CHAPTER SEVEN
a brave new world
˚✧₊⁎
It was a little treat, the perfect way to end off her night after utilizing the weekend to finally unpack her things and finally settle into her room. Juliette believes it's all in good fairness as just a few short hours ago, after she helped her grandfather close up shop and eat supper, her room in absolute mayhem. As if a tornado had blown through only the proximities of her quaint bedroom, it was safe to say she felt like a more productive version of Dorothy—one that owned a cat rather than a dog, of course.
She laid on her stomach atop her newly made bed and the smell of freshly washed linen filled her senses. Bonbon was cuddled next to her, peacefully napping with soft feline purs that was music to Juliette's ears. In her hand was a copy of Brave New World by Aldous Huxley given to her kindly by Annick who had recently found out about her unfortunate situation.
Juliette has been enjoying the dystopian thus far, but her mind has been preoccupied elsewhere. Usually it did not take a lot for her to be completely enamored by stories, especially of kinds strange and unnerving like Brave New World, but she has found herself constantly staring back up to her bookcase every five or so pages. Her poor bookshelf was filled to the brim with novels and series, a lot of which were carefully arranged by Juliette to use up space as efficiently as possible (she stuffed each every crevice she could find). Even with her efforts, much of which overflowed out of the bookshelf and instead found home in stacks on the floor which Bonbon has taken a liking to climbing and occasionally knocking over.
A sigh escapes her rose-tinted lips as she flips the page, fighting the urge to admire her bookcase again as an empty slither on the second row taunts her like a little devil on her shoulder.
That was the spot White Nights was supposed to be and all of a sudden the burning fury within her sparks again. She will get that book if it's the last thing she can do. She liked to remind herself that eventually Descamps would fess it up, because at the end of the day, it truly held no value to him. Juliette just hopes he comes to that conclusion soon.
Juliette slaps her book shut, placing it onto her nightstand as she sits up. Her bandages were fraying again, but it's to no surprise. She did purchase the cheapest box after all not to mention she's been moving things all day. They were bound to fall off and lose its stickiness.
Her cuts have been healing nicely throughout the week, fortunately. Though, that does not stop some of the bigger, deeper cuts from reopening again from her daily activities and anxious fiddling.
She places new bandages on her biggest wounds before turning off her lamp and letting the darkness and the silence surround her.
The next morning, Juliette was fortunate enough not to bump into Descamps at all. There's a hope kindling within her that she could keep this streak up for the rest of the term, perhaps even the rest of the school year at this rate.
Juliette meets up with Annick as she locks her bike rack. This has been routine for them for the past few days, catching up after their weekend endeavors on Mondays, sharing what they ate for breakfast that morning (or lack thereof), and thoughts about the latest chapter they read about their newest assigned reading in their Literature class.
The pair meet up with Simone and Michèle who were already talking in the courtyard mid-conversation about how long and laborious reading The Count of Monte Cristo was.
"I don't think I was made to read a thousand page book about a prisoner who wants some island treasure," Simone whines, holding the heaping book in her hands as if it weighed the world. "I can't believe we only have two weeks to finish it before writing a report. It's corporal punishment if you ask me."
"I'm sure Edward Dantes had it worse," Juliette jokes but only Annick found the quip funny as Simone only flutters her eyes at her unamused.
"Don't you guys find it boring?" Michèle asks towards Annick and Juliette. They were the biggest readers out their group, after all.
Juliette shakes her head, "not at all. Besides, it shouldn't be too bad if you read at least two chapters a day."
"Half a chapter is more than enough for me," Simone laughs.
"I've read worse," adds in Annick, "I honestly think it gets better after the first half."
"I'm personally having a hard time understanding some of the dialogue, Juliette do you think you could—?" Michèle begins but Juliette's attention is taken over by a tuft of brown hair and a leather patch being the newest addition to his look.
"Sorry, Michèle, hold that thought," Juliette says as she trudges her way towards Descamps' bench.
Gravel crunched beneath her at each of her heavy steps as the girls watched her in brow-furrowing curiosity. His broad back came into view, facing Juliette as he was laughing at something Vergoux said when Dupin catches the fire in her eyes. He pokes Descamps, warning him of the fury that was slowly approaching him.
Descamps turns over his shoulder, a smile forming upon his lips as he looks Juliette up and down.
"The book, Descamps. Hand it over," she commands with an outstretched hand.
"Book?" His brow furrows in faux confusion as he sticks his hand into his satchel. The familiar frame of the book, small and discrete, fits so perfectly in his nimble hands. "You mean this one?"
Juliette swipes at it, but Descamps is too quick for her. He holds it over her head like a teasing game of cat and mouse. She reaches for it again, but Descamps only extends his arm up further and not-so-subtle guffaws exploded from his friends watching the scene take over. Juliette curses her small stature.
She sighs. Her patience was waning quick. "Give it up, will you? I'm sure it's really not that funny."
Descamps hums in amusement, lowering his arm, "no, it's still funny watching your sorry attempts to jump for your book. How was detention, by the way?"
"Nothing that concerns you," Juliette retorts as she crosses her arms over each other.
Her eyes fall onto his lowered arm and she tries to snatch it again, only for Descamps to notice her sly movements and stretches his arm behind him. The sudden motion causes Juliette to fall towards his chest, hand pressing against his abdomen to catch her weight. Descamps freezes. His expression morphed from his usual teasing visage to an unreadable deadpan. Perhaps he was glad Juliette couldn't see the look on his face as she pushes against him then pulls away, disappointment drenching her scoff.
He swallowed heavily due to the sudden proximity, missing the way Juliette's cheeks heated as she has once again failed to retrieve her books. Instead, she sighs when she finds her balance again and mutters a few annoyed curses.
Vergoux and Dupin stare at the pair with wide eyes. No way that just happened and the rest of the quad did not even notice with how quick it happened.
"If you do so much as ruin that book, Auriol, I will be reporting you." Juliette huffs and Descamps is only saved by the ring of the bell.
˚✧₊⁎
Juliette shouldn't be this annoyed, she knows it. She was always the type to give a little too much effort and care into things that most wouldn't really bat an eye to. Dramatic, perhaps? Sure, but she had nothing to apologise for. Surely she had more pressing, prevalent affairs to deal with than a boy who happened to snatch her most prized possession, but she digresses. Aside from a few icy cold stares thrown over her shoulder towards Descamps at any chance she could get away with it, she was also plotting his demise.
Perhaps she could blackmail him into giving it back?
No, that's too complicated and she didn't want to make this a bigger problem than it needed.
Or, she could probably create an elaborate heist and take it right under his nose without him even noticing?
No, she was not James Bond, unfortunately.
Maybe if she just kept begging and begging him to the point he gets so annoyed that he wants to pull his hair out of his head, he'd actually give it back?
Yeah... yeah, that'll surely work.
It was like she couldn't even think. If Descamps didn't give it back or worse—destroyed it, threw it away, ruined it—she would have lost years worth of internal thoughts, written memories of a reader's feelings, sentimental scribbles, underlined prose, and evidence that her father had even a sense of humanity written all over those pages. It was a time capsule, a chrysalis of the human condition passed down through three generations all at risk of being lost forever.
She knows it's not that serious, but god did it scare Juliette. She had never felt so hopeless aside from the time she was shipped over here just a few weeks ago.
Her gaze left the dusty blackboard and fell onto her blank notebook resting upon her desk. Her hand, gripped tightly around her pen until her knuckles bled white and all her veins ached for blood flow, until her tendons ached in agony as her neatly trimmed nails dug into her palm. They threatened to cut deep.
"Perfect marks! Amazing job, Miss Bellemare," Mademoiselle Couret said in English as she slipped her test paper upon her desk. '20' was neatly scribbled at the top corner of the page and Juliette let go of her deathly grip.
"Thank you," she says lightly for only Couret and Annick could hear.
Annick gives her a proud look, but Felbec gives her a judging side-eye instead when he sees the red grade on her paper.
"Your English is quite advanced," Mademoiselle Couret starts, pausing her task of passing back quizzes to converse with her, "I heard you spent some time in England, correct?"
Juliette nods as she hides her hands under her desk, "yes, in London, Mademoiselle."
"Then you should find this class quite easy, I hope."
Descamps sticks his hand in the air.
"Yes, Monsieur Descamps?" Couret calls on him.
"Does that not count as cheating, Mademoiselle?" He questions, quite stupidly if you ask Juliette, as a laugh simmers within the classroom.
Couret pulls a face, one of someone who was asked a question they were certainly not expecting to hear nor knew the answer to. "She may have an advantage, but not by much I'd say."
"She's fluent, though. She doesn't have trouble translating things or reading from the textbook, does she? That essentially makes all of our tests and assignments like primary school work."
Michèle scoffs loudly, leaning her elbows against her desk, "she teaches level 1 English, if you're having trouble then perhaps you just suck."
"Oh, really?" Descamps tests as he crosses his arms. He cocks his chin towards her test paper, eyeing the big red number despite being across the classroom, "why don't you tell us what you got on the test then, Magnan?"
A chorus of 'oohs' fill the room as Michèle flips her paper over, insecurity filling her again as Juliette frowns. She appreciates her attempt at defending her despite being at her expense. Her grip tightens into a fist again and she feels a searing sensation through her palm again.
"Hush now!" Mademoiselle commands the class, though not very well. Eventually their taunting laughs simmers down to a halt, "we've all started learning from somewhere and Mademoiselle Bellemare just happened to start earlier. No need for further discussion."
Couret continues with her task at hand and passes out the remaining test slips, occasionally commenting on good scores but never says anything for the lower ones.
Juliette flickers a cold look towards Descamps again. He was already staring at her when she does, their eyes connecting filled her a surprising downpour of anguish . She turned back around as Couret resumed her lesson, boring holes into her hand with a hard gaze. Crescent-shaped lacerations had divided her skin, leaving a lingering sting upon her wounded flesh as it pooled with shallow blood.
After a brief twenty minute lecture, Couret released the students in the class to talk to their seat mates in English with the new vocabulary words and phrases she taught. Today's topic was school-related activities.
"What is going on with you? You've been staring holes into Descamps all day," Annick asks in a hushed voice, blue eyes searching her green ones. "Is it the book?"
Juliette nods, "you don't understand how much that book means to me, Annick. If my house caught fire and I only had the chance to save one thing it would be that book—and my cat... but, that's beside the point. He won't give it back and I'm not sure what to do."
Something hot drips down her hand, flowing slowly down her wrist and staining her fingertips as her left hand clamps her right to cover the wounds. Perhaps she had cut deeper than anticipated, letting her emotional reverie get the best of her as she hopes that Annick hadn't seen the bright crimson contrasting against Juliette's skin. She shoves her hands further beneath her desk.
"I can try to hold him down and you—"
"You know I'm not the violent type, Annick."
She gives Juliette a look as if to say, are you about that?
"I'm serious!" Juliette exclaims in a hushed whisper.
"Okay, okay," she sighs, pondering, "if you can't sneakily take it from him, I guess your only option is to wait to see if he gives it back. If not, you may have to report him to Mr Bellanger."
"God, this entire situation just feels so..." Juliette pauses as her eyes roll, trying to find the best word to describe this child-like behavior, "...immature. It's like I'm in primary school again."
"What can you expect from Voltaire boys? They're everything but mature. There's nothing appealing about them at all."
After class ended, Juliette found herself making a bee-line towards the teacher's restroom instead of the nurse's office. She didn't want anyone to know that her little finger picking habit was a lot more than messy nail beds and bitten hangnails. She knocks on the door, hoping for no answer and when there wasn't one, she locked the door behind her swiftly.
She looked upon herself in the mirror when she approached the sink, turning on the hot water and letting it flow down as it heated. Fatigue that accumulated throughout the past week was finally catching up to her—late night thoughts that led to inevitable overthinking, fear that her next phone call would not be from someone desirable, to the overall stresses of a high school girl. It dusted her under eyes with dark hues but they were covered well with the slightest of makeup. Nothing too obvious, of course.
With a sigh, Juliette looks away, breaking from her undesirable thoughts as she sticks her hand under the running water, almost boiling hot from the duration she left it on but she does not falter. She does not pull away. Juliette watches as the steaming water cleanses away at her wounds, now dried into a burnish brown. It stained the water pink as it poured down the drain.
Her thumb, soft and delicate, brushed over the cuts to ensure all the dried blood was gone, flaking off little by little. She's careful with it, but occasionally she had to stop herself, physically stop herself from digging deeper into them. These intrusive thoughts were not new, but she was better now, anyway—stronger. Or at least she thought she was. It had been over a year since this habit had gotten to this point again and she hates herself for it. She despises her weakness she tried so fucking hard to get rid of, to build her own strength, to not listen to those godforsaken thoughts. Never in her right mind did she think she would fall back so easily into bad habits.
Juliette's head falls back, staring at the ceiling as the tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. She inhales deeply, once... twice, and ponders for a brief second as the water flowed down her hand. When she pulls herself together, she shuts the water off and pats her wounds clean. The bandages on her other fingers had gotten soaked in the process as she didn't bother taking them off in the first place. None of them were open or bleeding, fortunately.
She tossed the soggy plasters in the trash, wrapping her right hand with copious amounts of tissue paper until it was tightly sealed and pressured to stop her from bleeding anymore.
Her wrap-job was messy and haphazardly tied, but she couldn't care any less as she left the restrooms—the ring of the bell following right after.
˚✧₊⁎
Homework, in theory, was the bane of Joseph Descamps' existence when it came to his educational prowess. He liked to think he was a good student despite his track record of overall being a pain in the ass (a pat of the back for his self-awareness), as he participates in class, studies whenever he can, and shows above average results on all of his exams and tests. He was not a top student like Felbec, but he was certainly not at the bottom of the barrel like the rest of the undesirables.
It was just this one thing, that thing being homework assignments that never failed to lull him into the absolute worst rut of laziness and procrastination.
He sat at his desk, the side of his face resting against the palm of his hand as he stares at the numbers and the variables of his mathematics homework. It wasn't hard or anything, Joseph could attest that maths is one of his best subjects but the idea of completing a few practice problems that really shouldn't take longer than twenty minutes often sends him into a spiral.
The sun was just about to set which meant he already wasted fifteen minutes just sitting here, waiting, wasting time, rotting on his less-than-comfortable seat that creaked under his shifting weight as if some deity from above (or below) would bless him with completed homework.
Joseph sighs, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he sits up, grabs his dull pencil, and begins to scribble through the equations with no problems. The ebbing flow towards the solution was quick and precise, the memorised steps was like second nature to him and he figures why he put this off for so long when it truly wasn't that bad. In less than thirty minutes his assignment was complete and he drops his pencil.
Perhaps he had a knack for assuming the worst in things. People did the exact same thing to him anyway, but at least he gives them what he wants.
Joseph slips his sheet of homework into a folder before stuffing it into his bag haphazardly. When the folder does not slip into the main compartment smoothly, he scoffs to himself as he fishes through the darkness of his satchel to find the culprit jamming his bag. His hand touches a spine of a book. He pauses for a brief second before pulling it out.
White Nights, Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
He read the title over and over again. He inspects the book, fingers dragging down the cracked spine, picking at the frayed edges of the cover, skimming over the blurb on the back of the small novella before he cracks it open.
Joseph hadn't looked inside yet, surprisingly. He had an alarming amount of self-control to not do anything to it for the past few days as if he had some sort of respect for the book—as if the idea of who it belonged to stopped him from ripping it to shreds. If it were anybody else's book he probably would have thrown it in a ditch somewhere or mark it over and over again until the words were unreadable like the asshole he was, but he didn't.
This was new.
To be frank, he was not quite sure why he took it anyway. Call it a serge of spontaneity or the natural karma of boredom was finally getting him did he act without thinking. Though, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise. Acting without thinking, how typical of him.
Joseph flicks through the first few pages quickly, flying by the title and publication pages and stopping at the first chapter. His gaze honed onto the first sentence and all of a sudden he's pulled in.
Now, Joseph himself is not much of a reader outside of the assigned textbook chapters and books part of the literature curriculum that he mainly skims over. It's not one of the first activities that pops into his head when he's home alone and bored. This was the last thing he would've done and yet here he was, reading the prose of a Russian author he barely knew about.
He was not sure what has gotten into him, but perhaps the answers lie in the text themselves—scribbles of notes and comments from multiple different handwritings and the special focus he had for passages specifically underlined.
It kept Joseph entertained, reading a few lines of the passage before reading the commentary of some kind of profound belief or something plain and funny. It kept him on his toes, excited to read the next page and what comments lie with it. Despite the numerous types of handwriting written all over the text, there is one thing for certain that Joseph knows is the neatest ones were Juliette's.
Her annotations only occurred every few pages with a group of handwritten text that was formatted better than the others. The way she crossed her T's and dotted her I's were neat and dainty while the others were plain chicken scratch. Ensured that her words never overlapped the text or anyone else's thoughts and never wrote more than three sentences at a time. The difference was even paramount in the underlined passages. While others were uneven and often wiggly, Juliette's were done with a straight-edge and not too heavy handed.
Juliette was considerate, Joseph knew that much based on his subtle observations. It seems to even translate from real life to words on paper.
Eventually, Joseph made his way from his desk to his bed, sitting upright against his bed frame and read the remainder of the short novel until the sun disappeared below the horizon and the clock on his wall read midnight.
He had found himself only caring for Juliette's handwriting and wondered what was going on in her in mind with the pages in between.
AUTHOR'S NOTE !
wrote this instead of studying for my next anatomy exam that i will inevitability fail so here's an update <33
thank you all so so much again for reading as we've already hit 4k! swear we just hit 3k a few days ago lolol. thank you to those who comment and vote, it truly makes my day!
— fei.