Inside Edison High the next day, everything is as usual. We have the golf player substitute again. “Unfortunately, Monsieur LeFleur has suffered a relapse in his health, due to the stress of attending the family funeral,” the sub tells us.
“What? But the funeral was two weeks ago,” I say. “And last week he wasn’t here because of a family emergency.”
“Yes. Well, I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but he won’t be able to make it today. However, he wanted me to thank you all very much for your cards, and I have corrected homework to hand back to you, and a worksheet, as well as a CD of him teaching a class, which we can all listen to.”
“Someone else’s class?” I ask. “Like, we’re getting a repeat?”
“Are we going to get credit for this course? Because I’m really starting to wonder here,” Charlotte says.
“You will certainly get credit—if you can pass the exam at the end of the summer term,” the substitute says. “It’s an oral and written exam.”
“How are we supposed to pass an exam when we never speak French in here?” another student asks. “There aren’t enough subs that speak French, and we never practice. It’s not fair.”
“I’m sure Monsieur LeFleur will go easy on you. He’s not expecting you to make a hole in one without a lesson from the pro, if you catch my drift,” she says.
We don’t. Or at least I don’t want to. If I start having a rapport with golf pros, I’m not sure what that would mean about me, but it can’t be good.
“As usual, he has prepared special materials for you.” She walks around the classroom, her golf-shoe spikes clicking on the linoleum floor.
I stare at the worksheet she places on my desk. Monsieur LeFleur has made a list of vocabulary words for us, and we have to use them in French sentences. This is the list, which is titled Emotions:
Sad
Gloomy
Cheerless
Angry
Furious
Irate
Enraged
Depressed
Frustrated
Disturbed
Thwarted
Despondent
Hopeless
I’m not sure why the last word isn’t suicidal, because it seems like the most natural progression. I go up to the front of the classroom, where the golfer is sitting at the desk filling out an attendance sheet, or her scorecard, perhaps. “Listen,” I whisper to her. “Is Monsieur LeFleur dying? Does he have inoperable cancer or something?”
“What? No. That’s absurd. Do you realize how absurd that is?” she asks me.
I nod. “Yes. But look at this list. The man is in trouble somehow.”
“Well, he’s not that sick,” she says.
“Not that sick? Then how sick is he?” I ask.
“That’s personal—but he’s not dying. And I really have no idea. I’m sure it’s just a sort of flu,” she says.
I put my hands on my hips. “Then explain where he’s been for the past three and a half weeks. The most dedicated teacher in Lindville. Missing.”
She shrugs. “Look, I don’t know; they don’t tell me any more than you. All I know is, he has someone pick up the students’ work and drop off his assignments. But I think you should go back to your seat now and get to work on that . . . worksheet.”
I glare at her for a minute, then go back to my seat.
Charlotte taps my arm with her pen. “You were sort of harassing her up there. What happened?”
“I’m so mad about this class. I just—” I stare at the worksheet. “I really identify with this list right now.”
“Me too,” Charlotte says. “Except—what does thwarted mean?”
“You know. Me and Steve. Because of Jacqui,” I explain. “Like that.”
“So why didn’t he just write sucky?” Charlotte asks.
“I don’t think sucky is a word,” I say. “But it should be.” In French it could be sucké, and I could use it in several sentences, all relating to this summer.
We both focus on the list for a few minutes. Then Charlotte leans over and asks, “Hey, you want to go to IHOP after class?”
“Sure,” I say. Then I remember: I have to take the kids to the park. Maybe this is a good thing. I’m not sure if I could take watching the “IHOPpers in Love” routine again. “Actually, I can’t. But hold on—I have something for you.” I dig the paper bag of CDs out of my bag and hand it to her. “These are for you. From Denny. His U2 favorites.”
Charlotte peers into the bag. “Wow. This is so cool!”
“He’ll probably quiz you sometime, so just be prepared, okay?” I ask.
Suddenly Monsieur LeFleur’s voice booms out of the CD player on the sub’s desk and she jumps up to turn down the volume. “Sorry, kids!” she says as a man’s voice screams, “Bonjour, mes amis!”