Knowing Me, Knowing You | (S/P)

Chapter 2

August 10th.

I rub my temples as I walk out of the classroom, asking myself for the umpteenth time why I, in god's green earth, enrolled in this class. French has always given me the worst headaches, and this semester I have five hours of it per week. 

At least at the beginning, at the first levels, the classes were bigger, and it didn't matter if I paid much attention or not, or how much my pronunciation sucked. But now, I'm trapped with French majors that look at me in an accusatory, almost loathsome manner whenever I make even the most minor mistake. However, my counselor insisted it would look good on my resume, so I've been keeping up with it after the two first mandatory courses. It's just taking me a bit to go from Je voudrais un croissant to J'avais déjà mangé le frickety bird.

Besides English, I've been speaking Spanish, Italian, and Russian for years. As a kid I was a little bit of a, what's that word, again? Oh, yes, a handful. I prefer the terms inventive, resourceful, and spirited. The little amount of time my parents ever got to spend with me due to their ever demanding jobs was mostly depleted tugging at their hairs in agony as they chased me around our house and adjacent territories.

Mason, my older brother, was the complete opposite and showed more patience. Anyway, my parents soon learned that  I was a quick learner and that I was particularly keen on writing and reading and so they came with the brilliant idea to enroll me in foreign language lessons –and buy me every book suitable for my age that their eyes landed on. I'm thankful though, because my reading habits began right there.

My only regret is refusing to learn French; could I have known that it was going to be a mandatory course at college?

I'm weighing if whether I should sign up for the tutoring sessions offered twice a week, and what that would mean for my self-pride when someone comes into my field of vision. As soon as I spot the dark curls a smile automatically appears on my lips.

"Hey stranger."

"Andy!" I loop my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He kisses my forehead in an equally tender and playful manner before pulling away. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I would come and say hi, just like old times." Andrew is wearing a baseball cap, his curly hair flowing in all directions. I am so happy to see him, I truly am. He's been one of my closest friends since sophomore year; we met in French class of all places and hit it off right away.

"I was on my way to grab something to eat, join me?"

"Sure, kiddo." He answers, ruffling my hair. God, I hate when he does that.

We make our way across campus while we catch up on things. He tells me about his fascinating fishing adventures with his dad and brother in Seattle. I laugh. He hates fishing.

"Did you end up visiting your parents?" He asks as we turn a corner into the main quad of campus.

"Yes, I spent a couple of weeks with them."

"Couple of weeks, huh?" 

"You know I can handle them just so long." He gives me a knowing smile, being thoroughly informed of my family dynamics. Perhaps there is a thing or two that I've kept hidden from him, but he's never pushed me to reveal anything I don't feel comfortable sharing, for the contrary, he's proven to be an excellent listener even when all I do is whine and complain about silly things. 

"I've got something for you." He changes the subject searching into his satchel and producing a modest white-colored gift bag which he places in front of my face. 

"What is it?" I raise an eyebrow at him, taking the bag from his hands.

"Open it." A soon as I look inside of it, a twinge of childish excitement flooding my veins. My hand touches a carton box and I immediately know what it is.