It’s a shame Gale isn’t taking French; it would’ve been a blast with his energy around. Instead, I got in a group of random strangers with nowhere to start than their l’amour du français or whatever. Then there’s this professor who is so enamored with her teaching that she even focused with those who do not have any fluency in this tongue, me included. She’s in her fifties, with hair of flaxen beauty, and a lovely red scarf that complements her red blazer and white dress. Her name is, unsurprisingly, Rouge, the French word for red. Rouge Deveraux Saint-Pierre. She’s speaking French nonstop that all I did was drifting in and out of consciousness. How I wish I’ve taken Advanced Spanish, or Italian. Now I’ve got to have to deal with this shit for oh so many months.

“Monsieur Seymour.”  Professor Saint-Pierre’s words struck like lightning in my brain, waking my consciousness from disappearing again. As I took a peek to see her face, I noticed none of the judgment in her eyes; rather, what I saw from it was an effort to make me learn something. Her heterochromatic irises of emerald and sapphire are what stand out from her most, and also the one that speaks for herself. Even if there’s no conviction of negativity from them, I still prepare myself for what I believe is the worst-case scenario that could happen at any moment. Instead, I was greeted by what language I am most familiar with. “El francés es parecido al español, ¿no?”

Even I couldn’t find the right words to say. Or maybe I do, but I might be afraid to admit it myself. Either way, there’s no fighting back or debating with my thoughts. I smiled with bitterness, accepting the defeat from my own conscience. I nodded in agreement. Talk about using parecido instead of semejante. That felt warm, considering my coldness in this horrid language.

“Very well then. Sé la última la persona que salga de la clase, por favor.” She sat on the chair beside her, and started speaking French, again. “Le cours se termine ici pour maintenant, mais s'il vous plaît, prenez votre temps pour faire le devoir que je vous ai envoyé par courriel il y a quelque temps.” I might not be that knowledgeable with the customs of French vocabulary, but I’m pretty sure when the students bid “Au revoir, Madame!” to her, it meant the same as “Adios, Maestra!” or something like that, I don’t know.

But given that no one seemed to heed nor understand our Spanish talks a while back, then that means the order of staying back for something is directed to me and me only. I went in her direction, going from the furthest seat to her to the one close as if a therapy discussion was ongoing. She intertwined her fingers and made it her headrest before smiling at me.

“I’m thankful for your adherence to my simple request.” She smiled and handed me out tons of flashcards from the realms of her desk cabinets. It was about 4 inches tall and contained French words in it. Amour. When she flipped one of the flashcards, it showed an English word, probably equivalent to what was the word shown a while ago. Love. “These are my flashcards ever since I went to practice my English vocabulary from 5 years ago. Like you, I also struggled to understand them. Mais, regarde-moi maintenant.” I also noticed that there are three different colors in it. There’s blue, yellow (which is the one that she flipped just now), and red. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it’s a French-English, English-Spanish, and French-Spanish flashcard, all in one stack. The words looked a lot like some made for an elementary student.

“But . . . but I can’t . . . find in myself to accept this . . . precious memento of yours.”

“Precious memento, it is, but what’s more precious is to be an actual teacher for your students to learn something new.”

I looked her in the eye to see whether she was out of her mind or had taken drugs because that was just so bizarre. But it was so sincere that I could not afford then to not accept it. “B–but why?”

“I saw you a while back at The Espresso, having a hard time understanding mom. The one that asked for five cold chocolate lattés.” I shot a look of surprise at her after dropping that bomb. But that look softened when I tried comparing her facial features to the old lady, and somehow, it matched perfectly. “Luckily, your friend saved you from the shame of the language barrier, even though he did look pissed when you tried talking. Take it as a compensation from that day.” I smiled, and away from her sight, I turned my eyes away, tears coming out from them.

Holding those flashcards in my hand, I thought to myself that if I were to actually catch up with the others in this class, I need to one-up my game. I just never expected it to have the first push from somebody I would have to call a total stranger. As if Gale wasn’t like we never got to a full 12 hours before having that kiss, for all I know. I sighed.

“I’m actually embarrassed that time, having no actual experience in that field.”

“Let me guess,” she quickly caught on, “from the looks you gave at the work area, I suppose you wanted to do the barista thing, ¿sí?”

I nodded. “To be honest, that was the goal I had in my mind when I applied there. Probably will take a long time, but I’ll get there.”

“And so does your viaje a la lengua francesa.”

As I went outside the building, a familiar red Chevy was parked right in front of the entrance, its driver staring at me with utmost longing intentions burning from their eyes. Gale signaled for me to hop on the Chevy, and into the gardenscapes of the university, we fled off. From the windowed door of the car, I zoomed across a few classmates of mine walking to the school exit to make their way home. Which reminds me, I should make a quick message to Aunt Carla, so that she’d not go ahead and go to the nearby police station because I got “lost” or so. I grabbed my now-twenty-percent phone and composed a short, quick message to her on Portfolio.

Hey, tita; I’ll be late home. Got set up for a surprise date on the go.

And no, I did not take any of those 4XL condoms you had in your drawers. Just sayin’.

With that now out of the question, I felt a pang of throbbing ache in my head, making me want to puke. It’s a thing with me and phones during car sessions. One time, I had to actually put my phone down and look outside the window pulled down on me just so I could stop my head from punching my stomach to let it all out. It’d be a disgrace today if I did that here, so I had to put my phone in my bag and never look at it again, regardless of what would happen to me, just to keep my sanctity intact. Gale looked at me, concern visible in his eyes as he looked at me for a second, twitching in the front seat before turning his eyes back to the road where it should belong.

“Motion sickness?” I nodded at Gale’s question. He opened the storage compartment near me, and there, a bottle of ginger ale or two sprung out to life. “You’re not the only one fighting in that kind of battle. Go ahead, take one for the team.” I looked at him with a deathly glare because I didn’t know if he was joking or what; I didn’t know about ginger ale, but I was more familiar with using camphor for this kind of treatment. Nevertheless, I took the ginger ale from the compartment before closing it shut and drank the bottle half-full, half-empty. Somehow this refreshment, um . . . works? I smiled. “It should kick up in a minute or two. Anyways,” he cut himself from his talk as he carefully parked the car in the corner. I saw a simple botanical garden illuminated by the streetlights here and there. There’re also stage lights that surround the Greek-inspired marble benches and the well-maintained bushes.

I hop out of the car, my satchel hanging on Gale’s back as he insisted on taking it just because. I did not have the energy to fight back for my bag as it got sucked out of my life from the moment that I looked at my phone while driving. But some things have to be done, yes? We found ourselves on a secluded bench far from the roaring crowd and me looking at the stars and constellations, particularly at Ursa Major, while resting my feeble head in Gale’s cushiony lap. He stroked my hair and curled it as we talked more and more about our lives, needless of the crowd’s judgment. As he spoke, I could see the excitement flashing in those cobalt azure irises, as if, finally, someone’s ears were ready to listen to his story. A story that no one cared to have their eyes on because of what it contained. For some, his story felt like something sinister; that is, if you will only look at the first pages of the chapter. If they only have the care to flip another, they’ll realize why some things were meant to be like that. But in reality, even if they finished the whole book, they already have a premade image of what one is and are adamant that this is the real deal, that this is how it should be when in reality, people are just . . . people. Even I have made mistakes in the notion of doing what is good for others, drastic may its consequences be.

Gale looked up at the sky, and I almost fell to the ground when he stood up in surprise. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” I asked, also looking up in the sky and seeing nothing but the stars above us. If it wasn’t for the lights below us, I could have seen more.

Gale shrugged as he stood up and held my satchel on his shoulders. “I’m late for my night job. It’s already around 9:45 or 10, I dunno.” I was confused about how he knew that, given that he didn’t have a watch, nor was there a nearby Big Ben to look at. I looked at him with questionable eyes, trying to ask him whether he was given timekeeping powers or whatever secrets the witches gave him. “Look at the Big Dipper; then if you know the stars Dubhe and Merak, it’ll act as the hour hand.” We ambled briskly towards the car, and he went inside to rev the engines to life. I also went inside and secured a seat belt on me; Gale didn’t, not that I’d applaud him for that. “The centerpiece will be the Polaris, then the clock will spin counterclockwise, 15 degrees an hour.” I took a quick look at my phone only to find out the time was currently 9:52 in the evening.  “Based on the positions of those two stars, it’s around 10. You could take a look in your phone to see if it is.” I nodded in agreement. He even offered me a map guide of how to tell time using it, but I politely refused, citing my inability to comprehend such complex intellectualities. Other than that, the stars do not excite me as much as he does, although, on their own, they are beautiful.