The Boy from France

by Hilary Freeman

  ‘That’s not true. But, if I’m being honest, I don’t really think you should be romantically involved with a boy who is staying in our house. I don’t feel comfortable about it.’

  I huff. ‘Dad doesn’t mind. He’s even pleased about it. You’re only saying that because you want all my time for yourself! You’re jealous.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Victoria. I’m thinking about you. He’s only here for a few weeks. I’m worried you’re getting too serious and you’re going to get hurt when he leaves.’

  She’s expressing my own fears and I don’t want to hear them. ‘I don’t believe you. The truth is, whatever you say, you’ve never wanted me to have a boyfriend, have you? It would suit you if I were single for the rest of my life, so I can look after you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Victoria, you know that’s not true.’

  ‘It’s Vix, not Victoria!’ I scream. ‘You never listen to me. You don’t even know who I am. Well, I’m sick of not having a life. You stop me seeing my friends, you don’t want me to have a boyfriend and you expect me to be your slave too. It’s not fair and I’ve had enough! If you don’t think I’m good enough then go and find yourself another slave!’

  Mum looks shocked and hurt and angry too. If she could get out of her chair without help I think she’d come right over and slap me. I stare at her, defiant. I know I’m being unkind but I can’t help myself. I feel like a bottle of Coke that’s been wildly shaken up and then unscrewed. All the frustration and resentment I’ve been feeling for months and months is frothing and bubbling and bursting out of me in an unstoppable stream.

  ‘And another thing: I didn’t ask to be an only child,’ I continue. ‘It’s not my fault you’re ill and it’s not my job to look after you. I just want to be normal, like all my friends, like everyone else. Is that too much too ask? I’m sick of being Little Miss Perfect!’ I stop, exhausted, and suddenly self-conscious. I really hope Xavier hasn’t heard any of this from upstairs. I must sound like a horrible spoilt brat. Embarrassed, angry and confused, I storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

  ‘Well done, Vix,’ says Dad, grabbing hold of my arm as I pass. He’s been standing in the hall, for I don’t know how long, listening. I stop dead in front of him and, unexpectedly, he gives me a little clap. ‘Bravo! I’m proud of you.’

  Eh? I stare at him, bemused, trying to work out why he appears to be smiling and yet he doesn’t sound at all sarcastic. He sounds calm, serious, genuine. His reaction is weird. It’s freaking me out. He should at least be angry with me.

  ‘I mean it,’ he continues. ‘Good for you, Vix. You’ve been far too much of a goody two-shoes for far too long, putting up with a lot more than someone your age should, never complaining. Now, thank God, you’re finally starting to act like a proper teenager, standing up for yourself and showing some spirit. I was beginning to think – to worry – that it might never happen. So, well done. Now, I suggest you go and apologise to your mum, then go up to your room and calm down for a few minutes. I’ll smooth things over with her and sort the dinner. OK?’

  y sense of bravado doesn’t last for long. Something’s going on at school today. Wherever I go, I can sense whispers, hear a low hum of words that I can’t quite make out. But I know they’re about me. And I know they’re not good. Girls chatter away until they notice I’m standing close to them, and then, spontaneously, the conversation seems to dry up. Others will stare at me as I walk by, then turn away and giggle with their friends. I am not imagining this or being paranoid; it’s really happening.

  At first I wonder if it’s about the kiss Xavier gave me outside school; but it can’t be because that was last week’s news, last week’s gossip, and nobody’s mentioned it for days. And, anyway, it was just a bit of fun, which nobody (except Rosie and Manon, of course) took seriously. This is something else, something bigger, something nastier. I have no idea what it could be. It’s making me feel vulnerable, exposed, the way you do when you dream that you’re naked in public. Every time people stare, I find myself looking down my own body to see if I’ve forgotten to put on my underwear, or have my skirt tucked into my knickers, or if I’m wearing odd socks. It doesn’t matter how many times I check and confirm that I’m fully dressed and look fine, I still find myself doing it again.

  This is truly horrible. What’s that saying Dad always quotes? Something some writer once said, like, ‘There’s only one thing worse than being talked about and that’s not being talked about.’ It’s not true. I definitely preferred it when I was invisible, a nobody, with a boring life that didn’t interest anyone, except my close friends. Now it seems that everyone knows who I am and they all have an opinion about me.

  I try to act normally but everyone is being weird with me today, even my friends. They keep giving me sympathetic glances and, even though they’re being kind to me, they don’t seem to want to chat or to hang out. They’re avoiding me. They must know what’s being said, and they must feel awkward about it. If I could I’d skive off school for the rest of the afternoon and go home. But I can’t. That’s one of the (many) problems with having a sick mum. She’s always at home. If I turn up unexpectedly, she’ll want to know why. And we’re not exactly on good terms after our row last night.

  At lunchtime, I take myself off to the library. I’m not really hungry and at least it’s quiet there, and if anybody does stare I can bury my head in a book and pretend not to see them. I find a heavy hardback about France on the non-fiction shelves and look up Nice in the index. I didn’t realise that it’s only been part of France for about a hundred and fifty years; before that, it was part of Italy. I make a mental note to ask Xavier about it later, hoping he’ll be impressed by my interest. While I read, I sneak chunks of a cereal bar from my bag, which is on my lap under the table, into my mouth, making sure the librarian isn’t looking.

  I’d stay in the library for the rest of the afternoon, if I could, but I need the loo, and afternoon classes start again in ten minutes. Sighing, I put the book back on the shelf, and head back out into what now feels like enemy territory. I march straight for the toilets, eyes down, head bowed. If I don’t make eye contact with anyone, then I can half pretend to myself that this isn’t happening.

  There’s nobody else in the toilets. Relieved, I breathe out. But, as I close the cubicle door behind me, I notice that there’s something written on it, some fresh graffiti in bright red marker pen. It draws my eyes towards it, like a magnet. I lean forward, feeling sick as I read. Vix Fisher . . . it says, followed by something so disgusting that I’m too embarrassed to repeat it. Fighting back the tears, I try to rub it off with some toilet roll, but it’s written in permanent marker and it won’t budge. Then I scratch at it with my fingernails, but still it won’t shift. The best I can do is to dig around inside my schoolbag for a black biro and scrawl all over it. Although it’s still visible, the words are no longer clear.

  I rush out of the cubicle and frantically check the others for any more nasty graffiti. When I’m sure that they’re clear, I wipe my eyes, take a deep breath and walk out of the toilets, hoping that nobody can tell that I’ve been crying. That’s the worst thing you can do, isn’t it, to let people know that they’ve got to you?

  ‘Can I have a word please, Victoria?’ The voice from behind me makes me jump. I twist around. It’s Miss Long. She looks stern, purposeful.

  ‘Er, yes. Sure,’ I say.

  ‘This won’t take a minute.’

  She steers me into an empty classroom and closes the door behind her. She doesn’t sit down, so I don’t either.

  ‘The reason we placed a French boy with you, Victoria, was that we thought that you were one of the most responsible and sensible girls in your year. Unfortunately, that appears not to be the case.’

  What does she mean? Is she in on it too? Does she know what people have been saying? Surely she doesn’t believe it’s true?

  ‘I . . . I don’t understand, Miss.’

  ‘Your grades have g
one down noticeably since the exchange programme began. You haven’t been handing in coursework on time and your teachers say you haven’t been concentrating in class. You seem distracted and tired. We’re very disappointed in you, Victoria.’

  I nod. I’m not sure what she wants me to say. Of course I’m tired, what with going to school and trying to do my homework, looking after my mum, keeping up with my friends and now having a boyfriend all at the same time. It’s not easy. It’s never been easy. I’ve always felt a bit like a juggler in a circus, trying to stay upright on a unicycle. I guess the problem now is that I have too many balls to juggle, so it’s not surprising if I’m beginning to drop them. But I’m not going to tell Miss Long that. I don’t want my teachers to know how much I do for Mum these days, just as I don’t want Xavier to know. I don’t want anybody to feel sorry for me or for my family or, worse, to interfere.

  Miss Long stares at me. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have anything to say, Victoria.’ Maybe she’s expecting me to make an excuse, or to argue with her. I’m not used to being told off at school. I don’t think it’s ever happened before. So I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I guess I’ll try to work harder. And be less tired.’

  ‘Right. Good. Well, I suggest you do knuckle down, Victoria, unless you want us to talk to your parents and consider removing your exchange student.’

  God, no! I do not want that. ‘I promise,’ I say, as she opens the door and releases me back into the corridor. This is truly turning out to be one of the worst days of my life. I have never felt so alone, so got at.

  I’m surprised to see Rosie waiting for me outside. She looks concerned.

  ‘I saw Miss Long take you in there,’ she says. ‘So I waited for you. Are you OK? What did she want?’

  ‘Nothing, really,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not important.’

  She peers at me. ‘God, you look terrible, Vix. You’ve been crying. What’s up?’ She takes my arm. ‘Come on, I’m taking you to the sick room. You can’t go to class like that. If anyone asks, we’ll say you’ve got really bad period pain, or something.’

  I nod, attempting a weak smile, and let her lead me to the sick room. There’s no one around, so she helps me on to the bed and sits down next to me. ‘So now tell me, what’s up?’ she says.

  I shrug, unsure whether I should tell her, unsure if we’re even still close friends. We haven’t spoken properly for a couple of days. I can’t work out if it’s her fault, or mine. Even though nothing’s been said, we’ve stopped walking to school together. It was becoming too awkward, with Manon there. I gulp. ‘I didn’t think you cared any more.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Vix. Of course I care. Things might be a bit, er, weird, right now, and I’m not a super fan of you being with Xavier, or your PDAs outside school, but you’ve been my best mate for ever. You know that, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sob.

  ‘And I don’t want you to be upset. Or for French kids to come between us. So, what’s going on?’ She puts her hand on my shoulder, gently. ‘Tell me. Is it Miss Long?’

  ‘Partly that. Partly stuff with my mum. We had a big fight. But no . . . It’s more . . . I . . . You must have heard people . . . talking about me.’

  She nods. She looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Something’s going on. It’s horrible. I need to know exactly what they’re saying, Rosie.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ she says. ‘It’s a load of hurtful crap and you don’t want to hear it. Just ignore it and it will all blow over in a few days.’

  ‘I do,’ I insist. ‘It’s driving me mental not knowing. I just saw some gross graffiti in the loos . . .’ I whisper it to her. ‘Is it stuff like that?’

  Rosie takes a deep breath. ‘Yeah, sort of. I’m sorry, hon. OK, well, basically, they’re saying that there’s only one reason why Xavier likes you. They’re saying that you, er, must be giving him something that a French girl wouldn’t.’

  Horrified, I feel the blood drain from my face. If I didn’t look ill enough to be in the sick room before, I must do now. ‘Why would they say that about me?’ The tears are coming again. I can’t do anything to stop them.

  Rosie shrugs. ‘Because they’re nasty girls, with sad little lives, that’s why.’ She takes a tissue from the box next to the bed and dabs my eyes with it. ‘Shush,’ she says. ‘They’re not worth it. Don’t cry, Vix.’

  ‘You do know it’s not true, don’t you, Rosie?’

  She widens her eyes. ‘Of course I do, silly. I know you. Don’t worry, I’m totally on your side on this. I’m going to find out how the rumours started and then I’m going to sort out whoever started them. I bet it’s that Lucy Reed. She’s been jealous of you from the start because you got a boy. As soon as this period is over, if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll go and find her. OK?’

  I nod, bravely. ‘Thank you, Rosie.’

  She hugs me. ‘No worries.’

  e can’t find Lucy Reed before the end of school, so Rosie says she’ll talk to her tomorrow, and asks me to be patient. I think I can wait one more day to sort this out. Just having Rosie back on side makes me feel so much better: stronger and not so alone. She offers to buy me coffee after school, but Manon will be there and I don’t want to talk about this in front of her, so I say I’d rather go straight home. At least I don’t look like I’ve been crying any more, thanks to Rosie’s concealer, so I won’t have to explain what’s up to Mum, or to Xavier.

  On the way back I ponder whether I should let Xavier know what’s going on. He is my boyfriend now, and the rumours involve him, so maybe he should know. I decide to listen to my gut and not tell him what people are saying. Not only is it embarrassing but it might make him think badly of me, or question his feelings. Things with Xavier are so lovely and uncomplicated right now that I don’t want to dirty them or spoil them by bringing up anything unpleasant. If I did, our little balloon of happiness might pop and being with Xavier would be like the rest of my life: messy and complex, like a knotted ball of string.

  Given what people have been saying, I’ve been thinking a lot about what Rosie suggested the other day: that perhaps I only like Xavier so much because he’s French. While I know that’s not true, the opposite question has started to bug me: does he only like me because I’m English? Maybe there is something I do that French girls don’t – not something gross like that – but something I’m not aware of. Or maybe it’s just the novelty factor – my accent, or the fact I seem ‘exotic’ to him (which would be hilarious, as I’m probably the world’s least exotic person). I need to know. And, unfortunately, I guess there’s only one way to find out. I have to ask him straight out. So, after dinner, when we have a few minutes alone and Xavier moves as if to kiss me, instead of kissing him back I take a deep breath and say: ‘Hold on. Why exactly do you like me, Xavier?’

  ‘What eez zis question?’ he says. ‘I like you because I do. Zat is all. Why do you need to know zis?’

  ‘It’s not important,’ I lie. ‘I just wondered what it is that you like about me.’ I know I must sound insecure, like Sky used to when she was dating her horrible ex, Rich, and Rosie and I couldn’t understand what she saw in him. Now I know how she must have felt. Except, of course, Xavier hasn’t done anything to make me feel insecure. It’s all in my own head.

  ‘Zee girls!’ he mock scoffs, with a toss of his head. ‘Always so many questions. So I must first ask you the same. Why do you like me?’

  I giggle, feeling suddenly shy. I’m aware that since I was the one who started this conversation, I have to give him a proper answer. It’s actually surprisingly easy to think of reasons. ‘OK, then. Because you’re cute and kind and fun and I can talk to you, and because you make me laugh, and you make me feel happy.’

  ‘Wow!’ he exclaims, and I blush. Was that over the top? Have I gone too far? Maybe he’ll think I like him too much. I glance at him and he’s beaming, so he must be pleased with what I’ve said.

 
; ‘Your turn now, Xavier.’

  He chews his lip in thought. ‘I like your hairs – and your eyes and your smile. You too make me laugh. I like you also, Veecks, because you are not like zee French girls.’

  Oh God . . . he said it. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Many of zem, zey are too, how you say, formal. Not relaxed. And zey moan all zee time. All must be perfect. Nuzzink eez ever right. You are more mature, more gentle, more interesting, more natural. Wiz you I feel comfortable. You are special.’

  ‘Wow!’ I say back, realising I’m grinning. ‘Thank you. So, when you say French girls moan all the time and stuff, would you say that, er, Manon, and er, her friends, are a bit like that?’

  ‘Manon? Bof. She is not important. Why do you always ask about Manon?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . She’s just an example of a French girl I know, I guess. I don’t exactly know many. So is she?’

  ‘Yes, she eez like zat. How you say in Anglais, a leetle “up ’erself ”?’

  I nod, smiling to myself. I feel reassured. ‘I see.’

  Xavier cups my face. ‘Now can I kees you, or do you ’ave more questions?’

  ‘Go ahea—’ I begin, but he’s already kissing me, and any questions I might have had have vanished from my mind.

  I go to bed feeling happier but wake with a start, remembering that today is the day that Rosie and I will confront Lucy Reed about the rumours. I’m dreading going into school again, especially now that I know what people are saying about me, and I’m terrified that I might find some more vile graffiti in the toilets. I half wonder whether I should pretend to be sick, but then I’ll be stuck at home all day with Mum, and Xavier won’t want to kiss me because he’ll think I have germs, and I’ll only be delaying the inevitable. You’re strong, Vix, I tell myself. You can be brave.