(Pretty Much A M A Z I N G banner by Stellz over at The Dark Arts! (Sorry the first chapter is so short...they'll get longer, promise.))
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September 7, 2002. The day it all began. I sat there, in the middle of French Class, staring out at the aphotic, grey sky, as Mrs. Fairwell went on and on about prendre, apprendre, and comprendre. It had been dark outside for the last three days, and the sky is now flooded with the potential to rain. I hope it does. I love everything about the rain, with the exception of possibly being flooded out of my home if too much comes.
"Isabelle!", said Mrs. Fairwell, snapping my out of my trance. "Tell me how to conjugate prendre with je."
"Take the re off of the end of prendre, and add an s", I say.
"Definition", she says.
"Of what?"
"Prendre of course!"
"To take. Prendre means to take. Unless, of course, you are ordering a meal. In that case, prendre means to have," I answer.
"You are a lucky girl. Now, please give your attention to me instead of that window. Or do you find the window more alluring?," she asks, raising her eyebrows.
Yes, as I matter of fact, I do.
"No Mrs. Fairwell. I’m sorry. I’ll pay attention," I say.
"Merci Isabelle," she says to me before turning back to the board. "Now, when conjugating prendre with Ils or Elles, you must remember to add an extra n..."
I sink in my chair and stare at the clock, will the bell to ring.
When the bell finally rings, I’m surprised when Mrs. Fairwell asks me to stay behind.
"Yes, Mrs. Fairwell?," I say.
"Your grade has been slipping, Isabelle," she says, flipping through a stack of graded papers.
"Yeah, I know. I’m trying Mrs. Fairwell, really. I’m just...having a tough time," I say.
"Is something going on at home? Are you fighting with a friend? Please tell me Isabelle. What is it that’s making your grade slip so crudely?," she asks.
I turn my head away from her. "Nothing. I’m just a little stressed out. That’s all. You know, it is my senior year," I say.
"That’s not the only thing Isabelle. This is your test from the beginning of the year, and this is your test from yesterday," she says, holding up two papers. One a flawless A, and the other a taunting D-. "You don’t seem to be getting the answers right anymore." Her expression is now questioning.
"That’s not true! I answered every one of your questions correctly just twenty minutes ago!," I defend.
"Isabelle, you’ve known that stuff for months now! What is it you’re not telling me?," she asks, her expression still questioning, only now it has a hint of sorrow as well.
I sigh. "Nothing is wrong Mrs. Fairwell. I told you, I’m only stressed. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. Promise," I say, quietly, afraid of possibly falling apart if I try to speak any louder. I turn towards the door, but Mrs. Fairwell stops me.
"You know, Isabelle, talking about it could make you feel a little better," she says cordially. I turn back towards her and see she’s smiling at me. I look down at my shoes and bite my bottom lip, then, hesitatingly, I walk over to the chair next to her desk and sit in it. She puts her hand gently on my shoulder, and, still looking at my shoes, I say, "I think Junee is dying."
Her hand moves from my shoulder to her mouth in one quick motion, and, just as I feared, I fall apart.
