Free Jade by Olivia Rigal Page A

mean?”
    “You look sad, like you need to understand everything and have forgotten how magical life can be.”
    She pulls herself out of the water effortlessly. She makes me think of those Chinese movies, those in which the heroes fly above the treetops.
    As she dries herself off a bit, she tells me, “You have to let a little magic into your life, otherwise you’ll never be happy.”
    I watch her go, and think that I’m not sure I’ve ever believed in magic. I’m really sorry about that. My life would probably be more fun if I did.
     
    ❦
     
    While every one else goes about their day, Chanlina stays by herself in the main room. She’s turned one of the tables into a study desk; books are scattered around. As I walk by, I glance at them. Despite the fact that the titles are in French, it’s obvious that they are school-books with titles such as “Littérature du 19ème,” and “Physique - Chimie” or “Mathématiques.” 
    Looking at the books it hits me: she doesn’t just look young, she is young. Young enough to still be in high school. I pray that my fit of jealousy was totally unwarranted; Oliver couldn’t possibly be having an affair with such a young girl, could he? If he is I’m truly a poor judge of character and I’m glad that I found out in time.
    I get back to work, thankful that the dull tasks that I have to carry out require my full attention. I get a reprieve and stop obsessing about the nature of their relationship.
    She’s still at it when I’m done. The French Literature book is tucked away in her bag, as well as that of Math. I look over her shoulder, and I admire her handwriting: it’s as light and as elegant as she is. 
    Even though I just meant to pass by, I can’t help but see where she’s gone astray in her chemistry exercise. With her pen in mouth, she’s absorbed in her work, and hasn’t even noticed me.
    She’s startled when I ask, “Would you care for some help?”
    “You can? You would?” she asks back, looking up incredulously at me. 
    “Sure, let me show you.” I sit next to her and start at the beginning of the exercise. I fly over the part that she got right, congratulating her for it, and then I slow down to show her where she went wrong. I understand why she made her mistake, and explain to her the reason she’s wrong. 
    Even though it’s in French, I browse her Chemistry book for a similar exercise, but there are none, so I make one up for her. 
    I ask her to do it for me, and to speak out loud her thought process, as if she were speaking to a very slow person. She does it, and, this time, she gets it right. 
    She looks up at me, and says, “Wow, you should be a teacher!” 
    “Nah, I have no patience in a classroom,” I tell her. “I can do tutoring, because it’s one-on-one and it’s easy to figure out where the other is stuck. Dealing with twenty or thirty students at a time is not for me.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Oh yes, I’ve tried. After a few hours, I felt like taking a baseball bat and cracking a few skulls open to check if there was even a brain inside.”
    She laughs, and admits that, in that case, I’d better stick to research or lab work. 
    “I can help with Math, Physics and Biology,” I tell her. “But I’m clueless about French.”
    “Oh, right,” she says. “You noticed all my books are in French. I go to school at the Lycée Français of Vientiane. I’m in ‘Terminale.’”
    I remember, that the French go backwards. The first year is the 12 th   year, and, from there, you countdown to graduation. The ‘terminale’ is the last year, the final one. 
    “So High School is almost over,” I say. 
    “Yes and next year I’ll be going to college.”
    “Where will you go?”
    “Most likely Florida. That’s where my grandmother just moved. I’ll have to stay with her, because my father travels most of the time, and he says that I’m too young to live by myself.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I’m not