Free The Opposite of Hallelujah by Anna Jarzab

Advanced French IV, together. It was the only high-level course Reb was enrolled in, but Erin and I were both AP-track students, so we had most of our classes together. Reb kicked our asses in French, though.
    We had the same French teacher as the past year, so we generally knew what to expect, but Madame Hubert was in an especially foul mood that morning. None of us was really thrilled about having to sit in a stuffy classroom speaking another language at eight in the morning, but she was pretty fired up about something. She snapped at Reb, Erin, and me for being late, even though the bell didn’t ring until after we’d dropped into our seats, and almost broke the projector screen by pulling on it too hard. I heard someone whispering in the back that Madame and her husband were getting a divorce, but I had no idea how they could have known that. Whatever itwas, Madame was totally losing it, and I texted as much to Reb, who looked at me from the other side of the room and nodded.
    About halfway through class, as Madame was lecturing us in rapid French about the Impressionist movement (Advanced French IV had a serious French culture component) and clicking through slides so quickly it was hard to know which one she was talking about, the door swung open and a new boy strode in.
    New Boy was average height, well muscled but not too thick, with dark blond hair that he wore longish, but not rock-star long—more like teen-heartthrob long. The room was dark, so I couldn’t make out much more than that. He paused at the door and glanced around for a second, finally locating Madame at the back of the class, still clicking furiously through slides. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.
    New Boy walked up to Madame and handed her his tardy slip, which she took with a tortured sigh. “Pah-well Sob—”
    “Pavel,” he said. “The ‘w’ makes a ‘v’ sound.”
    “Sorry,” Madame said in French. If there was anything she understood, it was the importance of proper pronunciation. “And how do you say your last name?”
    “ Sob- chak,” he said. “S-o-b-c-z-a-k.”
    “ Sob -chak,” she repeated. “Okay, Pawel. Take an empty seat.”
    He gave her a small two-finger salute and dropped into the chair right behind me. I turned back to the slides as Madame prattled on about Monet. A minute later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw Pawel twirling a pencil between his fingers.
    “Yes?” I asked.
    “What the hell is going on right now?” he asked, gesturing with his pencil toward the screen.
    “Madame is lecturing about Impressionism,” I said. This didn’t spark any recognition in his eyes, so I explained further. “For our cultural component.”
    “Uh, what?”
    “Don’t you speak French?” He at least knew enough to understand what Madame had been saying to him earlier.
    “Well, yeah, but what’s a cultural component?” he asked.
    I shook my head at his ignorance. “In Advanced French IV, we’re not just supposed to learn the French language anymore. Madame is going to teach us other things, but in French. And we’re going to have to write papers.”
    “About what?” He looked perturbed by this information.
    “French literature, French art, French history,” I said. “Didn’t they tell you that when you signed up to take the class?”
    “No,” he said. “They didn’t tell me anything, they just plugged all the classes I’ve already taken into the computer and it spat out this schedule.” He handed me a folded piece of paper.
    I looked over his schedule. “You’re on the AP track,” I pointed out.
    “Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Super.”
    I gave the paper back. “Well, why don’t you just go get it changed?”
    “I probably will,” he said, his eyes drifting toward the screen at the front of the room, where Madame had just put up a picture of Monet’s The Cliffs at Etrétat .
    I nodded, then directed my attention once again to Madame’s lecture. A couple of minutes