This year was going to be dreadful. Feneus Loredon and Adam Gregory and I we were in Madame Henrie’s class, across the hall of our second grade teacher, Madame Nicole. But, we called her Madame Nini. In her class, she taught us poetry beside mathematic and grammar and French and art. “Poetry,” she said, “Is not about the rhythm or how well a person writes it. It is how a person feels about each word they write.” On Fridays like today, after hand-washing the chalkboard, we arranged ourselves in a line in front of the class to recite poems, even Madame Nini recited a poem. While listening, we used our brain because it had power. Because our brain was like a light bulb that made us see through the darkness. We used it to visualize the lines from the poems. I always recited, La Cigale et La fourmi, my favorite
Madame Henrie’s booming voice reached me as she stepped into the classroom from the other third grade class, and I sat down real fast. But, her budged-eyes, her snake eyes caught me. She stood there with the pile of books in her hands, mouth slightly agape, looking and looking at me, and I blinked and blinked at her. I am going to question her today.
“Did I see you looking out the window, Olivier?”
“No, Madame. Henrie. I was not.” I smiled because I knew what I wanted to do.
“Don’t you lie to me with that dirty mouth.”
I smiled
…show more content…
Don’t wet it. Don’t throw it away! Don’t step on it. Don’t eat it either! This catechism has important lessons for all of you boys to memorize,” she lifted a book that looked as thin as a thread in mid-air, then, held it in her hands with care, looked down at it, and focused on us, “This is your Bible. You need to know every prayer in it. They will set all of you free from your dirty minds,” she said walking toward her wooden desk, and when she sat, her chair screamed and squealed under her massive butt, and I laughed behind my hands. She is so