48 "Man," he said, "I hate French so le much.”

Says:

"Man," he said, "I hate French so le much.”

“Ah, ah ah. A française,” scolded the teacher in her falsetto accent. To this Peter could only groan.

“Je deteste française,” he mumbled softly.

“Peirre Mais, porqui?” she asked sounding genuinely hurt.

Peter hated this part of French. Ever since he had signed up for class, she had tried to take over his life. Everywhere he turned she was there correcting his accent and grammar. Just yesterday she found him at the mall, but this was just too weird.

“Mrs. Trotter, don’t you think it’s a little bit weird that you’re over here at my house?”

“Ah, ah ah. A française.”

“Um. Yeah. This is weird, I’ll show you to the door.”

“La porte?”

“Yes Mrs. Trotter, the ‘porte.’”

Pete opened the door for her and showed her out. He waited till she was out of sight to close the door. He let out a scream and slid down to the floor. It was at this exact moment that he realized the française would never end.