twenty three
"Do you know the French for 'this is f*****g bullshit'?"
I curl my fingers around the pen in my hand, and glance up at Cameron. Between us, we've managed to cover the entire space of a table meant for five people with sheets and notes, which have all mixed together. Thankfully, it's not too hard to distinguish my small scrawl from his messy scribble.
"This is why I dropped French in year 9," I say, unable to keep the smugness out of my tone when I look over his sheets of French verbs and prepositions that he needs to memorise. "The language is full of ooh's and ah's, and just merde in general."
"Don't mock me with the language," he mutters, scratching something out on his paper and squinting at it. "I've only got two weeks to sort through this, and then move onto physics,
