Our teacher is Madame Turcotte now, and though I still like Madame Renault my allegiance has shifted. We have no male teachers for our class, and, really, for guys
there's just the principal and one grade four teacher for the whole school.

Debbie says she'd like to kiss Pamela's math teacher -- she saw him at River High School's grade nine drama night. So would Mariko (she was there, too).

I'm trying to come up with a name, but can't. During these anxious minutes, I realize I'd be happy to kiss almost every teacher in the school: Mlle. Summers, Mrs. Olivette, even the kindergarten teacher with adult braces and the librarian who also works at Dairy Queen, in addition to Madame Turcotte.

They're all girls.

Although it totally fits with the song, I think, I vow silently never ever to tell about the dream I used to have about Madame Renault just before I went to sleep where she was in bed with me -- well, really, I was sneaking into her bed and under the covers -- and she looked at me and said,
"But Tracey, you're a girl!" and I said,
"Who cares?"
And we slept all curled up together until morning. I don't kiss her in the dream, but it's fair to say it's still kind of a kissing dream.

I know telling them about the dream wouldn't be a good idea. Think! Even Julie, whose mother doesn't let her go out except to that stupid community center, comes up with a name: "I like Smitty."
Smitty!? Smitty's the janitor. How can it be worse to like a girl than the janitor who has food stuck in his moustache and is always asking us to
scratch his back? But it is.

The girls are screaming-delighted with the Smitty answer. They turn to me expectantly "Me, oh, I don't know, I guess I'd kiss Mr. Lewis." The principal. But I wouldn't, no way.