Henri. Why can't children today speak correctly? They have no respect for elders, no manners, and no proper English!"
"Don't ask me, Chris. And I doubt anyone else would know the answer, either."
He began to straighten up his desk, muttering to himself. "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?" Christian was twenty-six years old and had been a professor at Montmartre University for three years. He had graduated very early from college, as he had skipped grades in grade school, high school, and college. Throughout his entire life he had been focused on one thing- education. Some would say that he never had a childhood. He would say that he hadn't wanted one.
Now, during his third year of teaching students only a few years his minor, he was lacking in only one area of his life. He had never been in love. Love was what had first drawn him to the English language. There were so many words for expressing love and its many emotions. Poetry was his favorite pastime- both reading and writing it. He had written songs about love, each with perfect language and grammar of course. He knew that once he was established as a master of the English language, he would be able to find a love to express himself to.
But he had come across a problem. He had certainly mastered English as well as several other languages. However, now that he was so skilled in language arts, he could find no woman worthy of his perfect speech. No female, no matter how drab or delightful, was compatible with him! He had risen head and shoulders above all of them!
It was certainly a problem, but he was certain a solution would present itself in one form or another. His eyes pored over the English term papers his students wrote in search of a worthy mate, a girl who could write with a perfect handle on the English language. But three years had gone by and he had been utterly disappointed in his search.
Henri interrupted his thoughts. "We must hurry, Chris, or we'll be late."
"Late?" He racked his brain, trying to remember what he had obviously forgotten.
"I made a reservation for us at Zidler's, remember? We have forty-five minutes to get there."
"Oh God, Henri, I remember now... I'm so sorry." The two friends had a weekly dinner date during which they discussed subjects such as politics, the arts, and of course, language. Henri's favorite place to dine was a stylish, over-priced French diner on the other side of town. Christian slipped into his suit jacket, put on his hat, and grabbed his suitcase. "Would you like to take your car or mine?"
"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to drive? My leg is bothering me today."
Christian nodded without comment. They didn't discuss his injury. The Frenchman had broken his leg in a car accident that had killed his wife, and neither he nor his leg had ever fully recovered.
Shortly thereafter, the two were driving through the city, heading towards the restaurant. Their course always took them through the seedier parts of town, and Christian subconsciously picked up speed, trying to hurry through the area, ignoring the lewd remarks thrown at the two from the prostitutes on the street.
So concentrated was he on ignoring the creatures of the night that he didn't notice as a particularly stunning redhead began to make her way out into the street until it was almost too late. "Christian!" cried Henri, grabbing his friend's arm. Christian slammed his foot on the brake and his hand on the horn as he tried desperately to avoid hitting the woman.
Startled out of her reverie, the girl stared at the oncoming car for a split-second before leaping into action. She almost threw herself back onto the sidewalk, arriving in one piece. But the wind had taken her beloved beret into the street, and she watched in horror as the black car skidded to a stop over it.
"My hat!" she screamed, coloring in anger. She got to her feet, striding towards the stopped car as Christian climbed out. Before he could open his mouth to address her, she laid into him, her accent becoming thicker more apparent by the second. "Wha' do ya think you're doin' huh? Ya try to run a po' workin' girl over, and then you ruin my hat!"
Confused, Christian could only repeat her. "Your hat?" She was positively gorgeous, though her use of the English language caused him to visibly wince. Her cheeks currently matched her bright tendrils of hair, contrasting sharply with her porcelain paleness. He couldn't help but notice her full breasts as they rose and fell with each angry breath.
She bent over, displaying a good deal of skin to the bewildered professor, and picked up her soiled beret. She waved it in front of him. "These things cost money, ya know! Money I ain't got!" She glared at him, her eyes flashing. "But look at you, all dressed up fancy! I bet you got yourself some money, don't cha? I bet ya think it's fun to go around ruinin' the lives of those lesser than ya, don't cha?"
Now angry himself, Christian snatched the beret from her hand. The rhinestones on it spelled out 'Diamond.' Some diamond. "See here!" he demanded. No one would treat him as she had, beautiful or otherwise. "None of this would have happened at all if you would have paid attention to where you were going. I beg your pardon for the accident, ma'am, but I assure you the fault was not mine." The woman took a step back, staring at him. "Now, I'm sure your hat is not ruined. Once it's washed, I'm positive it will be as good as new."
"Ah." She swallowed hard as she took her beret back, clutching it protectively. "No harm done then, eh mistah?"
"Correct."
"See ya 'round, babe." She blew him a kiss, then strode past the car, her hips swaying seductively from beneath her tight skirt. He watched her go for a moment, long enough to hear her mutter, "Bast'rd," when she thought he wasn't listening, then he climbed back into his car.
Henry glanced at him. "That was an interesting encounter."
Christian hardly heard him. He was still watching the prostitute. "Look at her, a prisoner of the gutter, condemned by every syllable she ever uttered." He snorted. "By law she should be taken out and hung, for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue! This is what the American population calls an elementary education!"
Henry shook his head. "Now Christian..."
"Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? This verbal class distinction, by now, should be antique! If you spoke as she does, friend, instead of the way you do, why you might be walking streets too!" He started the car, but did not end his singsong complaint. "It's her words that keep her in her place, not her tight clothes and suggestive phrase. Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? One common language I'm afraid we'll never get. Oh, why can't the English learn to set a good example to people whose English is painful to your ears? The Scotch and Irish leave you close to tears. There are even places where English completely disappears! Like here in America, where we haven't used it for years!"
They pulled up in front of the restaurant, and the two climbed out. As they approached the door, Christian seemed to ask everyone waiting outside, "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks have taught their Greek. In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed." The French never care what they do, actually," he added as a side note, "as long as they pronounce it properly. Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning. And Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening. But use proper English and you're regarded as a freak! Why can't the English..." His voiced raised in volume as the question agitated him more and more. "Why can't the English learn to speak?"
The waitress stared at him, wondering if she had a crazy on her hands. Henri tried to hide his smile behind his menu, and an embarrassed blush began to spread over Christian's face. The waitress cleared her throat, her pencil paused over her order pad. "I don't know, monsieur, but could I take your order?"
END CHAPTER TWO
Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I know Christian is terribly OOC, but after all, he's a cross between our lovable Chris and the stuffy Professor Higgins. Of course, some of you wanted him grumpy, so this is right up your alley... I personally find him adorable.
* * *
"Professa?"
Christian Higgins gave a heavy sigh as he turned in his chair to regard the student addressing him. "It is ProfessOR, Charity. Haven't you learned better than to go around dropping "r's?"
"Yes, Professor, sorry sir."
"What can I do for you today?"
"It's about my grade, Professa... I mean, Professor."
"What about it?"
"I don't think it's right."
He flipped open the gradebook that lay on his desk. Charity Stevens... an F. "Well, Charity, I do believe that it is the correct grade, but I agree with you on the subject that it should not be an F."
"So you'll change it?"
A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. "No, that is not what I said. I meant that you should not have failed English. You should have worked harder and then you would have received a higher grade percentile."
Tears welled up in the young girl's eyes. "But Professa! I can't fail English! What's up with that? My mom'll kill me! Be serious, man."
"I am... 'being serious.' You deserve the grade you received."
The girl glared at him before storming out of his office. "This is crap."
A moment later, Henri Pickerding, the French professor, hobbled into his office. "What was that all about, old friend?"
"Crap, from what I've been told."
The elder professor smiled at his friend over his spectacles. "Kids these days, eh?"
Christian stood up from his desk. "Let me ask you something, Henri. Why can't children today speak correctly? They have no respect for elders, no manners, and no proper English!"
"Don't ask me, Chris. And I doubt anyone else would know the answer, either."
He began to straighten up his desk, muttering to himself. "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?" Christian was twenty-six years old and had been a professor at Montmartre University for three years. He had graduated very early from college, as he had skipped grades in grade school, high school, and college. Throughout his entire life he had been focused on one thing- education. Some would say that he never had a childhood. He would say that he hadn't wanted one.
Now, during his third year of teaching students only a few years his minor, he was lacking in only one area of his life. He had never been in love. Love was what had first drawn him to the English language. There were so many words for expressing love and its many emotions. Poetry was his favorite pastime- both reading and writing it. He had written songs about love, each with perfect language and grammar of course. He knew that once he was established as a master of the English language, he would be able to find a love to express himself to.
But he had come across a problem. He had certainly mastered English as well as several other languages. However, now that he was so skilled in language arts, he could find no woman worthy of his perfect speech. No female, no matter how drab or delightful, was compatible with him! He had risen head and shoulders above all of them!
It was certainly a problem, but he was certain a solution would present itself in one form or another. His eyes pored over the English term papers his students wrote in search of a worthy mate, a girl who could write with a perfect handle on the English language. But three years had gone by and he had been utterly disappointed in his search.
Henri interrupted his thoughts. "We must hurry, Chris, or we'll be late."
"Late?" He racked his brain, trying to remember what he had obviously forgotten.
"I made a reservation for us at Zidler's, remember? We have forty-five minutes to get there."
"Oh God, Henri, I remember now... I'm so sorry." The two friends had a weekly dinner date during which they discussed subjects such as politics, the arts, and of course, language. Henri's favorite place to dine was a stylish, over-priced French diner on the other side of town. Christian slipped into his suit jacket, put on his hat, and grabbed his suitcase. "Would you like to take your car or mine?"
"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to drive? My leg is bothering me today."
Christian nodded without comment. They didn't discuss his injury. The Frenchman had broken his leg in a car accident that had killed his wife, and neither he nor his leg had ever fully recovered.
Shortly thereafter, the two were driving through the city, heading towards the restaurant. Their course always took them through the seedier parts of town, and Christian subconsciously picked up speed, trying to hurry through the area, ignoring the lewd remarks thrown at the two from the prostitutes on the street.
So concentrated was he on ignoring the creatures of the night that he didn't notice as a particularly stunning redhead began to make her way out into the street until it was almost too late. "Christian!" cried Henri, grabbing his friend's arm. Christian slammed his foot on the brake and his hand on the horn as he tried desperately to avoid hitting the woman.
Startled out of her reverie, the girl stared at the oncoming car for a split-second before leaping into action. She almost threw herself back onto the sidewalk, arriving in one piece. But the wind had taken her beloved beret into the street, and she watched in horror as the black car skidded to a stop over it.
"My hat!" she screamed, coloring in anger. She got to her feet, striding towards the stopped car as Christian climbed out. Before he could open his mouth to address her, she laid into him, her accent becoming thicker more apparent by the second. "Wha' do ya think you're doin' huh? Ya try to run a po' workin' girl over, and then you ruin my hat!"
Confused, Christian could only repeat her. "Your hat?" She was positively gorgeous, though her use of the English language caused him to visibly wince. Her cheeks currently matched her bright tendrils of hair, contrasting sharply with her porcelain paleness. He couldn't help but notice her full breasts as they rose and fell with each angry breath.
She bent over, displaying a good deal of skin to the bewildered professor, and picked up her soiled beret. She waved it in front of him. "These things cost money, ya know! Money I ain't got!" She glared at him, her eyes flashing. "But look at you, all dressed up fancy! I bet you got yourself some money, don't cha? I bet ya think it's fun to go around ruinin' the lives of those lesser than ya, don't cha?"
Now angry himself, Christian snatched the beret from her hand. The rhinestones on it spelled out 'Diamond.' Some diamond. "See here!" he demanded. No one would treat him as she had, beautiful or otherwise. "None of this would have happened at all if you would have paid attention to where you were going. I beg your pardon for the accident, ma'am, but I assure you the fault was not mine." The woman took a step back, staring at him. "Now, I'm sure your hat is not ruined. Once it's washed, I'm positive it will be as good as new."
"Ah." She swallowed hard as she took her beret back, clutching it protectively. "No harm done then, eh mistah?"
"Correct."
"See ya 'round, babe." She blew him a kiss, then strode past the car, her hips swaying seductively from beneath her tight skirt. He watched her go for a moment, long enough to hear her mutter, "Bast'rd," when she thought he wasn't listening, then he climbed back into his car.
Henry glanced at him. "That was an interesting encounter."
Christian hardly heard him. He was still watching the prostitute. "Look at her, a prisoner of the gutter, condemned by every syllable she ever uttered." He snorted. "By law she should be taken out and hung, for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue! This is what the American population calls an elementary education!"
Henry shook his head. "Now Christian..."
"Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? This verbal class distinction, by now, should be antique! If you spoke as she does, friend, instead of the way you do, why you might be walking streets too!" He started the car, but did not end his singsong complaint. "It's her words that keep her in her place, not her tight clothes and suggestive phrase. Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? One common language I'm afraid we'll never get. Oh, why can't the English learn to set a good example to people whose English is painful to your ears? The Scotch and Irish leave you close to tears. There are even places where English completely disappears! Like here in America, where we haven't used it for years!"
They pulled up in front of the restaurant, and the two climbed out. As they approached the door, Christian seemed to ask everyone waiting outside, "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks have taught their Greek. In France every Frenchman knows his language from "A" to "Zed." The French never care what they do, actually," he added as a side note, "as long as they pronounce it properly. Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning. And Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening. But use proper English and you're regarded as a freak! Why can't the English..." His voiced raised in volume as the question agitated him more and more. "Why can't the English learn to speak?"
The waitress stared at him, wondering if she had a crazy on her hands. Henri tried to hide his smile behind his menu, and an embarrassed blush began to spread over Christian's face. The waitress cleared her throat, her pencil paused over her order pad. "I don't know, monsieur, but could I take your order?"
END CHAPTER TWO