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Constance

Irush from my classroom to the dean’s office.

Every year after student registration, it’s the same. David—the dean—gets a new idea, and we all have to go through with this new “thing” of his.

I say “thing” because most of the time it makes a mess and doesn’t make any sense.

So, as I run through the school corridors, the only thought that loops through my mind is, What fresh hell has he decided to bestow upon us?

I’m not usually one of the teachers asked to join him in his “makeover meetings,” as my colleagues like to call them.

My specialty rarely calls for it. I teach a dead language after all.

It is this country’s native language, mind you, but it’s dead all the same.

I’m a French teacher, and it’s been over a couple hundred years since French has been spoken in the streets of Paris.

When the shifters came to earth, they didn’t even try to learn all the languages we had. They didn’t even attempt to understand most of our history.

The “angels” spoke English, a globally known language, and by choosing to express themselves in this language, they almost completely erased all the other languages from their own countries.

They’re still spoken, but only at home, with family, with friends, or in small communities.

But it’s only ever by humans.

It’s still taught in school, like Latin used to be taught centuries ago.

It’s just only taught to humans. Shifters don’t bother. It would be a waste of time to them.

So that’s why David—who is a squirrel shifter—doesn’t usually bother me.

My specialty doesn’t interest him. If he could make it disappear, he would.

Wait. Is this new idea of his to get rid of my class?

If so, I’m so fucking fucked.

I work at the International School of Paris, and except for the other former capitals in Europe, no schools provide language courses other than English.

And so when I arrive at David's office, out of breath, sweating, and my hair looking like I put my finger into an electrical plug, I have the displeasure of seeing Agatha, Mario, and Tim—respectively the Spanish, Italian, and German teachers. The only missing one is Gaia, the Arabic teacher, but that’s to be expected. She’s eight months pregnant and ready to pop out her twins any minute now.

You know that theory about David wanting to get rid of the “dead languages?” Seeing who has been called here today, that’s starting to look more and more like my immediate future.

David is already at his door, a bright smile taking up most of his face that seems to be saying, Everything is going to be alright. I’m your friend.

That smile is deceitful as shit, and we all know it.

Mario and Agatha seem to be calm, but that’s in their usual nature. Tim, though, he’s not coping well with being called to David’s office.

He’s twisting his fingers in the bottom of his shirt in a way I don’t think should be possible. How does one make his thumb touch the back of their hand? I don’t think the laws of physics and biology actually apply to him at the moment.

“And here she is,” David says as he motions for us to come inside.

He’s acting like I made him wait for hours. He only called me ten minutes ago. My office just happens to be the farthest away of them all.

I’m still not about to complain, though. If there’s a chance this meeting isn’t about us getting fired, I want to preserve my chances of staying here.