A/N: To all French speakers I apologize for any mistakes I might make. I'm
as egotistical as the next person and showing off my French skills (you can
take that either way you want to) in a conversation is enough to make me
feel my vulnerabilities. As Xander once said, "I laugh in the face of
danger. Then I run and hide till it goes away."
Qui Sais?
I jerked up. For a moment confusion swirled through my already befuddled mind, then I realized that I'd almost done a swan dive onto my desk do to being asleep. With a sigh I slouched back into my titanium strength plastic chair and winced as its absolute inflexibility dug into the bruises I'd acquired ground pounding. I don't know when the school board last sprung for desks but I think it was before I was a gleam in my yet unmet papy's eye. A theme in this town. I imagine that people in charge hope that the citizens of our lovely burg die before they get around to filing complaints. Looking at Mr. Martin through half lidded eyes I wondered how he'd avoided being chow for some unlucky demon. ^He's from France after all, you think they'd jump at the chance to get the taste of surfer and airhead out of their mouths.^
Alicia Ferrence, a girl who I remember eating bugs in kindergarten and stealing other kids' puppets, leaned over and with the subtlety of a hippo dancing the ballet "accidentally" dropped a piece of paper on the floor next to my feet. Restraining myself from bawling her out for her poor technique in dead drops I slid to my left, the only way possible to bend over in these desk/chairs, and snagged the paper. Unfolding it I found myself looking at Willow's precise handwriting. _____________________________________________________________________ Jean-Luc LeBeau -
5555 Roi Rue New Orleans, LA 15685
Your Grandfather?
Sorry I couldn't tell you earlier. Buffy. _____________________________________________________________________ Looking down at the note I felt panic and happiness rolling around in my stomach fighting for dominance. I glanced three rows back and two to my left. Willow shrugged sheepishly and gave me a happy nod. My eyes darted to Buffy sitting next to her. Buffy was zoning out the window and probably wouldn't notice anything less than Angel strolling in through the door. ^Or maybe, Ford.^
I knew the frown that lit my face made me look jealous, and in a way I was, but *damnit* this wasn't about jealousy. It *wasn't*. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the whirls of color I read off Ford. Dark purple dripped out of his every word and blood red was knotted at his heart. There was a tinge of pale pink overlaying it and lime green oozing out in his wake. Just looking at him made edgy. He was desperate and angry, sorry and sick. He didn't change either. That really creeped me out. The only other person I'd met who was that consistent was Mrs. French, and if that didn't just give me the wiggins. ^Of course I can't really come out and say, 'He creeps me out cause his colors are all wrong.' That'll convince them. That I need to see the men in white coats. Or they could always point out my lovely track record of judging people, which even I'll admit hasn't been so hot. ^
I clenched my fist ant felt the paper in my hand crumple. Remembering its importance I hurriedly flattened it out. Willow spent- well a lot less time than I had- getting me this information. I stopped. ^Now what?^ staring at the address I felt lost.
There was a man out there who fathered me. That was the man I wanted to meet. Why? I certainly didn't want him to play father, I'd had enough of that. Yet there was part of me that yearned to make the connection. It was probably the same part that wanted for years for my mother to look at me instead of through me. The analogy pulled me up short. ^Maybe I *do* want a father. Someone to look at me with pride instead of rage?^ I took a deep breath as that revelation settled in my heart. ^O-K. Maybe I am a little boy who wants a pat on the head.^ I snorted at my own stupidity.
"Quelque chose tu besoin partages avec nous Etienne." #Is there something you wish to share with the class, Etienne?# Silently I cursed myself as Mr. Martin uttered those words, I swear they write them in the teacher handbook under 'catching in the act'. I knew he was speaking to me. I, to my immediate horror upon learning it in ninth grade, was Etienne. It took me a while to get used to the French name the baudet had assigned, mainly because my understanding of the French language was at about the same level as my understanding of calculus, but over time even I learned to recognize it. ^At least it's better than Etni.^ The poor sucker next to me was the one who got stuck with *that* name. Martin wasn't the most original and did things alphabetically. Now of course I understood the rest of the sentence, something that in the past I couldn't have done if my life depended on it.
I looked up to find Mr. Martin, all hundred and twenty pounds of him contained in green polyester pants and a very clashing orange dress shirt, scowling at me like he was the Kaiser and I was Otto Von Bismarck whom he was giving the boot. ^Willow spent five days pounding that history lesson into my head. Now I can't forget it.^ "Non, Monsieur." #No, Sir.# His nostrils flared with outrage and I groaned inwardly. Obviously my tone hadn't contained the correct servile note.
"Je ne comprende pas comment tu peux penser cet je suis assez stupide te croire. Tu es un garcon sans les cerveaux le Dieu donne un pomme. Je prie pour le monde avec personnes comme tu dans ce. Merde." #I can't understand how you can think that I'm stupid enough to believe that. You are a boy without the brains God gave an apple. I pray for the world with people like you in it. Shit.# He moaned and rubbed his temples.
I couldn't resist I rolled my eyes. "Monsieur Martin, tu m'emmerdes." #Mr. Martin, you're bugging the shit out of me.# Restless shifting filled the room with swishy sounds as those who were clueless tried to figure out what was going on and those who knew at least the minimum French swear words to impress their friends couldn't believe what they were hearing. I heard Willow's gasp. Half-awed I noted that one of Martin's veins was actually throbbing near the temple. ^I wonder if he's about ready for that aneurysm.^
"Tu petit con! Tu defi insultes moi! Ta mère est une pute et tu n'es pas plus! " #You little prick. You dare insult me! Your mother is a whore and you're no better!.# Spittle flew from his mouth as his face turned an appalling shade of red.
"Va te faire enculer." #Go fuck yourself.# I snarled. Anger burned in my veins. My mother was a lot of things but never that! Hurriedly I clamped down on my fury, the nasty little part of me wanted to crush the little toad. Last night had taught me that I should be careful what I wish for.
"Tu fils de pute! Sors de là!" #You son of a bitch! Get out of here!# Martin's chest was heaving and spittle dangled from the corner of his mouth. Swallowing my resentment I swept my books off my desk. Glaring at Mr. Martin I straightened up, ignoring the weight of the class's eyes on my back, and marched out of the room letting the door slam behind me.
Out in the hallway I shook with contained rage and fear. I'd been *this* close to letting loose on that idiot and he hadn't even said anything he hadn't before. Harsh paint fumes mixed with my whirling emotions was starting to make me dizzy. The lockers in front of me had been repainted a brown ugly enough to make a grown man cry. Considering the obvious tightfisted administration I was a little reluctant to hazard a guess at what would be bad enough for them to spring for the paint. However knowing this town it probably involved blood and guts, maybe not even human ones.
Taking a deep breath to calm myself for my coming confrontation, and gagging on the foul air, I shoved my emotions in a box. As composed as possible for me I turned to my left and casually headed down the hall to the Principal's office.
Qui Sais?
I jerked up. For a moment confusion swirled through my already befuddled mind, then I realized that I'd almost done a swan dive onto my desk do to being asleep. With a sigh I slouched back into my titanium strength plastic chair and winced as its absolute inflexibility dug into the bruises I'd acquired ground pounding. I don't know when the school board last sprung for desks but I think it was before I was a gleam in my yet unmet papy's eye. A theme in this town. I imagine that people in charge hope that the citizens of our lovely burg die before they get around to filing complaints. Looking at Mr. Martin through half lidded eyes I wondered how he'd avoided being chow for some unlucky demon. ^He's from France after all, you think they'd jump at the chance to get the taste of surfer and airhead out of their mouths.^
Alicia Ferrence, a girl who I remember eating bugs in kindergarten and stealing other kids' puppets, leaned over and with the subtlety of a hippo dancing the ballet "accidentally" dropped a piece of paper on the floor next to my feet. Restraining myself from bawling her out for her poor technique in dead drops I slid to my left, the only way possible to bend over in these desk/chairs, and snagged the paper. Unfolding it I found myself looking at Willow's precise handwriting. _____________________________________________________________________ Jean-Luc LeBeau -
5555 Roi Rue New Orleans, LA 15685
Your Grandfather?
Sorry I couldn't tell you earlier. Buffy. _____________________________________________________________________ Looking down at the note I felt panic and happiness rolling around in my stomach fighting for dominance. I glanced three rows back and two to my left. Willow shrugged sheepishly and gave me a happy nod. My eyes darted to Buffy sitting next to her. Buffy was zoning out the window and probably wouldn't notice anything less than Angel strolling in through the door. ^Or maybe, Ford.^
I knew the frown that lit my face made me look jealous, and in a way I was, but *damnit* this wasn't about jealousy. It *wasn't*. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the whirls of color I read off Ford. Dark purple dripped out of his every word and blood red was knotted at his heart. There was a tinge of pale pink overlaying it and lime green oozing out in his wake. Just looking at him made edgy. He was desperate and angry, sorry and sick. He didn't change either. That really creeped me out. The only other person I'd met who was that consistent was Mrs. French, and if that didn't just give me the wiggins. ^Of course I can't really come out and say, 'He creeps me out cause his colors are all wrong.' That'll convince them. That I need to see the men in white coats. Or they could always point out my lovely track record of judging people, which even I'll admit hasn't been so hot. ^
I clenched my fist ant felt the paper in my hand crumple. Remembering its importance I hurriedly flattened it out. Willow spent- well a lot less time than I had- getting me this information. I stopped. ^Now what?^ staring at the address I felt lost.
There was a man out there who fathered me. That was the man I wanted to meet. Why? I certainly didn't want him to play father, I'd had enough of that. Yet there was part of me that yearned to make the connection. It was probably the same part that wanted for years for my mother to look at me instead of through me. The analogy pulled me up short. ^Maybe I *do* want a father. Someone to look at me with pride instead of rage?^ I took a deep breath as that revelation settled in my heart. ^O-K. Maybe I am a little boy who wants a pat on the head.^ I snorted at my own stupidity.
"Quelque chose tu besoin partages avec nous Etienne." #Is there something you wish to share with the class, Etienne?# Silently I cursed myself as Mr. Martin uttered those words, I swear they write them in the teacher handbook under 'catching in the act'. I knew he was speaking to me. I, to my immediate horror upon learning it in ninth grade, was Etienne. It took me a while to get used to the French name the baudet had assigned, mainly because my understanding of the French language was at about the same level as my understanding of calculus, but over time even I learned to recognize it. ^At least it's better than Etni.^ The poor sucker next to me was the one who got stuck with *that* name. Martin wasn't the most original and did things alphabetically. Now of course I understood the rest of the sentence, something that in the past I couldn't have done if my life depended on it.
I looked up to find Mr. Martin, all hundred and twenty pounds of him contained in green polyester pants and a very clashing orange dress shirt, scowling at me like he was the Kaiser and I was Otto Von Bismarck whom he was giving the boot. ^Willow spent five days pounding that history lesson into my head. Now I can't forget it.^ "Non, Monsieur." #No, Sir.# His nostrils flared with outrage and I groaned inwardly. Obviously my tone hadn't contained the correct servile note.
"Je ne comprende pas comment tu peux penser cet je suis assez stupide te croire. Tu es un garcon sans les cerveaux le Dieu donne un pomme. Je prie pour le monde avec personnes comme tu dans ce. Merde." #I can't understand how you can think that I'm stupid enough to believe that. You are a boy without the brains God gave an apple. I pray for the world with people like you in it. Shit.# He moaned and rubbed his temples.
I couldn't resist I rolled my eyes. "Monsieur Martin, tu m'emmerdes." #Mr. Martin, you're bugging the shit out of me.# Restless shifting filled the room with swishy sounds as those who were clueless tried to figure out what was going on and those who knew at least the minimum French swear words to impress their friends couldn't believe what they were hearing. I heard Willow's gasp. Half-awed I noted that one of Martin's veins was actually throbbing near the temple. ^I wonder if he's about ready for that aneurysm.^
"Tu petit con! Tu defi insultes moi! Ta mère est une pute et tu n'es pas plus! " #You little prick. You dare insult me! Your mother is a whore and you're no better!.# Spittle flew from his mouth as his face turned an appalling shade of red.
"Va te faire enculer." #Go fuck yourself.# I snarled. Anger burned in my veins. My mother was a lot of things but never that! Hurriedly I clamped down on my fury, the nasty little part of me wanted to crush the little toad. Last night had taught me that I should be careful what I wish for.
"Tu fils de pute! Sors de là!" #You son of a bitch! Get out of here!# Martin's chest was heaving and spittle dangled from the corner of his mouth. Swallowing my resentment I swept my books off my desk. Glaring at Mr. Martin I straightened up, ignoring the weight of the class's eyes on my back, and marched out of the room letting the door slam behind me.
Out in the hallway I shook with contained rage and fear. I'd been *this* close to letting loose on that idiot and he hadn't even said anything he hadn't before. Harsh paint fumes mixed with my whirling emotions was starting to make me dizzy. The lockers in front of me had been repainted a brown ugly enough to make a grown man cry. Considering the obvious tightfisted administration I was a little reluctant to hazard a guess at what would be bad enough for them to spring for the paint. However knowing this town it probably involved blood and guts, maybe not even human ones.
Taking a deep breath to calm myself for my coming confrontation, and gagging on the foul air, I shoved my emotions in a box. As composed as possible for me I turned to my left and casually headed down the hall to the Principal's office.