turned sour. “Yeah? So?”
“You always pronounce it ‘pitnic.’”
“I do not!”
“Yeah, you do, Rose,” one of the unassailable Kubiaks chimed in. Several of the boys nodded. Some of the girls might have nodded, too, had Rosalie not wielded so much power. Geraldine Balchunas sprang to the defense of her best friend. “If she says ‘pitnic,’ then how come I never heard her, and I go over to her house all the time?”
“ Et bien, mesdames and messieurs, ça suffit . And now—”
Ignoring Geraldine and Madame, I kept my focus on Rosalie. “Repeat after me: I will bring potato salad to the class pic …nic.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Madame cover her grin with her hand.
“I’m not repeating anything,” Turd Girl said. “Iknow it’s ‘picnic,’ so you can just shut up, Dondi .” At this point, Madame intervened in earnest, reminding Rosalie that telling others to “shut up” in her classroom was grounds for a check-minus. Opening her grade book, she turned a deaf ear to Rosalie’s argument that she hadn’t told me to shut up; she’d merely said that I could shut up—if I wanted to. Madame rose and wrote the French spelling, pique-nique , on the board. To me she said, “Finish up now, monsieur, s’il vous plait .”
I nodded. “Any other questions?”
Geraldine was gunning for me now. “When you go on that show today, are you afraid you’ll break the TV camera and have to pay for it because you’re so ugly?” None of the boys laughed, but several girls did. Madame Frechette came to my defense—or tried to, anyway. I wish she hadn’t. “That will be enough of that, mademoiselle . I am quite sure no cameras will be broken. And I’m sure you will all agree that Monsieur Felix looks quite dashing in his seaman’s uniform.”
Lonny’s shocked whisper carried up from the back of the class. “What’d she just say then? Did she just say what I thought she said? Holy crap!” I didn’t get why he was going so mental.
“Ah, recess time, mes élèves ,” Madame noted with a sigh of relief. “And après votre récréation , we shall discuss our tableaux vivants. Class dismissed!”
Some of the girls retrieved their jump ropes from the cloak room and others made for the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. Us boys took bats, balls, and bases out of the closet and pushed past the girls and down the stairs.
“Hey,” I said to Lonny on our way out of the building. “What’d you think Madame said back there?”
He guffawed. “Oh my god, don’t you know what semen is?” I told him yeah—a seaman was a sailor. A squid. He shook his head and laughed even louder. “It’s, you know, spunk.”
“What’s spunk?”
“Oh, man, Felix. Ain’t you ever had a wet dream?”
Was he talking about bed-wetting? “Not since I was real little,” I said. That made him laugh so hard that he dropped to his knees. I still didn’t get it, but at least now I realized we were in the birds-and-the-bees ballpark. My ignorance was Pop’s fault, of course. All’s he’d told me about sex was that stuff about drinking fountains. If I was ever going to figure it all out, I’d just have to listen harder on the school bus—be Sherlock Holmes, kind of.
Out on the playground, everyone was talking about whether Rosalie or Zhenya would get picked to be Mary when we went back inside. Ever since we’d returned from Thanksgiving break, the class had divided itself, more or less, into two factions. Most of the girls wanted Rosalie and most of us boys wanted Zhenya. Both candidates, in their own way, had been campaigning for the part. Zhenya had taken out her braids and begun wearing her long brown hair (made lustrous with mayonnaise) down, and, I noticed, too, that she’d begun jacking up the volume when we prayed the rosary: “Blissid art dou kh’amongst vimmin and blissid eez duh froot uff die voomb.” Rosalie had left an anonymous typewritten note on Madame’s desk. (It had to have been
“You always pronounce it ‘pitnic.’”
“I do not!”
“Yeah, you do, Rose,” one of the unassailable Kubiaks chimed in. Several of the boys nodded. Some of the girls might have nodded, too, had Rosalie not wielded so much power. Geraldine Balchunas sprang to the defense of her best friend. “If she says ‘pitnic,’ then how come I never heard her, and I go over to her house all the time?”
“ Et bien, mesdames and messieurs, ça suffit . And now—”
Ignoring Geraldine and Madame, I kept my focus on Rosalie. “Repeat after me: I will bring potato salad to the class pic …nic.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Madame cover her grin with her hand.
“I’m not repeating anything,” Turd Girl said. “Iknow it’s ‘picnic,’ so you can just shut up, Dondi .” At this point, Madame intervened in earnest, reminding Rosalie that telling others to “shut up” in her classroom was grounds for a check-minus. Opening her grade book, she turned a deaf ear to Rosalie’s argument that she hadn’t told me to shut up; she’d merely said that I could shut up—if I wanted to. Madame rose and wrote the French spelling, pique-nique , on the board. To me she said, “Finish up now, monsieur, s’il vous plait .”
I nodded. “Any other questions?”
Geraldine was gunning for me now. “When you go on that show today, are you afraid you’ll break the TV camera and have to pay for it because you’re so ugly?” None of the boys laughed, but several girls did. Madame Frechette came to my defense—or tried to, anyway. I wish she hadn’t. “That will be enough of that, mademoiselle . I am quite sure no cameras will be broken. And I’m sure you will all agree that Monsieur Felix looks quite dashing in his seaman’s uniform.”
Lonny’s shocked whisper carried up from the back of the class. “What’d she just say then? Did she just say what I thought she said? Holy crap!” I didn’t get why he was going so mental.
“Ah, recess time, mes élèves ,” Madame noted with a sigh of relief. “And après votre récréation , we shall discuss our tableaux vivants. Class dismissed!”
Some of the girls retrieved their jump ropes from the cloak room and others made for the rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. Us boys took bats, balls, and bases out of the closet and pushed past the girls and down the stairs.
“Hey,” I said to Lonny on our way out of the building. “What’d you think Madame said back there?”
He guffawed. “Oh my god, don’t you know what semen is?” I told him yeah—a seaman was a sailor. A squid. He shook his head and laughed even louder. “It’s, you know, spunk.”
“What’s spunk?”
“Oh, man, Felix. Ain’t you ever had a wet dream?”
Was he talking about bed-wetting? “Not since I was real little,” I said. That made him laugh so hard that he dropped to his knees. I still didn’t get it, but at least now I realized we were in the birds-and-the-bees ballpark. My ignorance was Pop’s fault, of course. All’s he’d told me about sex was that stuff about drinking fountains. If I was ever going to figure it all out, I’d just have to listen harder on the school bus—be Sherlock Holmes, kind of.
Out on the playground, everyone was talking about whether Rosalie or Zhenya would get picked to be Mary when we went back inside. Ever since we’d returned from Thanksgiving break, the class had divided itself, more or less, into two factions. Most of the girls wanted Rosalie and most of us boys wanted Zhenya. Both candidates, in their own way, had been campaigning for the part. Zhenya had taken out her braids and begun wearing her long brown hair (made lustrous with mayonnaise) down, and, I noticed, too, that she’d begun jacking up the volume when we prayed the rosary: “Blissid art dou kh’amongst vimmin and blissid eez duh froot uff die voomb.” Rosalie had left an anonymous typewritten note on Madame’s desk. (It had to have been
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