Chương 12: Book 1 - Chapter 11

So the week went on. At home in the evenings I drew. A box of sharpened colored pencils and clean white typing paper. Mom came and looked over my shoulder.

"Is this homework for art class?" she asked curiously as she looked at the beautiful woman I was drawing.

"No, just for fun," I said, pausing to take an ink pen and added a number at the bottom of the page.

"You keep drawing this same woman. Is it someone at school?"

"No, it's just the most beautiful woman in the world. Not someone I've met."

"It's interesting that you like redheads," she said with a smile that looked like it wanted to be a laugh.

"The way you talk about Amber I thought you'd like blondes."

"Amber's just a friend, Mom."

"It's almost a Waterhouse sketch. I like it." I did my Social Studies final on Tuesday. Thursday I spent all of study hall in the typing classroom writing reports for the books and stories in my American Literature class. Friday, after taking my English final, I started working on French. There was a French language school book, a workbook with pictures, 35 hours of audio to listen to, and two midterm tests, plus an English French dictionary. It all went home with me for the weekend.

In Home Ec, we continued the meat theme. The meatloaf recipe, modified with pork became meatballs. Then we did roast, then kabobs, and finally steak. In Woodshop I finished my box, a very nice handcrafted jewelry box made of rather cheap pine. It used only joinery, no nails, and just a little glue. I decided to give it to Mattie, so using the wood chisels I carefully carved her name in the top.

"So can I make the train, Coach?" I asked him. He was examining the drawings, they were front, side, top and bottom of the engine, and two different car designs.

"How long will the train be?"

"An engine and three cars. I'll do two of this car, plus the caboose."

"You plan to hand carve each of these from a single block?"

"Everything but the wheels," I told him.

"I'll use the band saw to get it close first. You've got the four by four wood in stock."

"It's going to take some significant craftsmanship."

"The trick will be making sure the wheels are too big to swallow if they come off."

"I was wondering about that, they looked oversize."

"It has to be child safe. I'm not going to paint it either, just sand it smooth."

"I'm looking forward to seeing the finished product, project approved," he confirmed. Art progressed well, and by Friday I had four other artworks completed. There was a cubist version and a comic book style picture in Crayola marker. There was a version in ink reminiscent of an ink drawing by Leonardo Da Vinci and a soft shaded charcoal sketch. Biology had two more days of dissections—a frog and a newt—they smelled even worse than the worm had.

We also had a day with nothing but making drawings of fresh amoebic life under a microscope. Friday I had my Physics Final which included a practical lab experiment in friction and drag, where I made careful measurements and recorded observations of objects moving through different mediums. With Friday complete, I had tested and passed with perfect scores all my Freshman required classes, along with two science classes—Physics and Biology.

Only one year of language was required for graduation, so my French did not count as part of my Freshman graduation requirements. I spent the weekend immersed in French. The audio was easy enough to listen to. The workbook simple. The audio was from a native Paris speaker. I drew on my future selves, who lived a lifetime in Paris. Working at and then owning a small bakery and restaurant. Working at the fish market. Working as a tour guide at the Louvre.

They spread out and multiplied as they took on roles across the country. So many memories. Hollow memories that would never be reality. Happy ones full of friends, family, wives and children. Memories filled with the tragedy of bombings, riots and terrorism. I couldn't draw from just a single skill, the whole of the life memory came with it. It taxed me heavily. I spent Sunday afternoon at the river doing Tai Chi to exhaustion. I skipped dinner that night and went to bed when I got home.

Monday morning, Mom was worried. I attempted to reassure her, yet was unable to speak anything other than French, "Maman, j'ai absorbé trop de Français d'un coup. En lisant ton dictionnaire Français et en étudiant les différentes grammaires, j'ai taxé mon cerveau d'une nouvelle façon. Donne moi un jour ou deux, et ça va s'arranger. Je suis sûr de revenir à l'Anglais bientôt." (Mom, I have absorbed too much French all at once. Reading your French dictionary and studying the different grammars, I've taxed my brain in a new way. Give me a day or two, and it'll settle down. I'm sure I'll go back to English soon.) Mom frowned, hovering over the dining table where she had laid out a feast.

"Well, I'm making sure you're properly fueled, then. I don't like you skipping a meal, especially after all that... brain work." She piled my plate high with thick slices of cinnamon toast, glistening with syrup, and a side of crisp bacon.

"No eggs, right?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Pas d'œufs, Maman," I said with a laugh.

"Merci. Ça a l'air délicieux." (No eggs, Mom. Thank you. This looks great.) Mattie shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

"Are you sick, John? Are you going to stay home? Why are you talking funny?"

"No, sweetie," Mom said, giving her a quick hug.

"He's just tired from too much school work, but he'll be okay." Mom watched me quietly eat every bite, her expression still doubtful.

"I don't trust this 'brain taxed' business. Let me drive you and Mattie this morning." Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Maman, ça va. Je peux prendre le bus," I insisted, still in French. (Mom, it's fine. I can take the bus.) It was helpful that she knew enough French to understand.

"No, I insist," she said, grabbing her car keys.

"I need to make sure you actually walk through the front door. You never know, you might change your mind and want to stay home today.

"If you do decide to not stay home today, you should see your French teacher first thing. Maybe taking a Final will snap you out of this French stuff."

"D'accord, Maman. C'est une bonne idée, je vais accepter l'idée," I laughed. (Alright, Mom. It's a good idea, I'll take the ride.) When I arrived at school I sought out Ms Peters, the French instructor. We spoke only in French, a requirement inside her classroom.

"Hello Ms Peters, how are you today?" I asked.

"Hello John. I am well. How are you?" she replied.

"I'm suffering from too much French in my brain all at once. Is there any other grammar to learn or any vocabulary beyond my Mom's copy of Le Petit Larousse?"

"Le Petit Larousse is a comprehensive dictionary, and there is little to no grammar beyond what you learn in French 1."

"Then I'm ready to take my French final. Unless there is other required course work, I think I can take the finals for French 2, 3 and 4 as well."

"Very ambitious, but your Paris accent is perfect. There are some requirements for the other finals. French 2 requires completing the workbook and a 40 page original composition in French. French 3 requires completing the workbook, and translating 80 pages of a book. There is no French 4 at this school.

"The final for both is the submission of your original composition, or the translation."

"Can you provide the workbooks so I can get them completed?"

"I cannot. The workbooks were ordered at the beginning of the year, and have all been used, there are no more."

"We need to talk to the Principal then."

"Yes we must," she said. We went together to the Principal's office. When we arrived, I knocked and entered. Ms Peters followed. I explained the entirety of the problem to Principal Endicott.

"Monsieur le Principal, j'ai terminé toutes les exigences pour le Français Un. Cependant, pour le Français Deux et Français Trois, les cahiers d'exercices requis ne sont pas disponibles." (Mr Principal, I have finished all the requirements for French One. However, for French Two and French Three, the required workbooks are not available.) Ms Peters, who had grown up in France but moved to the United States as a teenager, didn't seem to notice. She had completely fallen back into French mode.

Her mind was telling her I was a fellow native speaker. She added in French: "Monsieur le Principal, pourriez vous s'il vous plaît commander d'urgence des copies des cahiers d'exercices de Français Deux et Français Trois? Et s'il vous plaît, pourriez vous aussi commander les têtes d'écriture françaises pour la machine à écrire dont je vous ai déjà parlé?" (Mr Principal, could you please urgently order copies of the French Two and French Three workbooks? And please, could you also order the French typing heads for the typewriter that I have already spoken to you about?) When he had enough, he finally said, "Anglais s'il vous plaît. I don't speak French!" Ms Peters and I looked at each other, and burst into laughter. She dutifully switched to English.

"This young man, after a weekend of study now speaks French like a Parisian native. The requirements for French 2 and 3 are precise, but we do not have the workbooks required. We only order those based on the actual number of students who both pass French 1 and wish to continue. We need an emergency order of one of each for Mr Cook." With intense effort I pushed the French to the side.

I'd been stuck there, and it took effort to revert to American English, "Also she would like a few French language print heads for the IBM Selectric."

"Ah, well I'm happy to tell you that I'm ahead of you. I ordered the print heads last month," he said with a smile.

"They were on sale and I had a bit of extra budget for the typing lab." He pulled a package out of his desk, setting it down we could see it was a pack of four print heads.

"As for workbooks, I can call our supplier, he probably has them on hand and can mail or drop them off."

"Thank you, sir," I said. Triumphant we returned to her class. The bell had rung, so her students were there, but not seated as she had been missing. She introduced me to the few Juniors and Seniors who made up her French 3 class. She made a quick call to study hall to inform Mr Clarkson that I was in her class to take a final. Then she sat me down in an empty desk and gave me the final exam, which I breezed through.

While I took the test, the conversation in the class continued, mostly as a practice in general conversation between the students. They also worked together occasionally to help each other with their translation projects, which were due in only two more weeks. I worked quickly, but my focus wasn't absolute. I heard two Juniors, David and Elise, arguing quietly about a translation. I scribbled the answer to the final question on my test, capped my pen, and stood up. I turned in the test.

Ms Peters took it and gave me a quiet nod, pulling out her grading pen. I then turned toward David's group, sticking mostly to English to prevent a relapse.

"Excuse me," I said, holding out my Le Petit Larousse.

"I couldn't help but notice you struggling with the word 'to delve.' I think your dictionary is misleading you." Elise turned from her conversation with David.

"You're John the Genius, the one who Amber talks about."

"I'm John Cook," I replied easily, as David took the French-English dictionary.

"This is pretty old, isn't it? We use the Harcourt French English here. What did your Larousse say?" David asked as he turned through the pages.

"It's my Mom's," I explained.

"Your Harcourt gave you the literal translation of 'to delve' as 'creuser' (to dig). That's too simple. Mine has 'approfondir,' which means 'to deepen' or 'to pursue deeply.' It fits the context better, like 'delving deeper into intense concentration.'" Elise looked impressed.

"Man, the genius is right. That's really helpful. You should switch to approfondir."

"Yeah, that's definitely better," David conceded, making a note in his workbook.

"I'm switching to that word." The dictionary was a providential find, as it was something Mom had in her personal collection. Shelved in Dad's library, it was simple enough to borrow. Ms Peters finished grading the paper and looked up, her expression pleased.

"Félicitations, John. A perfect score. Now that French 1 is complete, what do you plan to write about for your French 2 composition requirement?"

"I'll need to practice with the French keyboard first," I replied.

"Then I plan to write a story about an accident on Mars."

"Wait, the French Selectrics are here?" David asked, his translation work forgotten.

"Are they the ones with the accent keys?" the Elise excitedly. Ms Peters smiled, tapping her pen on the box on her desk.

"The new print heads arrived this morning! While John finishes up here, let me explain how the new equipment works..." She had just begun explaining the new equipment when the bell rang, echoing loudly through the halls outside. I quickly gathered my materials heading back to study hall where I began work on English writing and composition. The work was straightforward and required several writing assignments to be completed. I planned to do those on Tuesday.

When I arrived at second period study hall, Mr Clarkson was standing near the front chalkboard. He had sectioned off a large corner with neat chalk lines.

"Ah, Mr Cook," Mr Clarkson said, turning to face me.

"I see Ms Peters let you out of the French room. How did the Final go?"

"Perfect score, sir," I confirmed.

"And I have the workbooks for French 2 and 3 on emergency order." Mr Clarkson smiled, picking up a piece of chalk.

"Another one for the scoreboard." He wrote French 1 next to the date, followed by 100%. The chalkboard was now a record of all my high school final exams, the date taken, and the score. He stepped back and chuckled, glancing toward the door.

"You know, having nearly 80% of the school filter through this study hall twice a week means that your speed run is now the most popular topic of conversation."

"I had assumed as much, sir," I replied.

"I overheard a few students today calling you 'John the Genius,'" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Is that an official title now?" I shrugged.

"I believe that nickname originated with Amber. I think she even mentioned starting a fan club the last time we had lunch," I joked. Mr Clarkson shook his head, a mix of amusement and disbelief on his face.

"Well, 'Genius' or not, you are definitely setting a record here, John. What's next on the chopping block? Math?" he asked with a hopeful look.

"Math is next, sir," I confirmed.