The Yellow Eyes of Crocodiles Read Online Free

to crunch them.”
    It was the old tongue twister they used to recite as kids. Joséphine laughed again and hung up. She wiped her hands, took off her apron, pulled the pencil out of her hair, and ran to the door. Hortense breezed in without looking at her mother.
    “Is Dad here? I got a terrific grade in creative writing! And I got it from that bitch Madame Ruffon.”
    “Hortense, please! That’s your French teacher you’re talking about.”
    “Well, she
is
a bitch.”
    Hortense put down her backpack and took off her coat with the studied grace of a debutante removing her wrap before the ball.
    “Don’t I get a kiss?” asked Joséphine, annoyed at sounding needy.
    Hortense offered her soft, peachy cheek, pulling a mass of copper-colored hair away from her neck.
    “I can’t believe how hot it is! Positively tropical, as Dad would say.”
    Hortense went to the stove and lifted the lid off one of the pots. At fourteen, she already had the look and manners of a woman. Her pale complexion contrasted with her coppery hair and her large green eyes.
    Just then, ten-year-old Zoé burst into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Joséphine’s legs.
    “Mommy! Guess what? Max Barthillet invited me over to watch
Peter Pan
at his place! His dad gave him the DVD. Can I go after school? I don’t have any homework for tomorrow. Okay, Mommy? Can I?”
    Zoé looked at her mother, her face full of trust and love.
    “Of course you can, sweetie.”
    “Max Barthillet?” scoffed Hortense. “You’re letting her go to his house? He’s my age and he’s still in Zoé’s class! He keeps being held back. He’s probably going to end up being a butcher or a plumber.”
    “There’s no shame in being a butcher or a plumber, Hortense.”
    “Whatever. There’s just something weird about him, with his pants two sizes too large, his studded belts, and his long hair. I don’t think we should be seen with him.”
    “I don’t care if he is a plumber,” cried Zoé. “I think Max is handsome. You’ll let me go, right, Mommy? What’s for lunch? I’m starving!”
    “Scrambled eggs and potatoes.”
    “Yum! Can I break the yolk? I can squoosh it all together and add tons of ketchup.”
    Zoé still had her babyish looks: round cheeks, chubby arms, freckles, and deep dimples in her cheeks. She loved to give people loud kisses, and hug them tight.
    “Max is only inviting you over because he wants to get to me,” Hortense declared as she nibbled a French fry with her perfect white teeth.
    “That’s not true. He invited me! Nobody else! So there!”
    “Little brat! Max Barthillet. Let him dream. He doesn’t stand a chance. I want a big strong man, like Marlon Brando.”
    “Who’s Marion Bardo, Mommy?”
    “A famous American actor, sweetie.”
    “Marlon Brando! He’s so handsome. He was in
A Streetcar Named Desire.
Dad took me to see it. He says it’s a masterpiece.”
    “Yum! The fries are great, Mommy.”
    “Isn’t Dad here? Did he have a meeting?” Hortense wiped her mouth.
    This was the moment Joséphine was dreading. She met her elder daughter’s inquisitive gaze, then looked at Zoé, who was absorbed in dipping her fries in her egg yolk, which was splattered with ketchup.
    Antoine had never wanted to speak about money troubles or worries about the future in front of the girls. Hortense’s unconditional love for him was all that remained of his past glory. She used to help him unpack when he got back from a trip. She admired his suits, felt the quality of his shirts, smoothed his ties. Joséphine sometimes felt they had their own private world, that their family was divided into two castes: Antoine and Hortense were the nobility, and she and Zoé were the vassals.
    Hortense was looking at Joséphine, her question hanging in the air.
    “He left.”
    “When is he coming back?”
    “He’s not. I mean not here.”
    Zoé raised her head.
    “He left for good?” she asked, her mouth open in shock.
    “Yes.”
    “He