“Pardon, monsieur, you said 'crevette,' but did you mean 'chevrette'?” I ask sheepishly so as not to embarrass my Louisiana French teacher.
The room goes silent.
“What did you say?”
His body is still facing the blackboard, chalk mid-air.
“I—I wondered…if um…you meant—”
“Say it!”
“'Chevrette' is the Louisiana French word for 'shrimp.' Not 'crevette'! 'Crevette' is 'shrimp' in Standard French!!!”
I slap my hands over my mouth as if overtaken by some invisible force. He whirls around—lip snarled, jaw clenched, eyes burning. I brace myself for his cruelty.
Instead, he slow-claps.
“At last, T-grasshopper!,” he says. “Chevrette vs. Crevette was your final test. You have proven yourself ready for your mission!”
“Who, moi? Non, non, you must have the wrong fille. I’m just an average Joe! Err, Joséphine, I mean”.
Then, a golden fiddle drops from the ceiling. I pick it up and somehow have the power to play all of Lost Bayou Ramblers’ entire discography. My classmates cheer and hoist me up in the air. My teacher ushers me to the front of the room, handing me a gilded bow.
“This will come in handy later,” he says. “But first, follow me.”
He tugs a tattered copy of A Cajun Night Before Christmas from his bookshelf, revealing a secret room. In it, more ancient Louisiana texts: the Marquis’s diaries, the first map of the Territory of Orleans, and the original blueberry cheesecake recipe from Don’s Seafood in Lafayette.
“How shocked are you?,” he asks. Scale of un to dix?”
“Wow, yeah,” I say. “Not like beaucoup shocked because I always had this weird affinity for National Treasure, plus a psychic in the French Quarter once told me I had ‘a gift’ but then again she said that to everyone else in the bachelorette party so–”
“Arrêt! We don’t have much time.”
I snap to attention. He unfolds a charred roll of papyrus covered in olde-man cursive.
“Megan Elizabeth Broussard,” he reads. “Your impeccable pronunciation and unmatched comprehension of the Louisiana French language has awoken the ancestors from their slumber, and they need your help. Follow the clues into the depths of the bayou to unlock a hidden chest that, once opened, will release La Louisiane from its curse. If you fail, our people will never again see crawfish below $15 per pound.”
I shudder.
“Do you accept this mission?”
“Yes! I mean, oui.”
I make a note to email him later, explaining that I totally meant to say “oui” first, but just got thrown off when he asked me the question in English.
I’m shaken from my thoughts when a hot bayou version of Austin Butler enters.
“Meet your guide!” my teacher says. “Austain Butte-LeFleur, born and raised by a family of egrets. He’ll take you where you need to go. The rest is up to you!”
We jump in hot Austain’s hot skiff and set out on the dark, murky water until we reach a ghostly cypress. Austain flashes a light inside its hallowed trunk. There, scratched into its bark, is a riddle:
Ma tête est rouge.
Ma bouche est ivoire.
Call on me, you!
Le tchoc perdu!
(Asteur monsieur.)
“Any idea what this means?” Austain asks.
“I love you,” I blurt.
“Huh?”
“Sorry, uh, it says you need to call a lost bird? One with a red head and an ivory mouth? It’s gibberish, it doesn’t make any sen–”
“The Ivory-Billed Woodpecker!” Austain exclaims. “It is lost. Well, it’s supposedly extinct. The last confirmed sighting was in 2005.”
Austain lets out a woodpecker rap.
I swoon. He turns to me and mouths: “I love you, too.”
Our amour is interrupted by an Ivory-Billed Woodpecker in the sky. He raises a wing and beckons us to follow. We pull up to an embankment, unsure where to go next. Until the woodpecker poops.
“That’s the spot!” Austain shouts. “Dig!”
“Ew, um…” I start.
Just then, a congregation of albino cocodries surrounds us.
“What do we do now?” I yell, hoping Austain will say 'To hell with these gators, let’s elope to Cabo! ' Instead, he yells, “Listen to the woodpecker!”
The woodpecker calls out something familiar, something ethereal, a melody that sounds like…a Lost Bayou Ramblers banger.
“It’s the ‘Côte Claire Waltz’,” I exclaim. “He wants me to play the Côte Claire Waltz!”
I whip out my fiddle and begin to play, until finally the super pale alligators go do-do. We tip-toe onto land.
Austain and I survive several more perilous traps: flesh-eating ghost-pirates, shapeshifting beasts, and my ex-bestie from high school’s MLM pitch. All of it only strengthens my bond with Austain.
And, then. There it is! I can hardly believe it! The flip flop I lost on Kappa Delta Bus Trip ‘08! —Oh, and the cursed chest we’ve been looking to unlock this entire time! We’ve done it! I crack it open.
The curse is lifted. Peace is restored, Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers come out of hiding, and Louisiana families never again have to convince themselves that boiled chevrettes are just as good—if not better than—boiled crawfish.
The state gives me prize money and honors Austain and me with a parade. Upon learning his favorite throws are plastic cups, instead of the obviously-superior jester hats, I realize we are too different to sustain a relationship in the real world. We agree to keep the sexual tension going, just in case they make a movie franchise about us, you know, for publicity purposes.
I buy myself a cozy little mansion on Avery Island and wait by the phone. The secret service in France and Quebec are sure to call next.
Read more of Megan Broussard's satirical explorations of Louisiana culture and language, here.
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