by Zelda French
It’s dark when I make it back home, two movies and three joints later. Paris isn’t a large city, and Tony doesn’t live too far, but who has energy to walk on the first day of the year? Certainly not me. I hop on the first bus I can catch, put on my music and stare out the window at the grey buildings. The few people I see walking home look already cold and tired. Guess what? It’s only the first day of the year.
When it’s my time to get off, a girl catches my eye and smiles. I forget to return the favour.
I live in the 5th arrondissement of Paris. It’s like a district. In my opinion it’s the best one, but depending on where you live, you might beg to differ. Outside my own six storeys high Hausmann building located on rue Larrey, with an old door that is either not opening or slamming right into your face, the kids are playing in the cold around the old Coccinelle no one ever seems to drive. Little Jérémy, who lives on the ground floor with his parents, stops me to show me his new skateboarding skills, I watch him for a minute, longing for my bed.
“You’re getting really good at this.”
“Thanks, Lou. Come on, stay a bit longer!”
I hung my head. “Sorry, not this time. My dad’s waiting for me.”
Our fists bump. He goes back to his friends, I enter the code for the door. Today it opens without problem.
Our flat is on the third floor, no lift. We always hurry up the stairs a little faster when coming up to the second floor because the old lady who lives there has a habit of flagging people down and asking them for favours. I’m so good at dodging her than I haven’t been asked to do anything, ever. My father isn’t so lucky. That’s his fault, though. He’s too slow, not reactive enough. He was also too slow to react when my mother decided to leave us. Sometimes I think, if he had noticed, or fought back, she would still live with us today, but she left, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Dad hears me enter the flat and calls my name. I peer into the small living room, find him sitting on his own on the small sofa, watching a game show on the telly, a magazine on his lap. His face looks tired behind his reading glasses. Just seeing him looking tired irks me. He owns a small company of cleaning products, but looking at him, you’ll think he’s back from war. Perhaps he’s just depressed. There’s nothing glamorous about cleaning products after all. But it does bring money on the table.
I kick my shoes off. “Happy new year.”
“Happy new year.”
I hesitate as I remove my coat and hang it on the hook, away from his gaze. “Did mum call?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “There’s food left in the fridge if you want.”
“Thanks. I ate at Tony’s.”
My father heaves a deep sigh. “Tony’s parents see you more than I do.”
I lean against the doorjamb, feeling awkward. My father’s expression betrays nothing. That’s usually the extent of our conversations, so I’m a little out of my depths. Then something comes to mind.
“Tony’s father said he knows of a place for me to rent in London this summer. I’m thinking of taking it.”
My father says nothing, only stares at me blankly, the way he used to stare at my mum when she was complaining about him.
“I said you could go only if your grades pick up.”
I better not tell him I haven’t done any homework yet. Leaving him in front of the telly, I retreat into my bedroom and toss myself onto the bed. Above me, the ceiling’s paint is cracked, it’s been for years. Plastered on every inch of the walls, a flurry of posters picturing men in dark clothing and surly faces are watching over me. Among the mess littering the floor, my backpack lay unopened since the last day of school.
I only have to reach for it, open it, read the list of homework. Perhaps I’d find the motivation to do the simplest of exercises. Instead, I fish my phone out of my pocket and start texting Lucie.
CHAPTER THREE
THIS IS WHERE IT GETS WEIRD
LESS THAN A week later, on dreary Monday morning, freezing my ass in my leather jacket, I spot Tony and Lucie outside the gates of Colette International, smoking a cigarette, huddled together against the cold.
Tony assaults me before I can reach into his pack of cigarettes. “You’re late!”
“Am I?”
Lucie chortles and smokes comes out of her nose.
“Why are you always so late!!” Tony’s voice sounds uncharacteristically whiny.
I peer at his long face from behind my sunglasses and gesture to my baggy pants and worn out sweater. “This doesn’t happen by accident, you know.”
I expect him to laugh, but he just stares at me, wild-eyed. Lucie, on the other hand, plants a Marlboro-flavoured kiss on my lips.
“What’s up with you?”
Lucie sighs. “Tony hates school.”
“Rockstars don’t go to school,” he growls.
“Hear, hear, my friend.”
I cannot agree more. It took all of my motivation in the world and then some to drag myself out of bed this morning.
Lucie ruffles through her backpack. It’s a cute little polar bear with beady eyes. “Give me a cigarette, my love. I seem to be out.”
It might be nothing, but I know better than finding Lucie’s backpacks cute. They are usually an indicator for her mood. Watch this. Cute little polar bear? Sounds innocent, right? Wrong! It usually means it’s winter, it’s cold, and I better not test her patience too much. But the polar bear is also wearing a pink ribbon, which means I can be a little bit of a dick today and she won’t give me too much of a hard time.
But today it’s not the empty black eyes of the stuffed backpack that worries be, but the book inside that catches my eye. A bland book with a boring guy on the cover. My stomach sinks. The week has passed in a blurry of movies, video games, late lunches and joints, so many joints, with Tony and Lucie and are favourite bands in the background.
“Shit.”
Watching my face drain of colour is entertaining enough for Tony, who drops the surly act.
“What did you do this time?”
“It’s what I didn’t do. I forgot to read the book.”
A part of me wants to blame them for keeping me away from my student responsibilities, but even I have limits, you know.
I put my head in my hands. “So, you know, Dorian Gray? I may have forgotten to read it.”
Tony erupts in laughter. “You’re so fucked! Paquin will read it on your face and you’ll be interrogated for sure.”
“You think?”
Lucie nods in agreement. Paquin is this old bat with bleached hair who teaches English Literature with an outrageous French accent. Every time she catches me cringing, she interrogates me.
“How’s my poker face?” I ask, feigning the confidence of a student who’s read ALL the books.
Tony stares intently into my face. “Damn you, it’s good.”
“Beautiful,” Lucie says
“With his luck, she’ll forget he even exists.” Tony flicks the butt of his cigarette away. “Lou always gets what he wants.”
That’s not true, and I don’t like the look on his face as he said this. Before I can ask for precisions, Lucie glues her body to mine.
“Let’s use the last two minutes before class to make-out in our usual spot.”
“Tempting,” I say. “Truly. But I have to use the bathroom first.”
Tony shakes his head. “You live ten minutes away, and you couldn’t go on your way out?”
I throw him a look over my shoulder as I walk off. “I was late, remember?”
Colette International is a relatively new building nestled between two old ones in an even older street, Rue de L’Ecole. A modest white building stands behind the black front gate. Inside, everything is painted white with a touch of electric blue, from the tiles in the bathroom and the doors, to the legs of the tables and chairs, even the handles of the cupboards. Someone had probably made a deal for cheap white and blue paint and here we are. It’s the same in the boy’s toilets
. Sparkling white tiles and a splash of blue on the stall doors. This is where I hide, the last stall on the left. I do not do my business in front of other people.
I wonder if I have time to do a quick joint before class. It’s probably a terrible idea anyway. Paquin will see my blue eyes turned red and she’ll have me whipped in front of everybody.
When I come out of my stall, some bloke is standing in front of my favourite sink, the closest one to the good soap dispenser AND the good hand-dryer, the one I call The Champion. I don’t mind other people using it, but this guy isn’t doing anything, he’s just standing there with his head down.
I walk over to the next sink just as the bell rings, announcing the beginning of class, and my future humiliation at the hands of Madame Paquin.
Looking up in the mirror, I see it. Defeat plain on my face, on the very first day of term. Hiding in the bathroom instead of making out with my hot girlfriend. Well, I’m going to get destroyed, but I don’t have to look bad while she tears me a new one. C’est la vie.
I shove a stick of gum into my mouth and rearrange my hair, humming to myself a Good Charlotte song. Sorry, what’s that? My gum is begging me to pop a nice fat bubble and I get to it, still humming.. Feeling a sort of paternal pride for this bubble which is coming out so beautifully and promises a nice loud pop, I don’t immediately notice, but eventually, it hits me. The bloke next to me hasn’t moved. And worse, he’s staring at me.
What’s up? Did I give him the impression that I congregate with strangers in toilets? I think not. I slide my sunglasses down a notch to give him a withered look. You know, the kind of look you’d toss any stranger who’s hogging the good soap dispenser and not moving it along. And then, a pair of bright green eyes stare straight back at me from under an organised mess of shiny dark curls.
“Hello.”
Like the gun they use at Olympics, my bubble pops, startling me into action. I start pumping the nearest soap dispenser frantically. I will not get caught in a socially awkward situation on the first day of term.
Of course, the dispenser’s empty. I knew that already, since this chatty guy standing next to the only one that properly works, and he’s not moving. Why is he not moving? And why won’t this soap dispenser take pity on me? I have a feeling this guy’s watching me struggle like an idiot with a smile on his face.
Eventually the saddest squirt of soap lands into the palm of my hand.
“Do you...” he starts, moving aside to reveal the Champion.
I grunt more than speak back. “I’m fine.”
I finish my business in the blink on an eye, and by that I mean wiping my hands on my jeans, grab my stuff with shaky hands and tear out of the bathroom without a look back. How rude are people, really?
Tony and Lucie are waiting for me outside. Tony sees my pack of gum and takes it from my damp hand. Good bye, old gum. I shall never see you again.
“You look worse than when you got in.” Tony shoves five sticks of gums into his mouth. “Did you get molested again?”
Lucie’s brow furrows. “Again?”
“Why are you eating so much gum before class?” I snatch the pack of gum back from Tony’s hand. It’s empty. “Paquin will ask you to throw it in the bin.”
“It’s an act of rebellion, Lou. You should try it, it’s good for you.”
“Again?” Lucie says, tugging at my sleeve.
“Don’t listen to this guy.” I took her hand and started pulling her toward the classroom. “He’s full of shit. Let’s move, we’re going to be late.”
The stranger will come out of the bathroom and I definitely don’t want to see him.
Actually, I’d be fine never to see him again, or be doomed to remember this terrible moment. He was British. I heard it in his accent. Let it be known that I am NOT moving to London if people act like this in the toilets.
Tony slaps me on the back. “And Paquin will skewer you even more if you’re late.”
We make it on time to the classroom though. I assume my spot at the back of the class, a punishment for previous inappropriate behaviour which included:
- Asking Madame Paquin why we always read boring-ass books.
- Drawing something crude on the whiteboard and laughing like a caveman (her words)
- Failing to hand over an essay on Shakespeare, and justifying it by saying: “Rockstars don’t write essays on Shakespeare.”
Now I sit all alone at the back of the class, from where I have an amazing view of Tony and Lucie, who sharing a table together and like to laugh in their fists when I get interrogated. But my seating arrangement also has its benefits. Lars, my favourite Danish guy is seated right in front of me. He’s freakishly tall, and I use him as a shield to hide from Paquin.
The nightmare quickly starts. Not two minutes after she entered the classroom, she requests one of us to summarise the book. I watch helplessly as Lars chooses this moment to bend over to retrieve his book from his backpack, leaving my dumb face in plain view of Paquin.
“Monsieur Mésange.”
Tony’s strangled laughter reaches my ears. I promise him a swift revenge, somehow, someday.
“Monsieur Mésange. Why don’t you sum up the book for me?”
Everyone turns to look at me, which just makes it so much better. I clutch the side of my table, a bitter taste filling my mouth.
Not that I know for sure what Paquin does during the holidays, but I suspect it’s mostly meetings with her coven like the reputable witch that she is. Don’t tell me it was instinct that whispered to her I was the one to interrogate this morning. I call it wizardry.
Like a sign of providence, a knock on the door interrupts my ordeal. I promise to start worshipping Jesus if this person gets me out of this nightmare. The door opens and my jaw drops when the guy from the bathroom sticks his face in the opening.
Paquin slamming her copy of Dorian Grey on the desk, her face flushed. “You’re late!”
A slight frown mars his face. “Actually, I’m new,” he says in his British accent.
A few laughs scatter the classroom, especially from the girls. Sacha’s face has a suspicious glow to it, and I’m guessing it’s not from Paquin’s barking. Bathroom guys takes his sweet time to come in, and hands Paquin a note. She reads it and gives him a once-over.
“Michael Parker.”
He nods, sending his curls bouncing. A few girls give another round of giggles. I lean back into my chair, annoyed.
“Take a seat, Michael.”
There’s a flutter of sound around the classroom as several ladies shuffle onto their chair, now regretting having their best friend next to them, when new guy could be taking their place.
There are three available seats in the whole of the classroom today. But for some mystifying reason and despite the deep scowl on my face, new guy seems to think I’m the right choice for him.
Is it because we just met in the bathroom? Does that mean we’re connected now? Is this how British people make friends in England? Staring at blokes in the reflexion of the mirror in public toilets? Am I the only one who think that’s odd?
There’s no avoiding it. New guy walks all the way to the back of the class, removes his coat, takes the chair next to mine. Somewhere in my field of vision, Tony’s face is split open in silent laughter. Mature, real mature Tony. I click my tongue disapprovingly for good measure.
“So, Michael,” Paquin says in her horrid accent. “You are British.”
He puts his hands on his lap. “Guilty.”
“Welcome, Michael. Your neighbour, Monsieur Mésange, was about to give us his impressions on The Picture Of Dorian Gray.”
Damn that witch. I feel Michael’s eyes on me, as well as everybody else’s. Perhaps if I pretend to be caught in a fit of coughing, I’ll be able to buy myself some time.
“Today, Monsieur Mésange?”
Tony is gesturing me to move it along. I’ll kill him, I swear I’ll kill him.
I jerk my head toward toilet guy. “I w
as interrupted, now I’ve forgotten everything. Why don’t you interrogate him? It’s kind of his fault, after all.”
Paquin sighs while the rest of the class laughs, either with me or at me. Hard to tell.
“Michael is new. He hasn’t read the book.”
Michael stares at my copy on the table. “Actually...”
What? What? You’ve read it? If you answer for me I might forgive you the toilet scene. But before my hopes get up, Paquin raises her wrinkly hand and smashes them.
“Monsieur Mésange will tell us his impressions on the book.”
Right. If she wants to play, I’ll play. All eyes are on me. It’s not like I have a choice. What did Tony said to me once? Fake it til you make it.
“I liked it.” I sound confident enough. Not too confident. Just enough.
“Why did you like it?”
“I really liked the beginning. You know—with the portrait.”
More laughter follows. Paquin approaches me, hawk-like.
“Have the read the book, Monsieur Mésange?”
As laughter increases, my temperature rises and my carefully crafted careless persona is about to be crushed, I meet Michael’s gaze and hate, absolutely hate, to find pity in there. I don’t know this guy, he’s not my friend, and he has no right to stare at me like that.
I draw in a sharp breath. “Sure.”
“How does it end?”
Paquin’s hawk eyes are extremely intimidating. I give a sad attempt at a laugh.
“I wouldn’t want to spoil it for the others.”
“Everyone here has read it! She throws her own copy of the book at our table. It bounces off. Michael catches it before it lands on the floor. “But it seems you haven’t, young man. Or tell me. How does it end?”
On my right, Michael is trying to distract me. His hands, under the table, seems to mime either stabbing or something wildly inappropriate. I spear him with a glare and he stops.