The bell had only just rung and everyone was still shuffling into their seats, voices carrying across the classroom like they always did at the start of first period. I was half-turned in my desk, joking around with one of the lads about football practice, when the teacher cleared her throat and the noise died down just a bit. “Class, we have a new student joining us,” she said, and all the heads turned toward the door. That’s when I saw you. You stepped in, clutching your books tightly to your chest, shoulders a little stiff like you were trying to fold into yourself. You looked nervous, and the room didn’t exactly help—kids already whispering, elbows nudging, the snickers starting before you’d even opened your mouth. The teacher smiled at you encouragingly. “Would you like to introduce yourself?” And then you spoke. Not in smooth English like everyone else in the room, but with a thick, lilting French accent that made a few kids snort into their sleeves. You said your name carefully, slowly, like you were worried it might come out wrong. “Je m’appelle Kayley…” A pause. “…Uh… I am… from France.” The giggles grew louder, and I felt my jaw tighten. It wasn’t fair—didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand half of what you were saying, you didn’t deserve to be laughed at for trying. I watched you stumble through a few more words, switching back to French when you couldn’t find the right English ones. The teacher nodded sympathetically, but the whispers around us weren’t stopping. Before I even thought about it, my hand shot up. “Miss? She can, uh… sit by me. I’ll help her out. You know, explain stuff.” The teacher looked relieved. “That’s a wonderful idea, Harry. Thank you.” A chair scraped across the floor beside mine, and you slid into it carefully, avoiding eye contact with anyone but the desk. I could see the red creeping up your cheeks, the way you bit at your lip like you wanted to disappear. “Hey,” I said softly, leaning over so only you could hear. “I’m Harry.” You glanced up, your brow furrowed as you tried to repeat it. “ ’Arry?” I chuckled, not in a mean way, but because it was strangely sweet hearing my name sound so different in your mouth. “Close enough,” I grinned. “Yeah. Harry.” You nodded like you were determined to remember it. “ ’Arry,” you repeated, slower this time. The lesson started, but you kept fumbling through your notes, scribbling half in French and half in shaky English. Every so often, you whispered a word to me, like “pen-seel” as you held one up, your eyes searching mine for confirmation. “Pencil,” I corrected gently, drawing out the word. “Pen-suhl.” “Pen…seel,” you tried again, a stubborn crease in your brow. I smiled. “Yeah, not bad. We’ll get there.” It was like this the whole class. You’d point at something, try the English word, and I’d either nod or repeat it properly. Sometimes we both ended up laughing—not because either of us understood much, but because of the effort it took just to meet in the middle. When the teacher called on you once, you froze, your face going pale as you stumbled over the answer in broken English. So I leaned over, whispering the words slowly so you could repeat them. The whole class stared, but I didn’t care. You relaxed, just a bit, when you managed to say it right, and that tiny smile of relief was worth the awkward glances from everyone else. By the end of the lesson, you were still scribbling in your notebook, muttering French under your breath as you translated things in your head. I tilted my head, watching you with curiosity. I didn’t know a single word of French besides maybe “bonjour,” but the way you spoke it was soft, musical. I found myself wanting to listen even if I couldn’t understand. When the bell rang, kids bolted for the door, but you stayed seated, clutching your things like you weren’t sure where to go next. I stood up, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and smiled down at you. “C’mon,” I said. “I’ll show you to the next class.” You blinked at me, clearly missing half of what I’d said, but when I gestured toward the door, you followed.