Free Buzz Kill by Beth Fantaskey Page A

answers about Chase Albright, why don’t I just ask him questions?
    Unfortunately, Ms. Beamish, as usual, had similar designs on her star pupil.

Chapter 20
    â€œExcusez-moi? Mademoiselle?”
    â€œOui?”
Ms. Beamish was just about to sit down with Chase, with whom she always “dialogued” because we had an odd number of students in class—and everyone else had
friends
—when she stopped her derriere in mid-descent, looking confused.
“Que voulez-vous, Mee-leh-CENT?”
    â€œ
Je
would like to
parler avec
Chase, if
vous
don’t mind,” I requested.
    Ms. Beamish’s square jaw dropped, and I wondered again if she didn’t harbor a small, sick crush on Chase, who was watching me and his teacher debate over him with his usual cool detachment, as if he didn’t care who the heck he
parler
-ed with.
    â€œAvons-nous un nombre pair d’etudiants aujourd’hui?”
Mademoiselle asked. She looked past me, appearing to do a head count, so I figured she was asking if we had an even number of students that day.
    â€œNon,”
I informed her. Then, although I knew Laura was going to hate me, I said, “
LOH-ra
needs a partner.
Mais
I think I would benefit from
travailler
avec
Chase,
parce qu’il est
the best student in class.”
    I glanced at Chase again, and saw, for the first time ever, this tiny, tiny hint of laughter in his eyes. Then I addressed Ms. Beamish again.
“S’il vous plait?”
    There was basically no way she could argue that I needed help, and Ms. Beamish, with
très,
très
obvious reluctance, yielded.
“D’accord. Mets-toi avec Chase.”
    â€œGracias,”
I said, watching her thread her blocky body through the desks, toward Laura, who mouthed, in very plain English, “I will kill you later.”
    Then I slid into the desk next to Chase’s, so we were really face-to-face—without a thick pane of ticket-window glass between us—for the first time ever. Well, not counting the time I messed up his shoes. And the first thing he said to me . . . It didn’t exactly get us off on the right foot.

Chapter 21
    â€œIf you don’t mind, I’m going to keep my feet under my desk,” Chase informed me, without so much as a
bonjour.
    â€œI told you I was sorry about that,” I reminded him.
    He seemed skeptical.
“Non, au contraire, tu ne me l’as pas dit.”
    I was pretty sure he’d just disagreed, but I didn’t want to argue with him. Especially since, now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I
had
apologized. “Look.” I leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “I don’t really speak French—”
    â€œI figured that out when you said ‘
gracias,
’” Chase interrupted.
    I ignored the dig. “And I’m not particularly interested in learning how.” I really thought the school should offer Mandarin, if anything, and had started learning a few characters on my own, in my spare time. “I actually wanted to talk with you about Coach Killdare—”
    â€œWhose house you broke into,” Chase cut in again, so suddenly
I
was under scrutiny. I’d sort of forgotten that he probably knew that. He cocked his head, a swoop of flawless hair falling over his forehead. “Why? What were you doing there?”
    I felt my face getting red. Still, I managed to ask, with reasonable composure, “If somebody broke into his house—and I’m not saying anyone did—what would make you think it was me?”
    â€œYour hair is distinctive, even in the dark,” he pointed out. “And I heard you and your partner squealing each other’s names when you ran away.”
    â€œOh.” I hadn’t realized we’d done that. “That is kind of damning.”
    He arched his eyebrows, and for the second time in one day, I saw that he was very close to smiling. “You think so?”
    His