He leans closer to me and glances across at MlleBonneville, who's sipping her coffee and readingFrench Vogue.
“I spent the summer in Toulouse. With my mother's family.”
My jaw hangs open. “Your mother is French?”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, carefully. The pink is still in his cheeks and it contrasts with the intense blue of his eyes. I didn't know he had blue eyes. I expected with his dark brown hair and that two o’clock shadow his eyes would be brown. The fact that they’re not knocks me a little off-kilter.
I blink at him. “Your mum is French? And you're doing French A-Level?” My voice lifts as I point a finger at him. “That's cheating!”
He frowns at me and his mouth twitches like it can't decide if he wants to smile, laugh or scowl. “Er, no. It's not.”
“It so is!”
“How?”
“You grew up speaking French, right?”
“Yeah, but mymamanspeaks English too and when my dad was around I spoke English with him.”
“Doesn't matter. If she speaks it with you then you have a clear advantage over all of us. It's not fair.” I fold my arms over my Green Day T-shirt.
He looks at my arms for a second and then quickly looks up again, the blush back in his cheeks.
“As far as I was aware, this isn't a competition. It doesn't actually affect you if I'm better than you are.”
I scoff, loudly. “I didn't say that you were better than me.”
His eyes narrow. They really are disarmingly blue if you look at them too long. “Maybe not, but youthinkyou're better than me. Or rather, you think you're the best in theclass and now you feel threatened because you might not be.”
His tone isn't accusatory. In fact, it almost sounds like he's explaining something to himself.
“Bullshit,” I tell him.
“Et comme dit-on ca en francais?” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.
“Merde,” I say for want of a better expression.
“Actually, I thinkc’est des connerieswould be more accurate.” He offers with a smug look that makes my skin crawl.
Bullshit des conneries, indeed. This is going to be one long school year.
THREE
BENJI
NOW
Sorry I'm late.I needed to change my bag of shit, is what I should say to the man giving me a look that could kill as I enter the tattoo studio. That's what I should say if I was being honest. But I have it on very good authority that when it comes to poop-related stories, not many people want honesty.
Something tells me this man is no different. He doesn't want to hear how I'm still getting used to my colostomy bag and it still takes me longer than I expect to change it. He definitely doesn't want to hear about how, even after three weeks, I’m still freaked out by the fact I have a hole in my stomach and that I still don’t really trust myself not to shit my pants like I have a few too many times before in my life.
So instead, I say, “Sorry I'm late. Car wouldn't start.”
He glances at my brand-new electric golf and when his eyes are on me I actually wish I'd told him the truth. Even pity would be better than this death stare.
A death stare thatisn'tunattractive. That probably has more to do with his warm, tawny brown skin, his big, dark brown eyes and the unbearably cool hairstyle he boasts. The shaved sides of his head look freshly cut and the explosion of tight black curls on top of his head has me wondering just how soft they are. Not to mention all his tattoos and facial piercings. I find myself longing to get a bit closer and study the art on his arms, wondering how much more of his thick body does it cover.
Putain, I'm so touch-deprived. And sex-deprived. But I guess that's what happens when you spend the last year of your life as your mother's full-time carer in a tiny village where the average age is 57, and absolutely nobody is queer.
