One (Sarah Crossan)

French

I do not listen to Madame Bayard explaining how

our grades will be calculated over the semester.

I ignore her ice-breaking explanation

for how to make one’s own chocolatine.

And I don’t even bother copying down the homework

because

Jon is to my right

where Tippi is

not,

and he is hurling questions at me

like I’m on a late night talk show,

sitting in one of those square chairs,

and not on trial,

which is how most people make me feel

when they get inquisitive.

‘Do you both have passports?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I tell him.

‘Not that we use them.’

‘And you never want to punch your sister’s lights out?’

‘Not usually.’

‘So why come to school now?

Why here?’

‘No choice.’

‘Oh, yeah. I get that, Grace.

Totally.’

He gnaws at the end of his pencil,

thrums his fingertips

against the desk.

‘No choice …

I get that.

If I wasn’t here

I’d be on a very slow train

to nowhere.’