turtleneck paired with a long, black skirt, and she had her hair pulled back into the tightest bun known to man—so tight that the corners of her eyes were actually stretching to accommodate the pull of the bun. I didn’t even have to ask— this was Madame Rousseau.
Without smiling, she locked eyes with me, walked right in front of me, unlocked her door, then closed it in my face.
What was I supposed to do with that?
I waited a second or two, then knocked again.
A full five minutes later, she opened the door, peered down at her watch and in a flat tone said, “ Vous êtes en retard .” You're late.
Was this woman for real? First of all, I wasn’t late. And second of all, since when were the French so keen on timeliness?
I walked into her tiny, but pristine office and noticed the rows upon rows of French pedagogy books packed into the bookshelf above her desk. She motioned for me to sit down as she took a seat at her desk.
“So, you are Charlotte Summers,” she scowled in French.
“Yes, thank you so much for meeting with me today, Madame Rousseau. You have no idea how honored and excited I am to be a part of this program.”
“Yes, well, we will have to work on your timeliness, won’t we?” She tapped her pen on the desk and peered at her watch once more.
“I’m terribly sorry about last week. My plane—”
“I do not have time for this, Mademoiselle Summers. Let us discuss the program and what will be expected of you. As you know, I am the professor appointed to help you find a teaching position after you complete your year of study at la Sorbonne . But, this is not to say that it will be so easy. You must prove yourself this year. Not only academically, but you must show yourself to be of good character and of sound judgment. I work with some of the most prestigious, elite private schools in Paris, and it is my responsibility to make sure that the teachers I place in these schools are not stupide , but rather outstanding, brilliant role models for these young children. Vous comprenez ?”
“Yes, I totally understand.”
“You will meet with me two or three times each semester to go over your progress, and you will turn in copies of your final papers to me, as well as to your professors. I will personally monitor your work, and if I see fit, I will recommend you to one of the private schools in Paris. And trust me, Mademoiselle Summers, the schools look very highly on my recommendation. Without it, well . . . bonne chance .”
Madame Rousseau stood abruptly, opened her door and gestured for me to leave. “I have class in twenty minutes. We will meet in December, at which time I expect you to turn in your final papers. You must contact me by email to schedule the meeting.”
“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I said as she ushered me out of her office.
Just as she was about to close the door, she peeked her tight little face out and shot me her sternest look yet. “And Mademoiselle Summers, when we meet in December, I expect you to be here fifteen minutes early.” With that, she closed the door in my face, and I stood there wondering how in the hell I was ever going to make this woman like me.
***
During my first week of classes, Frédéric sent me three more hilarious text messages, but I didn’t hear a word from Luc, nor did I hear from Jeff after the ruthless email I had sent him. While I couldn’t help but admit that I was disappointed Luc hadn’t called or stopped by after our great night of sex, it was Jeff who I couldn’t get off my mind.
I had so many mixed emotions swimming around in my head. I wanted to see his reaction when he read my email. I wanted to see the pain on his face. I wanted to know that I had hurt him as badly as he had hurt me. Then I wondered if I had even hurt him? If he was able to run around on me so easily, did he even care what I was doing now?
On the other hand, I did think there was a slight chance that Jeff still cared for me
Without smiling, she locked eyes with me, walked right in front of me, unlocked her door, then closed it in my face.
What was I supposed to do with that?
I waited a second or two, then knocked again.
A full five minutes later, she opened the door, peered down at her watch and in a flat tone said, “ Vous êtes en retard .” You're late.
Was this woman for real? First of all, I wasn’t late. And second of all, since when were the French so keen on timeliness?
I walked into her tiny, but pristine office and noticed the rows upon rows of French pedagogy books packed into the bookshelf above her desk. She motioned for me to sit down as she took a seat at her desk.
“So, you are Charlotte Summers,” she scowled in French.
“Yes, thank you so much for meeting with me today, Madame Rousseau. You have no idea how honored and excited I am to be a part of this program.”
“Yes, well, we will have to work on your timeliness, won’t we?” She tapped her pen on the desk and peered at her watch once more.
“I’m terribly sorry about last week. My plane—”
“I do not have time for this, Mademoiselle Summers. Let us discuss the program and what will be expected of you. As you know, I am the professor appointed to help you find a teaching position after you complete your year of study at la Sorbonne . But, this is not to say that it will be so easy. You must prove yourself this year. Not only academically, but you must show yourself to be of good character and of sound judgment. I work with some of the most prestigious, elite private schools in Paris, and it is my responsibility to make sure that the teachers I place in these schools are not stupide , but rather outstanding, brilliant role models for these young children. Vous comprenez ?”
“Yes, I totally understand.”
“You will meet with me two or three times each semester to go over your progress, and you will turn in copies of your final papers to me, as well as to your professors. I will personally monitor your work, and if I see fit, I will recommend you to one of the private schools in Paris. And trust me, Mademoiselle Summers, the schools look very highly on my recommendation. Without it, well . . . bonne chance .”
Madame Rousseau stood abruptly, opened her door and gestured for me to leave. “I have class in twenty minutes. We will meet in December, at which time I expect you to turn in your final papers. You must contact me by email to schedule the meeting.”
“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” I said as she ushered me out of her office.
Just as she was about to close the door, she peeked her tight little face out and shot me her sternest look yet. “And Mademoiselle Summers, when we meet in December, I expect you to be here fifteen minutes early.” With that, she closed the door in my face, and I stood there wondering how in the hell I was ever going to make this woman like me.
***
During my first week of classes, Frédéric sent me three more hilarious text messages, but I didn’t hear a word from Luc, nor did I hear from Jeff after the ruthless email I had sent him. While I couldn’t help but admit that I was disappointed Luc hadn’t called or stopped by after our great night of sex, it was Jeff who I couldn’t get off my mind.
I had so many mixed emotions swimming around in my head. I wanted to see his reaction when he read my email. I wanted to see the pain on his face. I wanted to know that I had hurt him as badly as he had hurt me. Then I wondered if I had even hurt him? If he was able to run around on me so easily, did he even care what I was doing now?
On the other hand, I did think there was a slight chance that Jeff still cared for me
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