TO BE FRANK

CHAPTER ONE, on joining the circus

"It's not all too terrible," she painfully defends, "Voltaire High is known to have a good curriculum and if I manage to stay on top of it until I graduate, I still have a chance at getting into Oxford. Who knows, maybe they will accept me as a legacy knowing Marc will inevitably get in."

Juliette hides her disappointment well with a bitter laugh and it's silent on the other end of the line.

Perhaps it wasn't as well hidden as she thought.

Before Dean or Laurie could spare another word in their attempt to comfort Juliette, she clears her throat swiftly and utters, "Well, I should probably get ready for school. I'll call later, bye!"

The phone clatters onto the holder with a ding and startles Bonbon out of her lap and back into her warm bed by her window. Juliette sighs, face falling into her hands as she convinces herself, a measure of psyching herself up to what an utter mess today was going to be. She tries to remain hopeful, but she had a feeling she was in for a wild ride.

     When Juliette leaves her room with her hair pin-straight, a light layer of makeup on her face, and her scuffed Mary Jane's on her feet, she tiptoes into the kitchenette of her grandparent's old townhome. She sets her school bag upon one of the chairs along with her copy of The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka down with it. Her mouth waters as she eyes the pile of fresh pain au chocolat still steaming atop the dining table.

     As she reaches to grab one of the pastries, she nearly jumps out of her skin when her grandfather enters the room with a greeting, "Good morning, Juli," he's cheery and happy to see his granddaughter all over again.

     She pecks a light kiss upon his cheek, "Good morning, papi. How did you sleep?"

     "Very well," he says, reaching for one as well, "It was quite slow the rest of the evening at the shop so I closed down quickly. What are you reading now?"

     Juliette reaches for her novel and waves it in front of her grandfather, Éugene. With its frayed edges, coffee-stained pages and cracked spine, her copy of The Metamorphosis is dearly loved and certainly shows the amount of times she's read it.

     "Kafka, again?" Éugene muses with a click of his tongue, "You and that author–what's so special about him, anyway?"

     "Well, for one, he's quite relatable."

     "You've woken up as a cockroach before?"

     Juliette playfully slaps her grandfather on his shoulder, rolling her eyes at his teases. "You know what I meant. If you think this book has been read to death, then clearly you haven't seen my copy of Kafka's diaries and—oh!" (she suddenly remembered another title of hers), "Dostoyevsky's White Night as well."

     "Nice to know you're still an avid reader, cherie." He says it was a smile and an adoration that warms Juliette.

     Éugene Bellemare and his small, homey bookstore was the reason she was as obsessed with books as she is now. The idea that humans held such a power to write a specific order of words on paper and therefore creating a prose that can generate entire films in one's mind was incredible. Words powerful enough to shape cultures and influence populations, books, in her humblest opinion, was the future. Juliette would love to be a writer if she wasn't completely rubbish, which is why she would much rather study literature for the rest of her life instead.

     "It's all thanks to you, of course." She says, shifting her gaze around, "Where is mamie?"

     "In the living room watching her morning news, of course," perhaps he noticed the hungry look in Juliette's eyes in the midst of her ramble and chuckles, motioning her towards the pastries, "take as many as you'd like, cherie. I'll pour you some juice as well after you greet her."