The class is so small we could’ve just used the short bus. We’d look like a bunch of retards, but at least people who are socially-retarded don’t feel like it. Thankfully, I’m not socially-retarded. The socially-retarded people pretend that ‘oh, we were planning to get a big long seat by ourselves ‘cause we wanna sleep.’ I pity them.

I, however, am sitting next to Parker Kwan. I don’t really like the guy. I mean, he’s cute, but he’s too moody-emo for me. His sarcasm and angsty-angst sinks through your skin, and you’re left feeling like shit.

He will not bring me down.

This French trip is the only thing I look forward to in that class. I work hard so I can go on this trip every year (even though I’m only in French 1). Granted, you don’t have work hard to go on the trip, but still. I want to be on Monsieur Kim’s good side.

You might be wondering what an Asian guy is doing teaching a French class. That’s a little racist, by the way. See, it looks pretty odd to see a person who doesn’t look like that race to be speaking its language. One time in English, we had this huge debate about languages, how it’s weird to see an Asian person speaking English. I felt like that was a huge blow towards me.

Okay, not really, but I made a joke out of it anyway.

So on the first day, everyone—Jack, actually—asked Monsieur Kim why he was teaching French and not Mandarin or whatever. He of course corrected us, saying he was Korean, and then proceeded to say,

“Why is it so weird?” he asked.

Parker, in the corner, in his emo-hoodie, replied, “Well, like, shouldn’t a French person teach French?”

“Well, what’s your English teacher?” Monsieur Kim raised his eyebrows.

“Um, Mr. Samuel, I think he’s black—”

Monsieur Kim cut Parker off, “African American, and so if he’s African, why is he teaching English?”

“Well, it’s different. He was born in the US—”

“And I wasn’t born in France? I can’t be French-Korean?”

“Well . . . . I dunno. Don’t ask me. Ask Jack—he’s the one who asked,” Parker blushed, embarrassed, trying to hide under his hood. He looked like a vampire. Rawr.

It didn’t matter anyway. No one cared that he was Asian, like no one cares that he’s gay either.

Okay, so no one actually knows if he’s gay. But he gives an essence that he’s gay. It’s like gaydar. Thinking now, I can’t see any reason why everyone thinks he’s gay. He just seems like it. Everyone can picture him with a guy, and not a girl. We see the way he acts around men. (Because he obviously isn’t a pedophile. We would never not care about a teacher being a pedophile. That is disgusting, you assholes.) He never looks them straight in the eye. He looks around the room, on the ground, at the ceiling. He smiles so much more and he blushes dahlias. He does this especially around Mr. Yoo, another English teacher.

Monsieur Kim is very shy, as you can tell from the way he acts around me, so he doesn’t really have a lot of friends that are from the school. The only person other than Mr. Yoo, is Miss Okata. When everyone in French isn’t thinking that Monsieur Kim is gay, they’re thinking he has a secret affair with the band teacher. It’s sweet and all because either way Monsieur Kim goes, he’s got someone.

The reason we think Miss Okata is Monsieur Kim’s mistress (even though, he’s not married, and unless gay marriage is allowed, I don’t think he ever will be, but it’s just very hush-hush to speak about them) is because they’re always sneaking around. She calls him on the phones that are only supposed to be used for school purposes. He goes to her room just to talk, because that’s all we ever see them doing.

We assume as soon as the bell rings, they’re off smexing on the desk.

Mr. Yoo and Miss Okata are on the trip. They’re in the front of the bus, sharing a seat. I suppose it’s to eliminate any suspicion that Monsieur Kim is with any of them. Miss Okata said the only reason she’s on the trip is because in band, they’re not doing anything since it’s only been a few days after their spring concert so there’s nothing to do. Mr. Yoo says he’s on the trip because he’s starting to hate reading Romeo and Juliet for the billionth time in his class.

We’re eating at The Ferry House, a Princeton restaurant that dabbles in French food. Of course Monsieur Kim, Miss Okata, and Mr. Yoo get a table to themselves, while we get one long table and one round table. And because I’m so fucking nice, I, along with Parker, let people take my seat, so we end up having the round table with a bunch of sophomores and juniors that I know but I don’t know—like Julie, a sophomore, this pretty cool girl, but she gives a weird vibe, like she knows everything about you. She’s a skater. I only know her because she came late into the year so she took Creative Writing only because that was the only class open.

Then there’s Jack. He’s a pretty smart kid. He was part of Science Olympiad. I had an event with him, but it was canceled so our chances of ever talking one-on-one was sliced in half. He’s wears glasses sometimes, and he very worldly because his taste buds are very tolerant. He’s not a geek because he’s dating the school’s nicest whore, Jane, who’s sitting right next to him.

Jane, she’s one of the nicest people in the world. Her intelligence is higher than average, but lower than ‘above average’. She’s makes it by a smidge into Honors classes, and she only gets away with it because of her breasts. I don’t know if she’s aware of her body, but if she is, she doesn’t really think much of it. She’s very oblivious, especially to her best friend, Elijah, who is head-over-heels in love with her, but he doesn’t know it either.

Next to Jane is Thomas. I wouldn’t call him Tommy, only because he seems like the professional type of guy to call Thomas. He’s an actor. He played Belle’s father in Beauty and the Beast. You’d think he was socially-awkward, but he’s not. He’s actually better than me when it comes to friends.

After Thomas is Wes. He’s a prep, but he hangs out with us—not including me or Parker, because we just joined this table because we’re rejects—instead of the preps on the long table. You’d think he would be a reject like his brother—who seriously stalks people—but he’s not. He’s witty, and he looks great. His good friend is Kevin, right next to him.

It seems like Wes and Kevin are close because most of the time, the laughter from the table is coming from them. They’re both smart and funny. They’re pretty good-looking. The only differences are that Wes is much quieter than Kevin. Anyone is much quieter than Kevin. Kevin is the loudest person I can think of, and he’s crazy too. He’s also gay.

But it’s okay, don’t worry, because he’s cuter than a button.

The atmosphere is awkward, only until we get our bread rolls. Then we find a common thread—Monsieur Kim.

“They get their own table! What the fuck!” Kevin snaps, pointing towards Monsieur Kim, Mr. Yoo, and Miss Okata’s table with his bread roll, crumbs sprinkling everywhere.

“What? You think they’re going to be sitting with us? They probably get alcohol, not this disgusting iced tea,” Jack scowls as Jane dunks pieces of bread into the drink, giggling as they hit the bottom of the glass.

“Hey, you better stop that. We’re not the ones cleaning this place up,” Wes nods, knowingly towards Jane, his drink in mid-tip.

“Which one is Monsieur Kim with? Mr. Yoo or Miss Okata?” Julie asks.

“Dunno, don’t care,” Parker mutters. “None of my business if someone’s in love.”

“Who says they’re in love?” Thomas laughs, his blonde, shiny hair bouncing. God, do I wish I had his hair.

“Well, they obviously can’t keep their hands off each other, so that’s why they’re having a little date now. They have to be with each other 24/7. The idea that Monsieur Kim would be out of either’s hands was too horrid to imagine!” Kevin proclaims, clutching his chest in expression. “Cry with me, Wes. We have to honor our teachers. It’s part of the ten commandments!”

“It’s ‘Honor your mother and father, stupid!” Wes slaps the back of Kevin’s head.

Wes and Kevin begin slapping each other, and I start gazing towards Monsieur Kim, Mr. Yoo, and Miss Okata’s table. It goes Miss Okata on the left side, Monsieur Kim front, and Mr. Yoo on Monsieur’s right side. Miss Okata and Monsieur Kim are laughing hysterically at something with their hands covering their mouths, while Mr. Yoo is smiling quietly on the side. But then again, Mr. Yoo’s hand is only a few centimeters away from Monsieur Kim’s hand that’s clutching the tablecloth, and his smile is pretty suspicious-looking.

I don’t know who I would rather have for Monsieur. On one hand, Mr. Yoo is just so adorable, with his big eyes, ruffled hair, and cute grin. He matches Monsieur’s features so well, with Monsieur’s frowning, glowing eyes. They seem like best friends, like everything they do, they do together. I remember for almost three weeks, Monsieur was absent, and so Mr. Yoo took over on his free period. (He didn’t know a goddamn thing. We ended up teaching him.) Mr. Yoo tried so fucking hard to pump himself up, try to see cheerful in our faces, even going as far as to scream, “FIGHTING!” as we’re taking our tests. The next day, Monsieur explained why he wasn’t there, because he was in the hospital for reasons he wouldn’t tell us.

I imagine that Monsieur Kim was in the hospital getting chemo for his stomach cancer, and Mr. Yoo, worried so much, tried to help his lover as much as he could. Mr. Yoo attempted to stay with Monsieur Kim, but Monsieur didn’t want to be a burden and told his lover to go, teach his wonderful students. As soon as school was over, Mr. Yoo would rush to the hospital and hold Monsieur’s hand as the Frenchman tried to get through the pain.

That, of course, will never happen, like Miss Okata and Monsieur Kim.

You have to admit—Miss Okata is really, really pretty. She’s got a sort sad face, like Monsieur Kim’s. When she grins, her eyes look like they’re trying too hard. Right now, they look like they’re trying too hard to be cheerful, and it makes you want to cry. I want to cry along with her. I want to feel her pain as she tries to smile. But that’s Monsieur Kim’s job, and I’m not a lesbian.

Between Miss Okata and Mr. Yoo, Monsieur spends most of his time with Miss Okata. During band, Monsieur always comes in and watches Miss Okata conduct. I never see Monsieur Kim visit Mr. Yoo. Mr. Yoo always comes to see Monsieur. The one time I saw Monsieur Kim visit Mr. Yoo was once during track, and they only spoke a few seconds.

“I think I’d rather have Miss Okata. I think they’d complete each other,” Jane grins, forming a heart with her hands. What a sap.

“I’d rather have Yoo. I think he likes Kim more,” Parker mumbles, his head down low with his nose almost touching the butter for the bread.

Jack snorts, grabbing the butter from under Parker’s nose, “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re gay—”

Parker leaps up, grabbing Jack’s collar from across the table, snapping under his breath, “Hey! I’m not a faggot!”

I wanna laugh. I find humans funny—but not me, though. I find myself above these people. Sure, that may make me conceited, but seriously, you have two dumbasses (Kevin and Wes), an emo (Parker), a dumb whore (Jane), drama geek (Thomas), a skater punk (Julie), and a geeky jock (Jack) at my table. I think I probably have the highest IQ of all these insolent life forms right here. I mean, seriously, just a second ago, Kevin and Wes were throwing pieces of bread at each other. These people are the stupidest people on the planet. Sure, this makes me kinda nihilistic, but what-the-fuck-ever. I’d rather die, than actually be associated with these people.

But this to me isn’t reality. We’re in Princeton, a full-forty minutes away from Adamsville. When we go back to Adamsville, we’ll go back to only knowing the other person takes French. I won’t be associated with these people right after this trip, so I might as well act like a seemingly-human being today and laugh at these life forms.

It’s just so humorous of Parker to think he can beat up Jack. The kid does wrestling, and what does Parker do? He stays at home and cuts his wrists. Parker obviously can’t do even the most miniscule piece of hurt to Jack.

Or at least that’s what I thought, because now I see Parker raising Jack off his seat—you can literally see the tips of Jack’s toes just barely touching the carpet—and Parker’s screaming like an idiot, “I’m not a fucking faggot!”

I’m biting my lip at this point, trying not to seem too joyous at this tension-filled moment. I have to see what Monsieur has to say about this. This will bring us a step closer to our goals—whether or not Monsieur is alright with gay people.

Monsieur’s feet stamp on his way toward us, and his hand grabs Parker’s hand and shoves him off Jack, while quietly-yelling under his breath, “Parker! You behave! We’re in a restaurant, we’re not at your own house! I don’t care what happened, but you better behave or else you’re going to end the trip for everyone.”

Monsieur then proceeds to curse in Korean, which no one can understand, except for probably Mr. Yoo, who’s right behind Monsieur, his eyes wide in horror at the words. All I can understand is an ‘alright?’ which I imagine is in a harsher way than we think. (I only know the word ‘alright’ because of the numerous Korean dramas I watch. It’s fun watching them because, I dunno, it’s nice to semi-live a fantasy, because seriously, those kind of things don’t happen in real life.)

“Hey, Hunter, shh, you’re embarrassing yourself. C’mon. I’m sure Parker will wallow in self-pity later like the emo he is . . . .” Mr. Yoo calms Monsieur down with one hand, raising the other threateningly and flinching for good measure to silence Parker when he leaps at the emo crack. Parker huffs, raising his hood back over his head, glancing around the table, hurriedly in embarrassment.

(Seriously, that was pretty stupid. If you make a big deal to protect your manliness and try to beat up the guy who called you gay, then you’re obviously gay.)

Well, that was fun.

So today we’re doing 400 repeats. I did a 400 once, in a meet. It was terrible. I could barely walk after. Then again, I also had shin splints from my terrible gait. See, I walk weird. The way I walk is that I stomp my feet on the ground. I have no heel-strike (whatever that is, I dunno, the physical therapist at school told me that). And when you run, you have to run on your toes, so I stomp on my toes instead, which causes me to run stupid.

I don’t know how many repeats we’re doing, but I know I’ll be able to last about two, and then I’ll start to break down, probably freak out and tell Coach Yoo that my shins hurt so much, please just make me run around the stadium instead, on the soft grass, instead of the hard track!

It may sound weird that such a nihilistic, angry person could be this paranoid and stupid at running, but I’m a coward. I’m a hypocrite. Part of being a good person, to me, is admitting your faults, and mine just happen to be hypocritical.

So I start off on the first 400, sprinting as far as I can, which is the 200 mark, and then I start to slow down. I know I can go faster, but my legs feel too heavy to pick up and my breathing is just so heavy and the back of my throat is so dry, and it’s only the first 400.

Then as I near 300 meters, I see Monsieur take Coach Yoo’s arm, so naturally, I sprint as hard as I can to get to the finish line so I can eavesdrop on their conversation, and I do this by way of taking the 10 minute break we have between each 400. I go toward my bag, which just happens to be by the finish line—who put it there? I dunno—and take my water bottle out to take a swig of water.

As I near the bottle to my lips, Coach glances at me quickly before taking Monsieur’s shoulder and pulling him towards the gate’s entrance, whispering in hush voices. All I can hear is “Emy” and “should’ve done that” and “fuck you, fuck you, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou—” until I drop my water bottle, the liquid splattering all over the piles of bags, as it becomes screaming—

“Just ‘cause Emy comes along means you can ditch me? I waited at the tennis courts for THREE hours, Hunter! You never even called!” Coach Yoo starts screaming, like legit screaming. His face is so red, it matches the track. Every staccato his mouth makes becomes visual.

I can’t even laugh, but I want to.

Monsieur—also known as Hunter—stutters, his brow scrunching up, “I-I didn’t think you were serious about tennis. I told you I might not make it—”

By now, people have stopped running. They’re jogging on the track, trying to see what’ happening, and no one’s actually stopping them from jogging because they’re all focused on trying not to seem focused on Coach and Monsieur.

“BUT FOR EMY? Jesus Christ, Hunter, it’s always about her. You’d reject me in a heartbeat if she asked you to. I don’t matter at all, right?” Coach pushes his shoulder past Monsieur Hunter to head to the track, his face etched in disgusted and strained anger. “I’m a worthless slob that just wanted to spend time with his reject friend. I can see why no one likes you, you fucking freak. I can see why Emy wanted to break up with you on your fucking birthday—”

And then, I don’t feel like laughing anymore when Monsieur yells,

“FAGGOT!”

Then all together everyone’s stopped moving—no one’s running, no one’s talking, no one’s trying to act like they’re not listening. They’re just looking—

Looking at Coach flare up, his fingers curl into a fist as his feet move backwards, his body twists around, and his arm reels back, and his fist smashes into Monsieur’s delicate face.

Monsieur’s on the ground, clutching his eye, and now people are finally moving, Coach Jackson, the jumpers’ coach, and pulls Coach Yoo back as he’s screaming ‘til his lungs rip, “I’d rather be a faggot than be you! Fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking perfect girlfriend! Fuck you!”

“No kemps,” Parker says unsurely, looking at Matty—the cutest guy you’ll ever see, too bad he’s gay—as Julie flashes her hand of three queens and one jack.

“You fucker,” I whisper, while shooting daggers out of my eyes at my useless, incompetent partner, Parker. I throw my pile of cards on Parker’s face as Colin—a popular guy, not a prep, but he’s in because of his charisma, I like to think of him as a white George Lopez—and Julie take our place.

“You do this every time. Stop saying ‘kemps’ or I will gut your heart out!” I snap at him, poking Parker in the chest.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should get a new partner,” Parker sneers, sitting on a saxophone case on the floor.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should drop out of band.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It doesn’t. I just don’t want to see your face.”

“You know what, you hurt people sometimes. Sometimes, people want to cry because of you,” Parker states, taking a daring step closer towards me, like I’m a monster.

“Aw, do you wanna cry now? Are you gonna slit your wrists?” I mock. Worthless human.

Parker raises his fist, threateningly above my face, and I’m smiling at it. I tilt my head, so my cheek is aimed at the fist. I know, what sadistic girl, but he wants to hit me, so be it. If I shriek and run around in stupid circles, then I’m all talk. I don’t want to be all talk. I want to be real.

“Go ahead, hit me. Show me what you’re made of. Hit the living shit outta me,” I egg on, stepping closer toward Parker, who looks at me incredulously.

Make Parker see blood, then we’ll see what happens. I won’t suffer as much as he will when he lands that fist to my face—

“Parker! What the heck are you doing? Take ten steps away from Talia. Parker, go,” I hear Miss Okata warn before going back to conversing with Monsieur behind her desk a few feet away.

I jerk my chin towards Parker, daring him to hit me, and he jerks his head back, and I’m about to say, “Loser,” when I hear,

“I apologized. He kept saying, ‘I waited three hours. You always leave me for Emy. You suck.’ I was angry. What did you expect me to say?” Monsieur Kim groans, watching us play from Miss Okata’s desk.

Miss Okata sarcastically spats, “Well, I don’t know. Maybe not call him a faggot in front of his whole team. Better yet, not call him a faggot at all—”

“What’re you doing?” Parker whispers from beside me, and I plop on the ground, half-way facing the game, half-way facing Monsieur and Miss Okata. What does it look like I’m doing, emo? “Fine, don’t answer. I don’t care about you either.”

Well, thank you. Thank you for finally realizing it.

“He said no one—he said my students didn’t like me, like it was obvious they didn’t. You know how much that hurts?” Monsieur sighs, defeated, his eyebrows wrinkling. Right now, he looks old, older than the twenty-nine years he actually is. It’s a little depressing. It looks like he’s about to cry, and usually when I see people crying, I want to laugh. But looking at Monsieur, it’s hard to laugh. He just looks so pathetic, and now I feel like such a bitch because I was one of the people who had said I didn’t like him.

True, there’s nothing seriously bad about him. But I guess my outlook on FRENCH as a subject, made me feel like it was going to be an easy class, like I’d get a one-way ticket to an ‘A’, which I am getting, because really, it is an easy class. But everyone in the class think it’s reason to slack off, and they end up getting ‘D’s’, and then they bitch and moan and tell Monsieur he’s a fucking jerk.

Sure, he can get a bit too much at times, but really.

“Aw, Hunter, you can’t expect everyone to like you. That’s not the way the world works.”

“No, I know that, but what I don’t get is why he’s this angry about it. I mean, I don’t think it’s that—”

“It is to Kang-Jae. You really don’t know him, do you?” Miss Okata scolds, giving Monsieur tired eyes.

“Yeah? And you know him better than I do?” Monsieur snorts, his mouth unconsciously running off in Korean, which Miss Okata, because the white-washed American she is, can’t understand a word Monsieur is talking about. All I can understand is ‘alright’, a bunch of help that is.

“Stop it, stop talking in Korean. Just listen—i-it happened a few weeks ago. . . . at my birthday party. He was a little drunk, not enough to slur and act drunk, but enough to be not remember what he’s saying. Y-you weren’t there. I don’t know where you were. But Kang-Jae started saying stuff, and-and—Why don’t you ask Kang-Jae?” Miss Okata cuts her self off with desperate eyes, grabbing Monsieur’s forearm in distress.

“What? No, I want to know what happened. He won’t tell me. He’s a—” and more Korean words that I can’t understand.

“It’s just that it’s not my place to say anything. He has to tell you himself—”

“How am I ever going to figure out anything if he won’t speak to me? Every time he sees me in the halls, he goes the opposite way. He’s avoiding me.”

“Psst, stop listening. It’s not right anymore,” Parker nudges my side, his black eyes looking so concerned.

“Hey, hey, I’ll decide if it’s right or not. They’re speaking loudly. It’s not like I’m going out of my way to hear what they’re talking about,” I state as I raise my hand up to silence him, which it does because I have power and he does not.

“Did you ever try to speak to him?” Miss Okata reasons.

“Did you see what he did to my face?” Monsieur snaps, pointing at the black-and-blue bruise forming along his cheek and eye.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have called him a faggot—”

Parker growls under his breath right next to me, and he takes the hand right in front of his face and grabs it, leaving our hands palm to palm, and he’s not letting go.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have made a big deal about ditching him—”

“What’re you doing?” I’m asking, and now I’m afraid. I’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing. I’ve never felt my heart trembling underneath my ribcage like this. And with Parker looking at me like he needs to be looking at me, like this is his only chance at salvation from stupidity, I actually feel small.

Miss Okata’s angry now. She’s leapt off her seat, and now her fist, which banged against the wall a few seconds ago, is now placed a few centimeters away from Monsieur’s head. “Yeah, well, maybe he shouldn’t like you anymore, and then maybe he wouldn’t have to feel like shit, like he shouldn’t even be associated with you—”

“What?” I hear Monsieur ask in the background. I won’t look because I can’t. I’m too intent on looking at Parker, because he won’t let me turn away.

Parker draws me in closer, and now I can feel his lips moving against mine, and now I hear Kelsey Grey—SLUT—pointing to us, gasping, and Colin screaming, “Holy shit!” and Matty going, “Whoa,” and I can feel Julie smiling in the background, like she knew this was going to happen.

And the bell rings.