Michele handed me her rough draft, and for a moment I was absolutely stunned, wondering why. Rough drafts on the French compositions weren't due until tomorrow. With all the stuff going on, I hadn't even started to write yet. She looked at me as if I had fish coming out of my ears.

"Of course the rough draft's due today. We revise and hand it in tomorrow. Were you even paying attention?"

Apparently not. I'd come in the day before an hour later than usual, missing French first period, and no one had seen fit to fill me in about that particular fact. I groaned, taking her paper and starting to scan for incorrect verb tenses or phrases that didn't fit. This was the one morning that I resented Raoul for being an engaged teacher. He came around to the two of us and asked why Michele had nothing to do. Not feeling quite up to a full explanation for my missing assignment, I solved the problem by telling him I'd forgotten. He asked to see me after class, and I agreed, biting my lip. The one thing I did not feel like doing was talking to anybody about why I wasn't feeling up to par. The hospital had insisted on keeping my father an extra day for observation and counseling, and I was starting to become seriously worried.

But I could hardly avoid talking to my teacher. He asked me (still in French) if I had a class second period. I told him that I was free. He nodded, closed the door, and switched to English.

"Christine, is there something wrong?"

Now where exactly would I start to answer that? He knew that something was up, but maybe there was a way I could minimize damage.

"My father has been in the hospital for the past few days with a heart attack." I began, speaking slowly. "I've been working a lot as well. I'm sorry if I don't have the work; I'll make it up as soon as possible."

"Is your mother at the hospital with him?"

He had no idea the pain he was causing me. I forgave him, of course, but I really did not want to follow that conversation thread.

"My mother's been dead for six years." I refused to look at him, so I could not see the look on his face. Being French, it must have been hard for him to pry in the first place, and now, having brought something so obviously personally painful out into the open, he must be mortified. I felt a cruel sort of vindication, but then again, I was most emphatically not in a good mood. I heard him clear his throat, and he shuffled some papers around on his desk, trying to cover for his embarrassment. A quick glance upwards confirmed my thoughts; his face was red, right up to the roots of his blond hair.

"I am so sorry Christine. For the fact itself, and the fact that I brought it up. Please hand in your work whenever you feel able. Of course there will be no late penalties. I'm sure you want the rest of your free period."

He motioned me towards the door, and I sighed with relief. Nothing would please me more than to get out of the range of his pity.

"Christine."

His voice, urgent, soft, and kind, drew me back and made me feel guilty for maligning him, even in my mind.

He smiled. "If you need someone to talk to, please don't hesitate to stop by my office."

My first reaction was to nod, smile politely, and forget about it. But there was something in his face so sincere that it made me wonder; maybe I would need someone to talk to, especially if things got worse. I still smiled.

"Thanks."

Meg glanced at me, smiling above her sandwich. I had just finished relating the morning conversation with my teacher, and now she was giving me such a smile that I felt embarrassed just looking at it. She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

"You should go and talk to him."

"I don't talk to teachers, as a general rule, Meg," I said, shaking my head and taking a sip of milk, "besides, I have you."

"I wouldn't want to talk to me if I could talk to him," she said quickly, "besides, at least he understands. My Spanish teacher would tell me to do my homework if I were waiting for my father to recover from double-bypass surgery."

I chuckled and shook my head again, staring down at the table. "What could I say? What could I talk about? I couldn't tell him all the doubts and fears, hell, I can't even tell you about those. What's there to say?"

"I don't know," Meg dragged out her syllables, making me feel like a total moron, "anything. Everything. You could talk to him just like a friend."

"What are you suggesting?" My voice was incredulous. "Are you saying that I should have a relationship with him or something? With my teacher?"

"Stranger things have happened. I've seen the way he looks at you."

I was now way beyond confused. "What way?"

"Come on!" Meg was exasperated. "He stops by most mornings to say hello…"

"His classroom is right beyond our lockers!"

"He's always looking right at you…"

"It's polite to make eye contact during a conversation, or didn't you notice?"

"And he asks when you're going to be working!" Meg finished triumphantly. "I'd say he's just about as into you as he can be. Seriously, he always comes to your register, doesn't he?"

I didn't want to admit anything. "I am his student. He's just being polite, because he knows how bored I get there. It doesn't mean anything. Some of my other teachers stop to say 'hi' when they see me at the store."

Meg shook her head and sighed, starting to eat again. "Not that way, Christine. You know, sometimes I think you're completely nuts. You walk right past it when there are guys falling over themselves to date you. Totally oblivious is more like it."

I snorted. "Now when have there been guys falling over anything just to date me?"

"Uh, let's see, how about Marcus…"

"Loser."

"Jeremy…"

"Already had a girlfriend, the slut."

"Chris…"

"All right, all right!" I exclaimed, humiliated and furious. "I noticed that Chris had a crush on me. But I wasn't interested in any of those guys."

"But you are interested in Raoul." Meg persisted. "And if you have a shot with him, why not go for it?"

"There are so many reasons!" I cried, almost ready to smack her over the head, "He's my teacher, he's probably about four or five years older than I am, he's from a different country…"

"But you like him!"

I saw that Meg was implacable. "So what if I do?"

"What's that quote from Shakespeare?" she mused, distracted for a moment, "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…'" When she saw my confused face she clarified. "English class. I had to study something, didn't I? And Julius Caesar was so boring."

"I'm lost." I reverted back to my sandwich in an injured silence. Meg stared at me and started talking as if she were lecturing a child.

"All I'm saying is, you could at least, at the very least, try talking to him. He likes you, and he'll help you out with your other classes too. Talk to your teachers maybe, and get them to relax a bit with the homework and projects. You know, just until your dad gets better."

Another sharp jolt of anxiety and pain ran through me. "I don't want to…"

"Talk about it. I know, I know." Meg was very quiet, and she turned away as I hid my tears in my napkin. "Hey! I know the perfect excuse! That summer academy in Paris that you were gushing about. Why not ask him if he knows anything about it?"

"Elysees Academy," the longing in my voice was plain. It was an exclusive summer program, six weeks, for American students serious in the study of French. The academy was paid for, but it was only open to 25 senior high school students from the North East. The entrance exam was said to be harder than a college final, and there were thousands of applicants each year. I'd wanted to apply for the longest time, but with all the things going on, I'd let my studies lapse seriously. I knew enough French to do well in class, but as to passing such a prestigious exam…

"You were telling me how you'd probably need a tutor," Meg said, pressing her advantage, "what better tutor than a native Frenchman? Ask him, Christine, I'm sure that he'd love to tutor you!"

I have to admit, I was sorely tempted. The chance to catch up and pass the exam, coupled with the feelings I had for my teacher (which were dangerous, to say the least) made the proposition very agreeable. I had to grasp for an excuse, quickly.

"I have no time after school, what with work and everything going on right now. When could I have the time to study French?"

Meg had a ready answer. "Saturday mornings. I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming in, you never have to work, and the school is still open. Where's the problem?"

Darn you, Meg.

"I never know when my dad's going to need me."

Meg sighed, recognizing that I was grasping at straws. "He wanted you to go before all this happened. Why could he have any objections now? He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

I saw the only way I was going to get her to stop talking about it was to get the tutoring. After all, I reasoned, it might not all be bad. I was sure that Raoul could speak his own language well enough. I nodded my ascension, and Meg finished her lunch with an irrepressible grin on her face.

But I would not ask that same day, much to Meg's dismay. I didn't have to work, and I determined that I was going to spend several happy hours by myself, waiting for the doctors to call me and tell me that my father was fine, and that I could go and bring him home. Maybe I could work out the lyrics that had been bubbling in my brain all morning. Or perhaps I could just relax and write some whimsical little fairy tale. It was hard to keep from smiling when the last bell rang and I realized I had the whole afternoon spread out in front of me. Even the weather mimicked my mood; the sun was shining with all its might, the clouds looked as if they had been made out of fresh cotton, and the trees were leafing out and every spring plant was in full bloom. I walked past the two sentinel magnolia trees that stood guard on the lawn before the school and was just turning towards my house when a car pulled up beside me.

Of course he would have a convertible. Only having my favorite kind of car could make him even more appealing. He gave me that smile of his, and in that moment, I knew that Meg was right. Somehow, for some reason, Raoul de Chagny liked me. Me! The feeling was heady and flattering. I couldn't help but smile back, the first natural smile that I'd had in several days now.

"Do you need a ride somewhere, mademoiselle?"

"I can just as easily walk, thank you." I said, still lingering by the side of his car.

"Walk all the way home?" his eyes were incredulous. "You will get there faster if I drive you. Come, put your bag in the back seat and get in."

I would get home sooner. Maybe the doctors would call me earlier than I expected. It might be for the best if I took his offer. I shrugged my bag off my shoulder and climbed in, looking back in just enough time to see Meg's triumphant wave from the corner of the sidewalk. I swear I could see her grin from where I stood looking back. Shaking my head, I sat down and fastened my seat belt. I noticed that he was not wearing his, but I would have felt too embarrassed lecturing him over Connecticut state law.

"Where do you live?" his voice was quiet, even over the sound of the wind. I was momentarily startled; I had been staring absently out the window.

"Beech Street. It's…"

"I know where it is. Right off of Main Street, isn't it?"

"Right."

We were silent for a few moments, and since I still felt shy, I did not feel like bringing up Meg's topic. Perhaps tomorrow, during the formal setting of the schoolroom, I'd be able to do it. But not here, driving in his very wonderful car. Luckily (or perhaps unfortunately) he already knew what I was going to ask him.

"Your friend Meg tells me that you are looking for a tutor to help you prepare for the Elysees Academy examination."

"I'm going to kill her!" I exclaimed, the words out of my mouth before I could reconsider. He laughed openly, and in a few seconds of shocked silence on my part, I joined him. "That's something I want to do: confess to murder in front of my teacher!" I said, still chuckling.

"Strange as it may sound, I have heard worse." He said. "But she is a very devoted friend, you realize. She told me you were too proud to ask me for help. But I would love to tutor you, at any time convenient."

I couldn't think of the proper words to thank him with, but he went on without my help.

"It seemed very apropos, considering that my parents were both donors to that school, and my brother was on the board of admissions."

My jaw dropped. He was from those de Chagnys! Why hadn't I put the names together before! His family was one of the few surviving French aristocrats! I should have recognized the name—I had read about Phillippe de Chagny and his unfortunate death—since I was a great patron of the Academy's website, I'd seen the message they posted about it. And this was his brother!

"I heard about your brother's death," I said, laboring over the words. I wasn't very good at this sort of thing. "I'm very sorry."

"Phillippe and I had many differences in opinion," he said, choosing his words carefully as he turned onto Beech Street. "He disapproved of what I did when I was younger. I disapproved of what his extra-curricular activities were. And old brotherly feud," he continued, lightening his tone, "I'm sorry, I should not even mention it. Which house is yours, Christine?"

"Oh, you can just drop me off at this driveway here. It's a wreck, you don't want to take you car down the road." I hopped out and retrieved my bag. "Thank you so much for the ride."

"It will always be my pleasure, Christine." He said, smiling (a little gravely this time, I thought)

I stood on the side of the road, twisting my shoulder strap and wishing that I didn't have to say 'goodbye'. But he took care of the farewells, as usual.

"I will see you this Saturday morning in the classroom, when shall we say; eight o'clock?"

I could only nod my agreement.

"I will see you in class tomorrow, Christine."

And with one last smile and a lingering glance, he pulled off further down the road. I followed his beautiful silver convertible with my eyes until the trees shrouded it from sight. I turned to walk slowly down the driveway, but halfway down, I couldn't help but throw down my bag and twirl around, once, twice, until I fell down in a breathless, dizzy heap.

My heart was singing. He likes me! He likes me! He likes me! It was crazy, but he did. And I was crazy, but I was starting to like him just as well.

When I got into the house, the phone was ringing. I tripped over a stepstool trying to get to the receiver, and my voice was harsh and breathless as I answered.

"Yes!"

"Miss Day?"

"Dr. Draper," I said, "Is my father ready to come home?"

The voice on the other end sounded very cheerful. "Oh, he's quite ready. We only wanted to make sure that his blood pressure responded well to the medication with no reactions of any kind. He will be coming home with a prescription to be filled. Now, Miss Day, I understand that you attend school and hold a part-time job?"

"Yes, sir." I answered. Daddy's all right!

"Your father ought to be able to retain his former job, but if your own job is not an absolute financial necessity, may I suggest that you suspend your working hours for a month or two? This is only a temporary arrangement, to insure that your father does not suffer another heart attack while you are away. When it is apparent that the medication does its job, I have no concerns that you will both be able to hold your jobs."

I grimaced. I was depending on my job to make ends meet for college next year, but I could work my butt off during the summer and somehow we would get by. I had gotten a sizeable scholarship from my university, but I did need money to pay for a new used car for the commute and my books. But, Father's job in the orchestra really did pay well, as he was a senior member and quite respected. I supposed we could manage for a few months.

The doctor continued to speak, giving me instructions on care, medicinal side effects, and things to watch out for. He also told me that my father had undergone some psychological therapy while he had been in the hospital, and he recommended that if my father wanted to discuss certain things that I should attempt to make myself available. While there probably was none, I imagined that I could hear some sort of rebuke in his voice, and I felt guilt overwhelm me.

After our conversation ended, he told me that my father would be waiting for me in the emergency waiting room. I dropped my bag, grabbed my purse, and started our old behemoth Dynasty, the old engine sputtering and coughing to life like a rheumatic grandmother. She complained all the way down the road, but when I put her on the highway, she seemed to pick up the pace, as ready to see Daddy as I was.

I prayed that his time in the hospital would have frightened him as to the reality of death, but I knew that somehow this was not the case. All I could hope for was what I had prayed for before; that he would wait until I was ready. Then, all I could do was let him go.

I insisted on tucking him in that night, watching him take his medicine, and making him a wonderful dinner. He laughed at my motherly concern, and did whatever I told him too meekly and obediently. I told him about my new tutor for French, and he was as enthusiastic as I was about the possibility of acceptance into the summer academy. He insisted that he would be fine at work, and told me to keep my job, but I firmly told him that I would make arrangements tomorrow for a six week furlough from the store.

We laughed over the pasta and broiled chicken (one of the dishes I can make with excellence) and that night was perfect. He went to sleep early, telling me that some of the narcotics from the IV line were still percolating through his system, and I stayed up, listening to music and reading, peacefully, and hearing the house settle into more familiar rhythms.

He told me that he would go back to work next Monday, and I knew the extra sleep and rest would be good for him for the next couple of days. For right now, everything seemed perfect.

I cleaned the kitchen, washing all the filthy dishes that I had left sitting, and sweeping the kitchen and beating out the old area rug in the living room. I brought out some old afghans, so that dad could have a comfortable place to curl up in tomorrow, and before I went to sleep, I checked in on him. When I saw that he was sleeping like a baby, I finally let myself relax, and I slept that night as I hadn't slept for the past three days. The only sounds I heard were the shrilling of insects and birds and the quiet rhythm of my own peaceful heart.