89. Boy-war?

Alec, Kris, Bear, and I sat near the back of french class, barely keeping it together. Kris was the only one who wasn’t struggling. He had this uncanny knack for getting every pronunciation right, even with the most tongue-twisting words.

I slouched in my chair, staring at the chalkboard. The teacher had written a list of words, each more difficult than the last. “Oeil,” “Bouilloire,” “Rouge-gorge.” She was pacing in front of the class, listening to us mangle each one as we tried to sound them out.

Kris, of course, had breezed through them. Bear and I? Not so much.

“James, try again,” the teacher said, her voice soft but with that edge that made you feel like you were disappointing her. “It’s ‘oeil,’ not ‘oil.’ You have to use the back of your throat more.”

I sighed. “Uh... Ool?”

The teacher winced, like I’d just stepped on her favorite pet. Kris smirked from beside me, barely holding back a laugh, and Bear gave me an exaggerated shrug.

“Close enough,” she said, though I could tell