Klingon Diplomatic Corps

"My name is Marco Morelli."

"Hi, Marco!" the other twenty-seven six-year-olds yelled. We were about halfway through the group.

"My name ith Trathy Thellerth."

"Hi, Tracy!"

("The thells thea thells by the thea thore," one little wit in the back row cracked. Jerk. Tracy gave him the faintest of disdainful looks and otherwise ignored him. Good; she has a tough hide.)

Another row of kids, including some we remembered from kindergarten. Stevie Packer (what would his mother sweet talk me into this year?), Peggy Martindale (her mom had already asked me to be co-room parent again) and Allie—Allie Something, among others.

"(unintelligible mumble)." This from the little girl in front of Lexi. New student; I didn't recognize her from last year, anyway.

"I'm sorry, dear, we couldn't hear you. Could you please speak up a bit?" the teacher, Mrs. Itami, said gently.

"My name is Melody Troutman." Barely audible.

"Haw! She's a fish!"

Melody's face crumpled. "Justin, one of our classroom rules is 'no teasing,'" Mrs. Itami said evenly.

Justin didn't apologize, and his smirk made it clear she was going to have her hands full with this one.

Lexi caught Melody's eye. "Recess? Cat's cradle?" she whispered. She pulled a Chinese jump rope an inch or so out of her jeans pocket. Melody's eyes brightened and she nodded. Mrs. Itami, meanwhile, had prompted the class and was rewarded with a chorus of, "Hi, Melody!"

Melody was followed by Mi Li, Jesus Yamamoto (Justin either didn't realize that 'Hay-soos' was spelled J-e-s-u-s—or he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Jesus was almost a head taller than most of the class and was solidly built; no video game flab on that kid. He could probably flatten anyone who gave him grief over his name or his heritage.), Phillip Eckles, Dawn Kellogg and a couple more I missed.

Last row, last two. "My name is Alexandra Mallard—"

Justin had been silent too long, "Haw, haw! A fish and a duck!"

Lexi gave him a quirked eyebrow (learned that one from Aunt Abby) and didn't miss a beat. "But I prefer to be called Lexi." Her tiny "l" problem had disappeared by kindergarten. I kind of missed it.

"Hi, Lexi!"

"My name is Justin Kadarkaba," he said with a definite 'nobody dares make fun of me' look.

"Hi, Justin!"

"How rude," Lexi said at the same time. But it wasn't said to Justin specifically—nor was it said in a tone of dislike. Next to me I heard a quiet chuckle from my beloved husband.

Justin gave Lexi a baffled look. "Hunh?"

"Your name. It means 'how rude' in Turkish. Actually, how rude is na kadar kaba but it's close enough I suppose."

I stifled a giggle of my own. Ziva had been informally teaching Lexi every language she could think of and, unbeknownst to me, had branched out to insults when Lex hit about four. She also taught her how to say "how rude" in each of those languages. When I objected, she pointed out that people can say nasty, rude things in very sweet tones, and it was helpful to know when someone was talking trash about you—and to have a relatively civil comeback. She had a point.

Justin continued to stare at Lexi. "You… speak Turkish?"

Lexi looked equally baffled. "Doesn't everyone?" (No, she knows fully well not everyone speaks Turkish. She was clearly yanking his chain.)

"You're weird." He took refuge in a sneer.

Lexi smiled sweetly. "Und Sie sinderbärmlich."

Justin looked uncertain. "Uh—thanks?"

Ducky snorted faintly and leaned close to my ear. "She just said, 'you are pathetic,'" he translated in a murmur, knowing my German is sub-par.

Thank you, Ziva...

Of course, if real life is anything like a For Better or For Worse comic strip (and it so often is!)... I just met my future son-in-law.