The morning sun beamed down in the courtyard as Mr. Bellanger wrapped up his speech. Our homeroom teacher, Mme. Giraud, started to call each student of our class.
"Applebaum Daniel, Belkasem Ahmed, Descamps Joseph..." she started.
The boy from the bench with the round glasses came forward after his name was called. He stood tall, wearing a white button up and a beige jacket decorated with a green collar. He had sharp features and purple circles hollowing his under eyes. The rest of the class was then called and we made our way into the school.
The halls of Voltaire were archaic and dusty, each crack growing with its age. The paint was faded and chipped, revealing its previous layers. The bricks were witness to each generation of students that walked the halls and now one finally with girls. I walked alongside Michèle and Simone till we reached our homeroom with Mme. Giraud. The three of us paused as we noticed the tables each sat two, knowing one of us was going to have to sit alone.
"It's okay, you guys can sit together, I'll sit at this table behind," I insisted.
The classroom quickly filled and a girl with golden blonde hair and a Hollywood face scurried in last. My table stayed empty, but she swiftly shuffled to the closest available seat at the front.
Madame Giraud turned around, taken aback. "Young lady, what is your name?"
The blonde girl stood from her seat with straight posture and a tall stature despite her height. "Annick Sabiani," she said sternly.
"And where do you think you are Ms. Sabiani ,that you think it's okay to sit beside a boy? Take your things. No, not you. You," Giraud said demandingly, pointing to the timid boy seated next to her.
"But I can't see from there!" he pleaded.
"Go to the back, now."
The boy walked to the back of class in defeat. Joseph Descamps sat in the second last row, with a devilish smirk on his face. He quickly stuck out his foot, tripping the already humiliated boy. Laughter fell over the room until Mme. Giraud silenced the class.
The next lesson of the day was Latin. Our teacher looked grouchy, he had bushy eyebrows and wore square glasses that magnified his eyes. It was safe to say he seemed prepared to make our lives miserable. Simone and Michèle had already found their table and the only empty spot in the classroom was next to Annick.
"Hi, I'm Élodie," I said quietly as I sat down.
"Annick," she replied, ever so slightly smiling.
"I'm sorry for how Mme. Giraud called you out before, she's needs to realize it's not the 20's anymore," I chuckled.
"Oh, thank you " Annick replied dully.
I didn't expect every attempt at friendship
to work out, but maybe she was just having a bad day I thought. Monsieur Douillard wrote out a sentence in Latin on the chalkboard, then asked the class its meaning. Annick's hand shot up beside me. Her eyes stayed on Mr. Douillard. But like most of the teachers here, it seemed he was too stubborn to choose the only girl that had her hand up. Eventually, a boy at the back raised his hand.
The voice said "I believe the girl has her hand raised."
The class chuckled and I crooked my head to see Descamps basking in the attention he had just got. His eyes met with mine but I quickly turned my head to listen to Annick.
"The Roman's welcome Horatio with cries of joy and congratulations and they escort him to his house," she said confidently.
"The Romans cheer Horacio," he corrected. "Can you please conjugate the verb ovare," he asked.
Annick started listing the conjugated verbe but my attention was caught by the mutters and movement at the back of the class. I turned my head again to see Descamps passing a folded note up to to a pale boy with brown curly hair. His features were dainty yet chiseled and his pale skin drained of all the colour it had left when Mr. Douillard yelled, "Give me that!"
The lanky boy hesitantly stood, handing the paper to Mr. Douillard.
"You think this is funny?" he questioned.
"It wasn't me."
"Really? Then who is responsible for this masterpiece?"
The class went silent. I looked back at Descamps, he was chewing on a white pen that was evidentially responsible for the note. His culpability was masked with his ignorance and a playful act. His eyes met mine again, but they quickly shifted around the room as if he were waiting for someone else to confess. He was committed to the act.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"It wasn't me," the boy replied with his head down in shame.
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me, the name of all culprits. You'd think they'd all be related. So Mr. It wasn't me-"
"My name is Laubrac," he interrupted.
"Alright Mr. Laubrac...." he paused. "Aren't you the boy from foster care? Some nobody's son trying to graduate? How amusing. Didn't anyone teach you discipline in the care system?" he scoffed. "I won't let a bastard disrupt my class. Get out!" he demanded.
"But he didn't do anything!" a voice yelled from the back. I turned around to see Michèle standing with her hands on her desk in protest and her jaw clenched.
"Didn't they teach you to raise your hand at your girls school, Ms. Magnan? Or maybe you think you get a free pass because your uncle is the the dean?"
The class gasped in unison as Michèle's head lowered in embarrassment.
"Escort your new friend to your uncles office, and he can give you detention too," he ordered.
I was so angry for Michèle, she was just trying to do the right thing and stand up to that jerk of a teacher, but the thing that bothered me the most was the smug look on Descamps face. He probably got away with this kind of stuff all the time, slipping under the radar of authority.
The rest of Latin dragged on after the scolding from Mr. Douillard, but I at least had lunch to look forward to. Simone and I met Michèle in the courtyard and made our way to the dining hall. There were bowls of breakfast sausages placed along the tables and the lunch lady walked the aisle with two big metal pots of scrambled eggs. All the girls sat at one table.
"Is it true you're the deans niece?" Annick asked Michèle.
"Yes it's true."
"How helpful," Annick replied uppishly.
Out of nowhere, Decamps pushed Pichon into Annick, clattering the dishes on the table and wrecking her plate of food.
"Oh- I'm sorry Annick," Pichon said worriedly. "You can have my plate."
I was witness to Descamps torment for only the morning, but something about him made my blood boil and my teeth clench. He had already tripped Pichon this morning and it clearly wasn't the first time, I suddenly found myself snapping, "I think that asshole should be the one giving her his plate."
I felt my cheeks turn 10 different shades till they were crimson red. I wasn't sure if it was out of anger, embarrassment or both.
Descamps eyebrows raised as he turned to face me, "Do we have a problem?"
"Are you and the deans niece going to go tell on me?" he joked. "Or maybe she already has. What did you say to your uncle? Laubrac is innocent, Descamps is the bad one!" he mocked. "I think the deans niece and the bastard makes a perfect love story."
"Do you always have to be such a dick?" I interrupted.
"And I thought they taught manners at your girls schools," he sneered.
"And I guess your mom missed out of those lessons too as the looks of it." I replied.
Gasps filled the hall and his smile dropped to a peeved smirk, although I could tell he was still equipped to spit back with fire.
Michèle interrupted, "Why don't you tell us what you wrote on that note?"
Descamps eyes still pierced through mine with growing anger, but I wasn't going to be the first to back down. His lip curled with annoyance and his nose twitched before his gaze switched to Michèle.
"I didn't write anything, it was a drawing. Hang on, I'll show you," he answered.
Descamps reached for the bottle of syrup to draw on his plate of food. In the distance I could see Christophe staring at me with a look of disproval, shaking his head as a warning.
"It's a portrait," Descamps laughed, as he held up his plate, proudly showing his drawing of syrup outlined boobs.
His immaturity baffled me. A wave of laughter took over the cafeteria until Simone said "Does this remind you of anyone?"
Simone reached for one of the sausages and abruptly broke it in half. Descamps smiled faded as everyone oohed at Simone and his stare met mine again before turning back around to his table of groupies.
After an eventful lunch, Michèle, Simone and I made our way to English. We were the last ones to make it to class and at the end of the hall I saw Christophe walking with a tall, brown haired boy in a suit. He carried himself with confidence and his hair was perfectly combed over. Before we walked into class, I kept hearing snickering and whispers until a head popped out the door frame and back in the class. I was the first to step into class and as I opened the door, a waterfall of water came pouring down on me. The blue bucket fell off the door and I stood there, frozen. My clothes stuck to me like superglue, revealing my bra underneath my white blouse. Mme. Couret came rushing behind me, quickly draping her jacket over me. Descamps stood dumbfounded as he he was caught red handed.
"Here, let me take you to the nurses office for a change of clothes," she said as she ushered me down the hall. Christophe and the brown haired boy stood outside their classroom and in my peripheral I could see Christophe with his fists clenched, making his way down to the classroom...