"Monsieur Clifford, Monsieur Clifford! Qui est-ce?" asks a kid with the biggest russet eyes and deepest dimples I've ever seen on a child as I walk into Room 16.

(Mr. Clifford, who's that?)

Thanks to the munchkin, an eclectic array of colors turn in my direction in awe at the strange, curly haired man who just entered their classroom. I tightly hold my messenger bag to my chest as if afraid that one of the kids will come up and snatch it out of my arms. It's such a stupid thought, but kids are unpredictable. I anxiously rub the back of my neck at this sudden attention and nod my acknowledgement towards Michael, who's dressed more like he's ready for a night out than spending the day with fifteen five-year-olds. 

As I awkwardly stand near the foot of the door (I've closed it now), a little blonde girl with bright cornflower eyes blushes when she accidentally makes direct eye contact with me. I give her a small smile and she hides her face in the palms of her small, pale hands. Awww, elle est très mignonne! Les enfants sont adorables. (Awww, she's so cute! The kids are so adorable.)

"Venez! Venez!" Michael beckons as he motions for me to step away from the door. "Ne restez pas là. Les enfants te mangent pas, Ashton. Te fiez à moi." (C'mon! C'mon! Don't stand there. The kids won't eat you, Ashton. Trust me.)

"Ouah, je sais," I voice with a small chuckle as I stop my glasses from sliding off by harshly pushing them up my nose's bridge. "Mais ils me regardent et m'effrayent. C'est pas facile pour moi car je suis étranger ici. Ils me connaîssent pas comme toi." (But they're looking at me and scaring me. It's not easy since I'm a stranger. They don't know me like you.)

Michael chuckles and shakes his head. I know it sounds silly for me to be scared of fifteen little kids, especially since they're still basically toddlers, but it's frightening as fuck. They could all gang up and attack me, and nobody would blame them because they're too goddamn adorable for words. The kids are all chattering away, giving me weird looks in the process as I cautiously approach the group surrounded by my flat mate. I thought kids were usually quiet around strange people. I guess I was wrong. Anyone would be nervous around a strange group of children if they're not used to the atmosphere, and that's exactly how I'm feeling at this very moment because of their sudden interest in me.

Michael is seated upon a chestnut rocking chair cushioned with a black pillow while the kids are gathered around an Armenian rug; I know the rug's Armenian because it's a smaller version of the rug in our flat. I'm pretty sure I interrupted story time because a French version of The Rainbow Fish lies flat on Michael's lap, and there's about three more books on the little desk on his right. He runs a hand through his tousled, blond locks and smiles, forest green eyes brimming with ecstasy at the sight of his kids and flat mate in one room. He's definitely going to enjoy the rest of his school day. I can tell.

"Attention, tout le monde!" Michael announces as he stands up, placing the book on top of what I'm assuming is the "to read" pile. He has everyone's attention now, even mine. This is exactly why he's the teacher and not me. "Enfants, nous avons quelqu'un spécieux avec nous aujourd'hui. Disent 'bienvenue' à notre envité. Ashton, venez." (Attention everyone! Kids, we have someone special with us today. Say 'hello' to our guest. Ashton, come.)

Again, fifteen sets of multicolored irises stare at the honey blond, curly haired man dressed like he's part of the Greasers if you subtract the nerdy, black-rimmed piece of plastic on his face and the uncool messenger bag he's holding onto for dear life. The kids scoot over to clear an aisle for me straight in the middle of the circle. As I walk closer to Michael, I feel quite intimidated. Michael isn't an intimidating person in the slightest, even with his six foot stature. As the kids' teacher, he has that authoritative air about him right now that makes me fear him just a little bit. Reminding myself that he's just Michael Clifford, my flat mate, instead of one of my teachers is just what I need to keep myself in check and not freak out in front of a bunch of French munchkins.

"Tout le monde, voici Ashton Irwin, Michael introduces me to the class once I'm stood right beside him. "Dites-moi la raison pour laquelle Ashton est avec nous aujourd'hui." (Everyone, this is Ashton Irwin. Can anyone tell me why Ashton's with us today?)

A kid with short and curly chestnut hair similar to mine and bright jade eyes shoots his pudgy, little hand in the air. Soon after, a few other hands fly to the sky and a bunch of "Monsieur Clifford! Monsieur Clifford!" choruses throughout the room. It's strange, yet endearing to see all of these kids call Michael that. Michael smiles at the kids (now all of their hands are up) and mentally eenie meenie miny moes before pointing to the curly haired boy.

"Ouah, Thierry. Tu as la réponse?" Michael kindly questions, giving the boy his undivided attention. (Yes, Thierry. What's your answer?)

Thierry nods and flashes us an adorable, little grin. "Ashton est ici pour montrer et dire, n'est-ce pas?" (Ashton's here for show and tell, isn't he?)

"Tu es très intelligent, Thierry!" I exclaim with a grin of my own. "Tu es vrai. Je suis venu à votre classe car Michael...uh, Monsieur Clifford voulait me montrer à vous." (You're very smart, Thierry! You're right. I came to your class because Michael...uh, Mr. Clifford wanted to show me to you.)

I sit on the stool beside Michael's rocking chair and ease into my surroundings a bit. It's easier to be less frightened of children when you're in an authoritative position, which is the vibe I'm getting since the kids are circled on the Armenian rug whilst Michael and I are sitting on chairs. Scanning the little faces in front of me, I can't help but want to take them all out to ice cream or something. They're just way too cute! No wonder Michael took up this job. From what he's told me, it's exhausting, yet worth it because he's making a difference in kids' lives and bringing joy to their worlds by preparing them for grade school.

"Ashton est écrivan et mon camarade me chambre," Michael explains as he claps a hand on my shoulder. "Mais il est pas français. Qui sait le pays dont Ashton viens?" (Ashton is a writer and my roommate. But he's not French. Which country does Ashton come from?)

The kids scratch their heads, tap their chins with a finger, and perform other thinking mechanisms. The little blonde girl who blushed with one look stares intently at me, as if her life depends on knowing where I'm from. She runs a hand through her thick, dirty blonde locks and deeply exhales.

"Oui, Fleur?" Michael asks as she raises her hand.

"Quel est la langue maternelle d'Ashton?" her little, high pitched voice adorably asks. (What's Ashton's native language?)

"Anglais," I respond as I place my messenger bag on the floor. (English.)

"Parlez-vous en anglais pour nous alors nous pouvons deviner?" Fleur asks, this time to me. She blushes again when I shoot her a smile and nod. (Can you talk in English for us so we can guess?)

"Okay. Um, I'm Ashton Irwin and contrary to popular belief, I have never said the phrase put the shrimp on the barbie because nobody actually says that," I say in my most bogan accent. "I can't surf to save my life, but I love Vegemite and writing. Writing is basically my life and the reason why I came to Paris. Uh, is that enough to give you guys a clue about where I'm from?"

The kids stare at me in awe. It's like they've never heard anyone with an Australian accent before (they probably haven't). I turn to Michael and he just shrugs his shoulders and chuckles.

"D'accord, d'accord! Est-ce quelqu'un a une conjecture?" Michael asks, bringing his authority back the children gawking at me like I'm a new species they've just discovered. (Alright, alright! Does anyone have a guess?)

Thierry and Fleur shoot their hands in the air at the exact same time. The two kids playfully glare at each other, obviously wanting to answer the question, his/herself. Michael nods at Thierry, causing poor Fleur to pout and jealously cross her little arms.

"Ashton est australien!" he squeals clapping his hands in delight. (Ashton's Australian.)

"Bon travail, Thierry! C'est correctement!" Michael exclaims. (Good job, Thierry. That's correct!)

"Est'ce qu'Ashton ton petit ami, Monsieur Clifford?" a kid with jet black hair and sparkling emerald eyes curiously asks. (Is Ashton your boyfriend, Mr. Clifford?)

Michael and I look at each other, immediately bursting into laughter at the kid's question. It's such an unprofessional thing for Michael to do since he is their teacher, but the kid just asked if we're dating. You'd probably laugh your ass off at that question, too, if you were in our position. Once Michael calms down, he runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.

"Non, Aimee. Il est pas mon petit amie. J'ai pas une petite ami, mais Ashton en a un," Michael politely clarifies. (No, Aimee. He's not my boyfriend. I don't have a girlfriend, but Ashton has one.)

The fourteen other kids snicker at Aimee. The poor girl looks like she's going to die from embarrassment, but Michael rises from his seat and gives the girl a reassuring hug. I smile at the small gesture. Michael is seriously going to be a great father one day. He cares so much about his kids that they're basically like his own...except not because he's only twenty-three and is nowhere near close to getting married and settling down.

"Ashton, qui est ta petite amie?" Fleur asks, eyes alight with thirst for the little bit of information.  (Ashton, who's your girlfriend?)

"Je n'en ai pas une," I respond with a shrug. (I don't have one.)

Michael rolls his eyes, causing the kids together. "Elle s'appelle Stephanie et elle travaille à Menardin." (Her name's Stephanie and she works at Menardin.)

"Stephanie and I aren't dating!" I almost shout, but don't when my mind tells me that I'm in a room full of kids. "I only met her this week, Mikey. We're just friends!"

"Ashton a dit qu'il sorte pas avec Stephanie, mais il est un grand menteur, enfants. Il la parle chaque soir quand il écrit," Michael explains to the children. (Ashton says he's not going out with Stephanie, but he's a big liar, kids. He talks to her every night when he writes.)

Well, he's not exactly wrong. Stephanie and I have been talking to each other each for the past few nights, but that doesn't mean she's my girlfriend, per se. Stephanie is just really chill to talk to, and she isn't judgy about my night writing. In fact, she embraces it and thinks it's cool that I gain inspiration from a certain celestial object, even if that might make me sound cuckoo bananas to most people.

"Ton prof vous ment. Stephanie n'est pas ma petite amie," I reiterate, sticking my tongue out to Michael. (Your teacher's lying. Stephanie's not my girlfriend.)

The kids giggle, clearly enjoying Michael and my little argument. But we all know there's only one way to solve this: a majority rule. The kids can decide who they think is right and who's wrong. I think it's the only fair way. Just because Michael's their teacher doesn't mean they'll exactly sway their votes in his direction.

"Est-ce qu'elle belle?" a girl with long, curly ginger hair suddenly asks. (Is she pretty?)

"Stephanie?" I question. The girl nods her head. "Ouah, elle est très belle et petite. Stephanie est brunette et elle a le plus beau sourire que j'ai jamais vu. Elle est spectaculaire." (Yeah, she's very pretty and short. Stephanie's a brunette and she has the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. She's spectacular.)

A chorus of "awwws" erupt from the kids and one look at their teacher tells me just how much he's going to win if we put this to a vote. The smug grin on his face cements his views on Stephanie and my relationship. We may not be dating, but I just told fifteen little kids and my flat mate that I'm attracted to her. Well, fuck.

"Ashton adore Stephanie," Michael playfully taunts me. "Mais il adore la lune aussi car elle lui pousse à écrire." (Ashton loves Stephanie. But he also loves the moon because it gives him a reason to write.)

"La lune?" fifteen voices simultaneous ask in amazement as their gazes turn to me.

"C'est stupid," I comment as I grow crimson. "Vous voulez pas entendre cela." (It's stupid. You don't want to hear about it.)

But the kids beg to differ. Everyone's attention is fully on me, even Michael's. I give Michael a pleading look, begging him to just let me not talk about my writing technique, but that's the main reason why he brought me here. He wanted his kids to know how I write and why it works for me. I deeply sigh and run a hand through my curls as I face the children, then turn to Michael again.

"Ben bon. Qu'est-ce que vous voulez savoir, mes petits?" I ask, earning multiple hand raises straight after. (Alright. What do you want to know, guys?)

***

The rest of my time with Michael and his preschoolers fly by in a shorter time than expected. As soon as I know it, the school day's over. It honestly feels like I spent three hours, max, with Michael and the kids, but I spent nearly the entire school day with them. It's crazy how quickly time can zoom by when you're having fun.

As the kids finish packing up and form a single file in front of the door, Michael helps the stragglers whilst I conduct a head count. It's only been a few hours, but the kids seem so comfortable having me around. With each kid I approach, each one hugs my leg and thanks me for taking the time to spend the day with them and Monsieur Clifford. I give each kid a massive hug and smile, thanking them for having me and making this the most memorable and fun day of my entire life. When I get to Thierry and lean down to hug him, his jade irises sparkle and grow big. Thierry tackles me to the ground with his hug and giggles when I ruffle his hair.

"Tu me manques, kiddo!" I tell him once he gets off. (I'm gonna miss you, kiddo!)

"Mais Ashton, vous pouvez nous rendrez visite encore si Monsieur Clifford vous permettez!" he notes as his gaze wavers to Michael. (But Ashton, can you visit us again if Mr. Clifford let you?)

Michael shrugs his shoulders. "Nous verrons, Thierry. Ashton est un homme occupé." (We'll see. Ashton's a busy man.)

Thierry smiles and gives me one last hug before returning to his place in line. Out of all the kids, I've definitely connected with him the most. I don't know if it's because he likes my accent and finds it fascinating, but he seemed to want to talk to only me today. I had to remind him that I'm merely Michael's guest, but that gave him more incentive to ask me questions and play with me rather than the other kids. 

I didn't mind it, though. He's a sweet kid, and he turned out to be my favorite (I can show favoritism since I'm not Michael, right?). Thierry rambled on about his family at home and the one in the States, as well as his hobbies and interests. He told me he wanted to be a drummer for a band when he grows up. I'm pretty sure I gained brownie points with him when I told him that I do a bit of drumming. After today, I know that he definitely wants me to come back to their classroom before the term ends.

Michael and I lead the kids out of the room, down the corridor, and outside of the school building to either help them onto a bus or wait for their respective guardians to pick them up. Michael assigned me with waiting duty whilst he escorts the bus riders to their buses for the time being. And guess who decided to sit right beside me as he waits for his aunt to pick him up? Thierry. And on my other side sits Fleur, who seems pretty incensed that Thierry's trying to keep my undivided attention on him rather than attending to the other kids and her.

"Ashton, Fleur a le béguin pour vous," Thierry teases. "Ashton, regardez! Elle rougit! Elle rougit!"(Fleur has a crush on you. Ashton, look! She's blushing! She's blushing!)

He's right. Poor Fleur is a deep crimson as she tries to hide her face in her hands. I don't think Thierry's embarrassing Fleur because of me, though. I know they're only like, five, but I think he has a little crush on her and that's why he's taunting her. It's the classic "boy teases girl because he secretly likes her" scenario. He just doesn't realize it because they're so young.

"C'mere," I say to Fleur as I hold my arms out to her.

The little blonde girl smiles as she buries her face in my chest and I wrap my arms around her. Bless her for being so timid. That just makes her more adorable! If I ever have kids, I want one a cute one like her.

"Fleur! Fleur!" a man calls out.

I let go of Fleur and she immediately bolts straight up. She turns her head and smiles big at the tall and blond man dressed like he just got out of a business meeting. He looks way too young to be a father because honestly, he looks like he's around Michael and my age. Seconds later, she hops off of the bench and bolts away from Thierry and me.

"Papa! Papa!" Fleur cries as she races into her father's arms.

The man cuddles Fleur and pecks the child's forehead. My heart is literally melting. He makes me want a little girl of my own so I can do that. I just need a great musical to break out so I can be financially ready for a kid. The man catches sight of Michael, who's walking towards us now; all of the bus goers have left now.

"Ah, Monsieur 'Emmings!" Michael calls out to the man with a friendly wave. "C'est bon à te voir!" (It's good to see you.)

"Toi aussi, Michael. Comment était ma petite Fleur aujourd'hui?" (You too. How was my little Fleur today?)

"Fantastique comme toujours," Michael raves. "Oh, um. Voici mon camarade de chambre, Ashton Irwin. Il était notre invité et un écrivan. Ashton, zis ees Luke 'Emmings, Fleur's dad." (Fantastic, as always. This is my roommate, Ashton Irwin. He was our guest and he's a writer.)

Luke acknowledges me with the same cornflower eyes as his daughter and a smile as he holds out a hand for me to shake.

"It's nice to meet you, Ashton," Luke says in surprisingly flawless English, his accent sounding more like mine than an American or Brit. "Fleur seems to really like you from the way she held on to you."

"Y-your accent," I stammer in awe. "You're not French?"

Luke chuckles and shakes his head. "Neither are you, it seems. So you're Australian, too? What brought you to Paris?"

"Writing. I uh, needed to get away from Sydney for a bit for inspiration, so I'm staying here for a couple of months to do just that," I explain.

"Wait, what kind of writing do you do? I might know some people who can look at your manuscript if you're working on something."

"Uh...I'm trying to write a musical?" I say in more of a question. "I want my work to be in the West End and Broadway. Places like that."

Luke smirks and places his daughter on the ground. He looks at me in a businesslike manner and proceeds to fish something out of his pocket.

"This is my business card," he informs me as I take the small rectangular paper. "I might know a few people who can look at your work and get it in one of the theatres. Théâtre National de Chaîllot, Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, Le Palais de Congrès de Paris, Théâtre Mogodor, Châtelet-Théâtre musical de Paris, Zénith de Paris, and even the Moulin Rouge. I can get your work into any of those theatres if they're good enough."

"Wow," I breathe in awe as I look at Luke's business car. "I don't really know what to say. Th-thanks."

Luke claps my shoulder, then lifts his daughter. "No need to thank me, Ashton. I'm sure Fleur will agree with me when I say that we look forward to seeing you again."

I watch Luke and Fleur leave in a trance. I can't keep my eyes off of them because if I do, I fear that the business card in my hand will disappear and everything Luke just told me was all in my head. Fleur take one last look at me and smiles before her father puts her in his car. Luke waves at us before driving off.

"Michael, tell me I wasn't dreaming that," I whisper, watching the black vehicle drive out of sight. "Tell me that actually happened and Luke Hemmings really did say he'll look at my musical once I've written it."

"Zat just 'append, Ashton," Michael assures me with a pat on the back. "Et alors, nous avons Thierry. Qui vient te chercher?" (So, we have Thierry. Who's coming to get you?)

"Ma tante, (my aunt)" the small boy replies, smiling up at his teacher and me.

Michael and I shrug our shoulders. For about ten minutes, we wait for Thierry until this aunt of his arrives. The boy wanted to know everything about how we became friends, so Michael and I took turns telling him the story. Thierry hung on to our every word, eyes growing wide with interest and reacting in all the right places. Kids definitely love a good story, and apparently the story of Michael and my friendship was a hit for Thierry. He was especially interested to learn why I write at night because his eyes grew about the size of the moon. They grew so big because he found it that fascinating. I was just about to tell him about how his teacher thinks my writing habits are lame when suddenly...

"Thierry, allez! Allez! Je suis desolée pour être en retard." (Come! Come! I'm sorry for being late.)

The three of us turn our attention to a petite brunette with striking green eyes in a flowy, black dress and silver sandals. Thierry zooms away from us and towards his aunt, running into her arms whilst Michael and I look at each other in shock. Thierry's aunt is much younger than both of us expected, but that's not the most surprising part of her.

"Michael, I didn't know you were Thierry's teacher! Wow, what an amazing surprise. I might have to pick up my little nephew more often," Stephanie voices when she looks up at us, flashing me a beautiful smile.