“Bravo, Benji,” Maman says and squeezes my shoulder as she takes my plate and bowl to the kitchen sink. “And how are you going to do it?”
Oh.I hadn't thought that far ahead.
I chew on my lip as I stare past my mum’s head. I have a vague awareness that she's smiling at me as she applies some lipstick using the Chanel lippie and compact mirror she always has in her handbag.
“I know,” I declare with more confidence than I feel. “We have practice oral exams today. I'll make sure we'repaired together and I'll ask her when it's my turn to ask the questions!”
“Mon amour, this is so romantic.”
That makes my smile slip. “It's not too romantic, is it? Only I don't think she's one for grand gestures and going over the top.”
“Oui, je sais,” Maman nods, “she's a cool girl.”
I bristle at that statement. I don't know why but that's not how I'd describe D-. Yes, she's cool and of course she's a girl, and yet it doesn't quite fit her.
“Well, go, go, or you'll be late. I can't wait to hear how it goes.” Maman beams at me proudly like I’m about to climb a mountain, not ask a girl to our school’s Leavers’ Ball.
Still, it gives me the boost I need as I stand, grab my bags and give Mum a peck on her cheek, inhaling her scent with closed eyes. I used to hate it when I was little; she always wears a bit too much perfume, but I've started to realise that I'm going to miss the smell of roses, ylang ylang and spring flowers when I leave after the summer.
I’m starting to realise I'm going to miss a lot of things, which is why I want to ask D— to be my date. Because I don't want to miss that opportunity.
D—doesn't seem to mind when I sit next to her in class and suggest we pair up for the practice exam. We've worked together quite often since that afternoon in Paris we spent together. It's not that I want to assume we're friends or anything even close to more than that but I'm quietly confident she tolerates me now and I've even made her laugh fourteen times in the last two months. I know because I'vecounted. I've also been privileged to find out so much more about her.
She's shared some of the many, many bands, DJs and singers she likes. She wrote me a list of French movies I should have already watched. And she's told me more about her younger brother and sister and her favourite artists. She says she wants a tattoo for her eighteenth birthday in July and that she's designed it already but nobody's allowed to see it until it's done. Last week, she gave me a tattered copy of Albert Camus’L'Étrangerwhen she discovered I'd never read it and I like how it has her scribbling on almost every page. Underlined sentences, the translations of certain words and the occasional question mark or exclamation mark. I haven't read it yet but I have turned every page, multiple times, looking at her writing and tracing with my finger the paper she has touched.
So, no, I'm not sure she likes me like that, but I’m close to certain that she doesn't hate me anymore, and call me a hopeless optimistic but I think I can work with that.
Not wanting to waste time, or to have it make me chicken out, I offer to pose the questions first and I dutifully start reading through the list we've been given. As always, D— provides succinct, well-rehearsed answers with just enough improvisation and ad-libbing to make them sound natural and conversational. Her accent is better than all the other students in this group, although there are some words that are less convincing and I have to bite back silly little grins because it makes her sound so fucking cute.
We're three questions away from the bottom and I know I have to do it now or we'll run out of time and she'll be asking me the questions.
“Alors,” I begin, in French. “I have an additional question for you, D-. It's not on the paper.”
She gives me a quizzical frown.
I inhale through my nose and hold her eye contact so she knows I'm not reading from the paper, that I'm asking her straight from my...well, fuck, my heart.
“I was wondering if you would allow me to take you to the leaver's ball, as my date?”
“Quoi?” she asks and her frown Deepens,
Oh shit. She doesn't understand.And I guess not. I used verbs we haven't covered in lessons.
I rephrase, clinging hold of my composure as her stare becomes more and more scrutinising.
“Are you going to the leaver's ball?” I begin but D— thinks that's my question asked, finished,complet.
“Merde, non. Definitely not.” she says in perfect French.
“Oh, I...” I stutter in English. Not sure where to go from here or if inD—d I should go anywhere. “You really don't want to go?”
“And watch everyone get drunk and high and pull people they'll regret in the morning? No, thank you.”
“But it's a party for us all to celebrate the end of exams and the end of, well, school life.”
“Good riddance,” she says, all matter of fact.
“Really? But you have friends...don't you want to say goodbye?”
