Ann Martin - Shannon's Story

Another decent thing about SDS is that I'm not the only one who likes school. Most of my friends there do, too. We all have favorite subjects and it's cool to talk about something you're studying if it really interests you. Right now, I'm the "ask the astronomy student" at my table at lunch.

But our current favorite topic is French.

Mais oui.

That means, literally, "but yes" in French. I guess a loose translation would be "of course!"

Mais oui we love French? You better believe it. Because our advanced eighth grade French class is going on a class trip to Paris for one whole week when school is out at the end of May — everyone, that is, with a B average overall and an 85 average in French.

Madame DuBarry announced the trip the first week of school this semester, and we've been practicing our French like mad ever since, so we'll be tres, tres bon. (Very, very good.)

"Good morning, Ms. Kilbourne." That was Dr. Patek. She's the headmistress of SDS. Her office is in the administration house, but she makes a point of being around the buildings when classes are starting for the day. She also makes a point of knowing all our names.

"Bonjour, Dr. Patek," I said.

Maria and Tiffany had peeled off in search of their own friends the moment we'd gotten off the bus, so Dr. Patek didn't say hello to any more Kilbournes. But if she had, she wouldn't have called them Ms. Kilbourne. They would have been Maria and Tiffany. It's not until middle school that Dr. Patek "promotes" you. 7 Cool. I mean, tres bon.

Just then I saw my best friend at SDS. "Uh, 'bye, Dr. Patek," I said.

"A Uentot," said Dr. Patek.

Grinning, I hurried over to Greer Carson. Greer often rides the bus, but not always. Sometimes she gets a ride with her older brother.

"Hey!" I said. "Did you finish your math? I was going to call you last night, but I didn't realize until I was already in bed that I wasn't sure about one of the problems after all."

Greer shook her head so that her long, red-brown curly hair, cut at a severe blunt angle from front to back, swept her shoulders. Like Claudia and Stacey in the BSC, Greer is serious about fashion, and she doesn't let the fact that we have to wear uniforms cramp her style.

Greer also has a big dramatic streak. After shaking her head, she ran her hands through her hair on either side of her face and pressed the heels of her palms against her temples, rolling her eyes up. She looked like a mad scientist. "I hate that," she cried. "I just hate it when that happens."

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep all night, Greer," I said.

Greer wrote me off as a sympathetic audience, dropped her hands, and grabbed her pack, turning briskly practical. "So, which problem was it?"

We had our heads bent over the problem, arguing, when Margaret Jardin came up. Margaret usually rides the bus, but sometimes she walks. If you think Margaret's last name sounds French, you are right (It means "garden."). She even has a great-aunt and some relatives still living in France. But we don't call her Margaret, we call her Meg. Meg's good at French, but she's not really excited about it. What excites Meg is astronomy. In fact, she's one of the people in my astronomy unit.

"Guess what?" she said. "There's going to be a meteor shower this weekend. Maybe we can all stay over at my house and watch it."

"Cool," I said. "We can also start studying for finals."

Meg and Greer both made faces. I laughed. "Okay, we'll start worrying about finals, then."

"You worry," retorted Meg. "I'm worried about our project for French class. Plan a menu for a meal? In French? I mean, if I wanted to take home economics, I'd take it."

"We don't have home economics at SDS, Meg," Greer pointed out.

Meg shrugged. "Whatever."

"You don't have to plan a balanced menu," I said. "You can put anything on it. You just have to get the French right."

Meg thought about that for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "Pommes frites?"

"French fries is a start," I said. "It's on my menu."

Just then the first bell rang. We joined the other students drifting slowly up the shallow stairs into the building.

"I guess it could come in handy," Meg said as we walked into our homeroom. "I mean, when we get to Paris. I'd hate not to know how to order fries! Now all I have to do is learn how to say, 'extra large, with ketchup' in French!"

Do you get the idea that we are all excited about the BCT (Big Class Trip?). You're right. We are. Wildly, uncoolly, totally revved. We've been watching French movies or anything that has anything French in it (we're on the track of an old movie called Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn, who goes to France), trying to speak French, even buying French fashion magazines. No chance any of us are not going to keep our overall B averages in school, or make anything less than an 85 in French. Because if we do, it's no go.

Tr&s simple.

I handed in my math homework feeling good about working out that problem and knowing that it was a perfect paper. I like math. And math is a universal language, did you know that? Mathematicians from different countries can meet and even if they don't

speak each other's language, they can write math problems in mathematical symbols and understand each other.

So in a way, I was studying more languages than just French. I mean, I was taking English, too; and astronomy is sort of the language of the galaxies, right?

Okay, okay, I'm getting all soppy, but you see what I mean?

Anyway, I was pleased with the thought. I was toying with it in my head as an idea for an English essay when Madame DuBarry's voice interrupted me.

"Mademoiselle?"

I jumped about a mile. "Uh — oui, Madame?"

Madame smiled. She is a tall, energetic woman, who always wears bright colors and the same diamond earrings every day. The diamonds are beautiful. I found myself staring at them now, as if they'd give me an answer.

"Mademoiselle, we were talking about holding another fund-raiser for our trip to Paris. Any ideas?"

"Non, Madame."

Madame let me off the hook, merely nodding and moving on to the next person. Whew. Madame could be really bad — tr£s mal, I think — about paying attention and participating in class. It was part of our grade.

Not that I was worried. My average in French was one of my highest in any subject. And I always keep up with my schoolwork in every subject. During exams I set up a study schedule for myself and stick to it. It's easier, actually, than worrying about studying.

But I didn't want to take chances. I didn't want anything to come between me and Paris.

Chapter 3.

"Shanny?"

I made a face at my mom's use of my baby name and continued yanking off my school uniform and getting into decent clothes — jeans, a big cotton sweater, loafers. I'd stayed after school for a meeting of the French club, practicing conversational French and giggling (I hope giggling is a universal language!), and I was going to be late for my BSC meeting if I didn't majorly step on it.

"Shanny?"

I hopped to the door of my room, pulling on a sock.

"Yo, Mom, I'm late, okay?" I called. "I have a BSC meeting."

"Yo?" said my mother, sounding disapproving. "Where do you learn this slang?"

"It just means . . . never mind. Anyway, I'm off to the BSC."

"Again?" said Mom.

I felt a momentary stab of annoyance. Hadn't I told Mom that this very morning? And why did she sound so critical, as if my meeting was some weird indulgence of base desires? I mean, it's a business and I work hard at it, even if I do have a lot of fun.

I also felt a little guilty, which I hated. My mom's voice sounded almost hurt.

But that wasn't my fault, was it?

I found my loafers, pulled one on, hopped back to the top of the stairs, and sat down to pull it on. "Again," I mimicked my mom's query, trying to keep my voice light (not easy to do when you're shouting down the stairs).