Billie Read Online Free Page A

because the evening of one of my birthdays, my twenty-second, I think, I pressed reset.
    I rebooted in front of him and swore that I was done. That I would never hurt myself again.
    And little Cosette, maybe she lacks imagination, but she does keep her promise.
    We did such a good job avoiding each other, we nearly missed each other for good.
    We were in the middle of the academic year. There were still a few months left to get through and then we would have to decide what to do next based on our strengths and weaknesses and what we’d done well at in school. I wanted to get a job as quickly as possible while he . . . I don’t know . . . when I looked at him from afar, he made me think of the Little Prince, especially since he had the same yellow scarf. No one could tell what he was going to become.
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    Yes, there were still several weeks left for us to ignore one another before we would be done with the ghost of the other and all it represented forever.
    Except that, lo and behold: we were owed a second act . . .
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    Was it God who was too embarrassed by what he’d let happen until then and wanted to make amends to sooth his heartburn, or was it you, Mademoi—? Okay, enough with the formalities, was it you? I feel like I’m presenting my case to an officer at the unemployment office. I don’t know who did it nor why, but in any case, it was exactly like Charlie and his gold ticket in Willy Wonka’s chocolate bar. It was . . . really lucky.
    Ah shit, I’m starting to cry again and I’m turning again toward my broken bolster so no one will see.
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    * * *
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    We were introduced to Alfred de Musset, and when I said earlier that it wasn’t school or the teachers who had gotten me out of the Morels, I wasn’t being fair. Because . . . well, given that my teachers didn’t like me, it really hurts me to praise them, but there you have it, it’s true . . . I owe them more than a few moments of rest during the school year.
    Without my French teacher Madame Guillet, and without her mania for theater and
live performance
, as she called it, I would surely be some sort of zombie today.
    Â 
    Don’t Fool with Love
    Don’t Fool with Love
    Don’t
    Fool
    with
    Love
    Â 
    Oh . . . How I love to say it, that title . . .

 
    O ur mother hen of a teacher arrived one morning with three little rattan baskets from her kitchen. In the first were folded pieces of paper—the scenes we were to perform; in the second were the names of the girls in the class to decide the role of Camille, and in the last basket, the names of the boys to decide the role of Perdican.
    When I heard that fate had chosen Franck Mumu for my performance partner, not only did I not know that the play in question was not about animals (I had understood “Pelican”) but also, I remember, I completely lost my composure . . .
    The lottery was held on purpose the day before Easter break, so that we would have time to learn our dialogue, but for me it was a disaster. How was I supposed to concentrate on learning the least little thing by heart during the fucking vacation? It was over before it started. I had to refuse. And there was no way he could be my partner because then it would be my fault that he got a bad grade. Vacations for me were synonymous with . . . the opposite of learning anything. Thus all this lace-frilled-shirt bullshit written in small type, it wasn’t even worth thinking about.
    So when he came up to me at the end of class, I didn’t see him because I had already tied myself up in knots.
    â€œIf you want, we can go to my grandmother’s house to practice . . . ”
    It was the first time I was hearing his voice and . . . Oh . . . Oh my God . . . that really did me good . . . that loosened me up right away. It stopped me from stressing out.
    Why? Because it let me avoid