The Walk On by John Feinstein Read Free Book Online

Science—American History, English 1, and French, which he had opted for over Spanish back in middle school. His mom spoke goodFrench and wanted her children to do the same, even though his father pointed out that both Spanish and Chinese would probably be more valuable to them long-term.
    “It can’t possibly be a bad thing to know how to speak French,” his mom had said.
    That was the end of the argument. Most arguments between his parents ended that way—at least in Alex’s memory: Mom won and Dad threw up his hands and said, “Yes, dear.”
    And so Alex trudged into his last class of the day in room 407, wondering just how much French the other kids in the class spoke. The teacher was—according to the PowerPoint presentation she began the class with—Mademoiselle Schiff. The PowerPoint was fairly typical: there would be a vocabulary quiz every Friday, written assignments most nights, and a book to be read—in French—by the end of the year. It was the final line on the screen that terrified Alex the most: “These are the last words you will read in English in this class.”
    “D’accord?”
Mademoiselle Schiff said when the lights came back on.
    That much, Alex understood. Mademoiselle Schiff was easily the youngest teacher he had encountered all day—Alex guessed she was no more than twenty-five. She was petite and blond and, Alex saw pretty quickly, no-nonsense.
    In French, she asked each student to introduce themselves to their classmates. Alex managed to get through
“Je m’appelle Alex Meyers”
without incident. In fact, Mademoiselle Schiff said, as he sat down,
“Monsieur Myers, votre accent est très bien.”
    Alex had been told he had a good accent before. It was his vocabulary that he was worried about.
    He was glancing at the clock, wondering why it was moving so slowly, when the final student stood up to introduce herself. As soon as she did, Alex forgot about the clock.
    “Je m’appelle Christine Whitford,”
she said in an accent that, even in a few words, Alex could tell was better than his. But it was not her accent that got his attention.
    She was about five six, he guessed, and she had long jetblack hair. He could see her eyes sparkling from across the room, and when she smiled in response to being complimented on her accent, Alex was convinced that the entire room got brighter. He had to meet Christine Whitford—if only to see if she was half as pretty up close.
    When the bell sounded, Alex was out of his seat quickly. He gathered his books, stuck them in his backpack, and then timed his exit so that he would be a half step behind Christine Whitford.
    “Votre accent est superbe!”
he said, pulling up alongside her in the hallway.
    She gave him a sideways glance and the hint of a smile.
    “Do you try to talk to all the girls in French?” she asked.
    “Only the ones that speak French,” he said.
    “You heard me speak three words,” she said.
    “But you spoke them
so
well,” he said. “The teacher even said so.”
    She shook her head and laughed.
    “Let me guess,” she said. “You play football.”
    That brought him up short. “Why do you say that?” he said.
    “Only a football player would just walk up to a girl and be so obvious,” she said.
    “Obvious?” Alex said. He thought he’d been doing pretty well.…
    They were walking through the crowded hallway, slowing for people in front of them. Walking next to her, Alex realized that Christine wasn’t as tall as he had thought. She was probably closer to five four than five six, but man was she cute. Now she pushed her hair back from her shoulders and smiled her mesmerizing smile.
    “I’m right, aren’t I?” she said. “At the very least you’re some kind of a jock. I’m guessing football.”
    “Well,” he said, trying to sound modest as he bragged, “I’m on my way to practice right now, if you want to know the truth.”
    If she was impressed, she didn’t show it. “Well, that explains it,