Peintures vivantes - Joseph Descamps

La carte

Contrary to my pessimistic thoughts, the first day at the Voltaire High School went smoothly. Fortunately, I think. Cycling home, I find myself in the middle of a heavy downpour.

Arriving home, I abandon my bike under the storm water and sneak into the house, all soaked. "Honey! You've caught the rain. Go take a nice hot shower, otherwise you'll get sick." My mother orders me, kissing my forehead. I find the shower idea great; I want to get away from my brothers and especially my mother. I don't want to tell them how the day went.

I run up the stairs and head for my room. I take off my water-soaked dress, lay it on the back of the chair, and undo my hair. In the meantime, someone knocks on my door. It is Marion. "Hello Ma" I greet her, looking at myself in the mirror placed at the foot of my bed. She nonchalantly sits in the chair, smiling at me.

"How was Romy? At school, I mean." She asks me curiously. Turning towards her, I notice the strange smirk plastered on her lips. "I know you want to run off to the bathroom and then hole up in your room to avoid the tale of this exciting day. But don't run away from me dear. Tell." She urges me again.

I try to snort, but instead I get a shrill laugh. 'That went well. I think," I tell her, combing my hair. "And my head really hurts," I moan. Marion approaches me from behind, and takes the brush from my hands. "I've always told you that you do your ponytail too tight. At the end of the day it's obvious you have pain." He scolds me playfully, as he starts combing my hair.

"Are there any cute boys?" she asks me, pretending to be distracted. I pinch her side. "Silly...you only think about boys." I answer her laughing.

"What do you expect Romy? My sister just started attending a high school along with hundreds of boys. I'm simply curious." She snorts.

I love it when she combs and caresses my hair, and she loves doing it, she enjoys it. Like combing a beautiful dark-haired doll. I get up and hug her, not sure whether to seek comfort, or courage. She reciprocates, and holds me as only a sister can. "I'm going to take a shower. I'm very tired, I think I'll go straight to bed afterwards." I tell her, picking up my pyjamas.

"I will also eat your portion of Sacher made by mummy!" he replies. We leave my room together, and part in the corridor. After a nice hot shower, I slip into bed and turn off the light. I feel more charged up than yesterday.

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6:00 am. As usual, the alarm clock rings and I switch it off as quickly as possible. I get up with a strange energy in my body. I get ready quickly, and decide to leave my hair down, mindful of yesterday's pain caused by the too-tight tail. I opt for a white below-the-knee skirt and a yellow blouse.

I descend the stairs and meet Clotaire and my parents eating their hearty breakfast. Marion's plate is still there; she must be sleeping. "Good morning Romilda." My father greets me, with a big smile. "How was school yesterday?"

"Fine dad, it looks very nice as a school, and my deskmates are very sociable." I say as I think back to the four-eyed bullying Pichon. I assume a strange expression. "Are you OK honey?" my mother asks me. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you." I answer her, sipping my milk.

"Clotaire, today is the big day!" my father exclaims, patting my brother on the back. Today he has an interview for a job. I look at the clock hanging above the chair and jump to my feet. "I'm late, sorry I have to run. Good luck Clo!" I say goodbye to everyone and leave the house with the taste of Sacher still in my mouth.

I arrive in the high school courtyard five minutes later than yesterday, but I am still early. I see Annick alone, waiting to enter the classroom. Even today she is better dressed than me. I approach her, and notice that she is reading a book.

"Hi Annick. What are you reading?" I ask her curiously. As soon as she sees me, she closes the book and slips it into her bag. "Oh, hi. Nothing much, a classic novel." She smiles at me. I can't quite decipher that smile.

We decide to enter the classroom together, and I sit next to her, in the first pew. "I'm sorry about yesterday. Giroud is not nice at all." I affirm. She sighs and gives me a kind smile this time.

Instead of Giroud, the Latin teacher enters the classroom with a quick and nervous step. We all stand up, greeting him. This professor does not seem to be nice and kind either.

To be honest, finding oneself as a neighbour with Annick is like feeling stupid. I have yet to understand where all her infinite knowledge comes from.

As I reflect on things that have nothing to do with Latin class, Annick snaps like a spring and raises her left arm above her head. I turn to look at her, and notice on her face a mixed expression between know-it-all and swagger. The Latin teacher pretends not to see her, and scans the class for other raised hands, surely more worthy of his attention.

After a few moments of stony silence, I see the professor brighten up. I turn my gaze back and to my amazement see a hand raised among the tall desks. "Descamps, please." The professor urges him on, and the four-eyed boy clears his throat foxily. "I think the young lady in the front row has her hand raised professor."

A roar of laughter fills the room that until a few seconds ago hovered in an anxious silence. The professor squints and nervously adjusts his tie. "Yes...yes, you are right Mr Descamps." He replies.

So that's what he's called, then, Mr. Four-Eyes. They can't hide the fact that his brief little intervention elicited a slight smile from me. I notice beside me, that Annick is even more tense than before, pushing her hand as high as she can. Lucky her who knows the answer to every question asked in class.

"Miss, please." The professor addresses her. Annick jumps to her feet as if she has a spring under her chair. "The Romans welcome Horace with shouts of joy and felicitations, and escort him home." She replies with a bright expression on her face.

"The Romans 'acclaim' Horace. Miss, can you conjugate Ovare?" he asks her. As Annick answers the professor's question without hesitation, I notice whispers coming from the back of the classroom. I turn slightly, enough to notice Descamps four eyes intent on scribbling on a piece of paper. Can't he ever keep still?

"You! Give me that note now!" triumphs the professor's voice. Almost feeling relieved, I turn contentedly towards Descamps, but to my regret, I see a boy stand up holding his biglettin. The professor snatches it from his hands, and after a glance, scrutinises the boy.

"Your name, please." He asks in a serious and strangely calm tone.

"It wasn't me." The boy replies. Behind him, I notice Michelle clutching her fingers nervously.

"They all say that..." mutters the professor, in a tone of desperation. "His name."

"Laubrac, sir. Alain Laubrac." Admits the boy, holding his gaze up.

"Is he the assistance boy? An orphan who wants to graduate? Very funny. Didn't they teach you discipline in the orphanage, Mr Laubrac?" blurts out Professor Larouche.

I feel anger boiling in my veins: is it possible for a professor to be so rude to his pupils?

"He didn't do anything!" It's Michelle's voice, I recognise it well. I turn to look at her: she is standing, both hands resting on her desk, while Simone looks at her in fear of the consequences awaiting her.

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