The French Lesson

 Ah, yes, another Juniper Tree Submission.  Unfortunately, did not make the cut, but still a decent little story for 500 words.  The challenge was to end the story with the finishing line below.

      

                “My tutor is evil.”            

                My sister, Agnes, was always dramatic.

                To prepare for our move to a small coastal town, St. Something or Other, our parents insisted she attend lessons with a French tutor. 

                 “My French classes were tough at first too.”

                 “Yeah, whatever, I guess.”

                Agnes, who insisted on concert tees, began wearing lavish dresses and using French randomly.  Agnes adored her rat, Faust, but he had “gone missing”, quickly replaced with a fluffy cat, named Mr. Pierre. 

                Something was definitely wrong.  One night, I noticed a strange scent coming from Agnes’s bedroom.  I knocked on the door.  She stuck her head out and smiled politely.  The smell intensified.

                “Bonjour?”

                “What perfume are you wearing?  It smells like old people.”

                Her eyes clouded and slightly darker, she said in a perfect French accent, “Ah, seely, Mama and Papa frown on parfum.”

                 “You’re not Agnes anymore, are you?”

                She smirked and raised her eyebrow.  “Agnes vas so unappreciative, zis is correct, yes?” She tilted her head.

                “Who are you and what have you done to my sister?”

                “I vas not alvays tutor, I vas once the village vitch.  I knew ze spell and asked ‘er to repeat it back to me, en Francaise!  Agnes vas young, now I am young again! She patted me on the head. “Do not vorry, I vill be a sister perfect, yes? It vill be our secret.” She slowly closed her door.

                I didn’t want a “sister perfect”, I wanted my weird Agnes.  I knew I could never convince a priest to come with holy water and crucifixes, so this would have to be a do-it-yourself exorcism.

                The next night I was left to baby-sit.  I filled a bottle with tap water, turned off the lights and waited in her bedroom.  It seemed like hours before I heard her turn the knob.

                “Are you in ‘ere, sister dear?” She called in a singsong voice.  “Are you playing ze mean trick?” 

                She flicked on the lights and I jumped from her closet, spraying her with water.  Unfortunately, she was only wet…and angry. 

                “You leetle…”

                I must’ve bumped into Agnes’s stereo because suddenly, punk rock came screaming from the speakers.  The witch covered her ears and shrieked with pain.

                My hand hovered.  “Shall I turn it up to 11?”

                All the blood left her face as she pleaded, “Please, anyting but zat! It sounds ‘orrible!”  

                She muttered some words in French and Agnes’s small body slumped to the floor.   I hugged my sister in relief.

                Agnes opened her bright, bewildered eyes.  “What's with the music?  We having a party?”  She looked down. “Why am I dressed like an idiot?” 

                I smiled.  “You rest; we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

                “Je vous verrai dans la rue Germaine.”

                I froze on the spot, hoping I had misheard. “What did you just say?” I asked shakily.

                I turned back to Agnes, who was stroking Mr. Pierre.  “See you in St. Germaine!” She laughed as her eyes clouded over.