Chapter 7: Perfect for Jazz
Chapter song: "You're the cream in my coffee" – Nat King Cole
Time: August

Quinn was leaning up against her car, fidgeting with her skirt, trying to wiggle it down a little so it wouldn't show so much of her thighs.

I probably should have worn something a bit more appropriate for this, she thought. Don't want to give him any ideas; I'm just helping him with his English.

Soon after, she saw the French boy approaching her from the other end of the school parking lot. When their eyes met he ran up to her.

"Ah, vous l'avez rappelé." Augustin said happily. ["Ah, you remembered"]

"Bien sûr," she replied, opened the door, and got in. ["Of course,"]

He jumped over to the other side of the car and hopped in.

It was the day of their first tutor lesson and unsure what to expect from Augustin, she felt a little nervous. Hesitantly she stuck the key in the ignition and down the road they went.

"So, how go it?" He looked at her expectantly.

A small smile formed on her lips. "How goes it. Or rather, 'how is it going'. Try that,"

"Bon, how is it going?"

"Good, thank you."

A little while later, they pulled up in front of her house and got out of the car.

As they entered, Augustin exclaimed "Quelle maison!" ["What a house!"]

"Merci. It was my mother who furnished it," the blonde answered slowly.

He nodded, but Quinn wasn't sure that he understood.

"Where is your parents?" he asked as they walked up the stairs towards her room.

"My mother is at work. She won't be home until later tonight. She works a lot." Oh god, that totally sounded like I was encouraging him to make a move on me… letting him know that we aren't going to be disturbed for hours. Nice one, Quinn, she thought, but luckily it didn't seem like Augustin had been paying attention the last part of her comment.

"And… father?" he asked studying a line of old pictures of Quinn and her sister hanging on the wall in the hallway.

"Uh, long story," she answered, not really interested in telling him all about her sophomore year… about Beth. I know the guys tend to gossip quite a lot in the locker room, she thought. I wonder if he's heard anything about me having a baby, and as if per cue, Augustin immediately said:

"Quel joli bébé!" ["What a beautiful baby!"]

Quinn hastily looked up feeling like someone had just punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Then she realized it wasn't Beth he was talking about. It was her.

Augustin was pointing to a photo picturing herself as a one-year-old.

"C'est toi, non?" He asked with a toothy grin. ["It's you, right?"]

"Oui, c'est moi," Quinn exhaled thinking I need to stop being so tense. ["Yes, that's me,"]

"Yes. I can see. It is… I don't know… C'est tes yeux - tes yeux sont les mêmes que lors. Ils sont uniques - les plus beaux yeux que j'ai jamais vu." ["It's your eyes - your eyes still look the same. They are unique - the prettiest eyes I've ever seen."]

He turned around and looked at her. He was still smiling.

Quinn looked him in the eyes for a moment, slightly taken aback by what he had just said. Then she looked down as she felt her cheeks getting warmer. "Th-thank you."

"De rien." They were silent for yet another moment, Quinn not willing to look up and Augustin amused by her embarrassment. "Alors, où est ton chambre?" ["You're welcome. So, where's your room?"]

"Ici," she said while passing him. She took a few steps further down the hall before turning to the left, entering her own room. ["Here,"]

Quinn threw off her ballet flats in the corner and sat on her bed letting out a heavy sigh, already tired because of her anxious state of mind.

Augustin followed her and sat down on her chaise longue pointing to the porcelain figure on the coffee table next to him.

"La vierge?" ["The virgin?"]

"Virgin Mary," Quinn corrected him. Wonder if he gets annoyed when I do that.

"Yes. Religieuse?" ["Religious?"]

"Aha."

"Beaucoup?" ["Very?"]

"Well. I was, mais maintenant…" Quinn started hesitantly ["Well. I was, but now..."]

"Yes?"

"Maintenant, I'm not a very good Christian. I'm kind of a bad Christian."

She thought about all her actions the past two years and she felt the little cross, hanging around her neck, burning into her chest.

"Pourquoi?" Augustin asked curiously. ["Why?"]

Quinn looked at him while frowning a bit. She had no idea how much he knew about her, but regardless she wasn't in the mood to discuss her past. "Never mind."

"D'accord," he said, wobbling his head. "Donc, tu es un mauvais chrétien. M'en dire plus sur toi-même." ["All right. So, you're a bad Christian. Tell me more about yourself."]

"Non, tu es la personne, qui a besoin d'apprendre la langue. Donc, m'en dire plus sur toi-même. Et pas plus français!" She said raising one eyebrow. ["No, you're the one who needs to learn the language. So, tell me more about yourself. And no more French!"]

"Bon, ce qui tu veux savoir?" ["Fine, what do you want to know?"]

"I said no more French!" Quinn said playing the strict school teacher with her finger waving at him, though she couldn't help but smile.

"Okay okay. What you like to know?" Augustin laughed.

"I want to know why you take the school bus every morning. And why I had to drive you here today"

Augustin scrunched up his face, obviously wondering how to express himself. "I take the school bus because… I not drive."

"You don't drive? Because you don't like to or because you can't?"

"I can't. In France only grand people drive."

"Grand people as in grown ups?"

"People who have… plus dix-huit."

"Oh, I see. Only people who are above the age of 18 are allowed to drive."

"Yes! Exactement."

"You mean 'exactly'"

"Yes yes, exactly."

"But aren't you 18?"

"Yes - now. In France I am 17. Then I go here and now 18."

"I see."

"But I take a driver's license now. Un temporaires."

"A temporary driver's license? That's nice. When do you get it?"

"Novembre."

"November. So you'll be able to drive yourself to school then."

"Maybe. If father say okay." He chuckled.

"You don't think your host dad is going to let you borrow his car?"

"No, I don't think that. He is old,"

"How old?"

He shrugged and scratched his neck.

Is it their actual age or the English word for that number that is troubling him? "Well, very old?"

"Yes! I think mes parents americaine are very old. And they don't know French, pas du tout."

"So it's difficult for you to communicate with them?"

"Yes. Very. But they are very sweet. They can't say my name, alors they say 'Gus'."

"They call you Gus?"

He nodded and looked down at his red all stars.

"Gus. I like that," Quinn said.

"Me also."

They were silent for a moment, merely looking at each other.

He was the first to break the silence. "I, uh, I examine Nat King Cole in google," he said, sounding slightly shy.

"You google'd Nat King Cole?" Quinn asked surprised. She remembered he had commented on the song lyrics she had written on her notebook.

"Yes. He is very old, no?"

Quinn chuckled. "Yes, but not like your parents, Gus. He's dead now. His music is very old though, that you can say."

"Exactem-, I mean, exactly. His music is jazz. You like jazz?"

"Yeah, I do." Quinn replied and now it was her turn to be shy. "I don't know, I kinda like listening to it, it makes me calm, you know? Modern music is fine for dancing at parties and stuff. But when I'm by myself I prefer listening to the old classics. Does that sound weird?"

"Quinn, please. I understand; I'm French!"

They both laughed and Quinn felt how she slowly began to relax.

"I want to hear," Gus said suddenly

"You want to hear some of his music?"

"Yes… please." He gave her a big smile and giggling she got up and plugged her ipod in her docking-station. She found a song and hit play.

After a couple of seconds and a few bass chords, the dreamy voice of Nat King Cole flowed out through the speakers.

You're the cream in my coffee,
You're the salt in my stew…

"Really? A song around coffee?" Gus laughed.

"No," Quinn grimaced. "It's a song about love and about needing each other."

"Oh," he said.

Quinn was still standing by the docking station when Gus got up and slowly walked towards her.

"Voulez-vous m'accorder cette danse?" He asked while nobly offering her his hand. ["May I have this dance?"]

Quinn wasn't sure if it was because of the music, her loneliness or his big brown eyes, but she suddenly saw herself putting her hand in his somewhat larger hand and the next thing she knew, he was grabbing her waist (though gently) and twirling her around.

Most men tell love tails,
And each phrase dovetails

"Hm, I like this song," he said, looking down at the small blonde in his arms. Then he noticed her anxious expression.

"Relaxez," he said while gently rubbing circles into her back with his hand. "Nous sommes juste danser." ["Relax. We're just dancing."]

He then felt her unstiffen a bit, yet he wasn't quite satisfied.

"Chanter pour moi," ["Sing for me,"]

"W-what?" Quinn stuttered finally looking up at him.

"Chanter pour moi," he repeated. "Sing."

Already confused by the situation, she saw no point in arguing with the stranger (should I still consider him a stranger? She mused. Do I still consider him a stranger?), so she parted her lips slightly and quietly began chanting along with her favorite jazz musician.

"You're the captain and crew
You'll always be my necessity
Like a restaurant with a recipe
You're the lace in my shoe
I'd be lost without you."

Along with the last notes of the song, he had spun her around and she was now standing with her back against him, his arms firmly wrapped around her.

"Magnifique," he whispered kissing her cheek.

Quinn licked her lips and nonplussed, she took a step away from him and then turned to face him.

"Beautiful. Very," he said calmly not affected by the scared look upon her face. "You can sing this in glee club, yes?"

Quinn took a deep breath when she realized that he wasn't going to jump on her. Is he hitting on me or is it all in my head? She wondered.

"I-in glee club? You want me to sing this in front of the others?" She hastily shook her head. "I-I don't think so."

"Mais pourquoi pas! Tu as la voix d'un ange." ["But why not! You have the voice of an angel."]

"Thanks Gus, that was a sweet compliment, but my voice is too nasal for solos."

"Pas du tout," he almost yelled taking a step towards her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and bent down a bit so he could look into her eyes.

"Quinn, you have a beautiful voice. It is perfect for jazz. Croyez-moi!" ["Not at all (...) believe me!"]

She studied the French boy's eyes while considering his suggestion. She wasn't really ready to stand up in front of everybody else (everybody else being Samcedes) and sing her heart out. She knew that jazz was the best genre for her voice, but she just felt so insecure.

Then she saw something in Gus' eyes. A look she hadn't seen in a long time anywhere else: it was look of sheer friendliness and… what? Hope? Did he actually look hopeful? She wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but she knew that she couldn't tell him 'no' now.

"Well, I'll think about it," she finally sighed, closing her eyes.

He pulled her in for a tight hug and after a little while she wrapped her arms around him too.

When they parted Quinn once again felt awkward, so she quietly told him that he probably should be heading home now, as it was getting late.

"Bien sûr," he said picking up his bag. "But I need a chauffeur."

Gus lived relatively close to Quinn as they only drove for about 20 minutes before he told her to pull over. They were parked in front of a line of small row houses in different colours.

"This seems like a nice neighbourhood," she said before he got out of the car.

"You have not be here?"

"No, I've never been here before. Everything else - school, the mall, church, the park - is in the other direction, so I have never driven this way."

"Good bye, Quinn," he said pecking her on her cheek.

"Bye Gus."

He opened the car door and got out, but just before closing it again, he leaned down and tilted his head, saying "Don't be sad because your voice is, uh, nasal. It is what make you very good in French."

Once again, Quinn was surprised by his attentive manor, so she said nothing. Instead she just smiled at him.

Gus closed the car door and went into his house.

Thank you for reading!
As promised, the seventh chapter. I know this was a bit too Gus-centric, but I felt that I needed to include a lot of details; thus the length of this chapter. In the next chapter(s) there'll be more interaction between the main glee-characters and their observations on Gus (on Gus? Of Gus? At Gus? What preposition does one use here?) Ah, sorry. It's late in my country and I'm afraid my English speaking skills are slowly diffusing out of my head. I'm pretty sure there are quite a few grammatical errors in this chapter. I apologize. So, this isn't the best chapter, but I do hope you enjoyed it anyhow. Have a nice weekend everyone and thank you for your lovely reviews on the previous chapter. Bisous.