She Danced under the Stars ✔

10

My dad hauled me over the coals. I was spared nothing, whether it be the late hour of my return, or the fact that I was not wearing my cardigan, or my injuries or my filthy clothes. I had to make up a story about a big quarrel between Lily and I to explain her disappearance. She had disapproved of something very dangerous I had taken the initiative for. Outraged, she had insisted on taking the last train to Brest without even waiting for my dad to get back.

He found this very rude of her but he did believe me. I promised myself that I would doctor the contact list in his phone the next day, in case he thinks of calling Lily's parents. He finally said that I had abused his trust, that I was out of control and he wouldn't allow me to go out again.

I hid away in my room with a heavy heart.

The next morning, I slept late. I knew that my dad had a very important meeting at ten o'clock. It was better for me not to bump into him, because not only did I know that his resentment was going to last, but I also didn't want him to see me in broad daylight. I must have changed an awful lot, whether it be for my face, my voice or the way I moved.

This morning, I'm about to open the shutters on my window when something clicks in the back of my mind. I freeze.

The sunlight. If I have become like him . . . I can't. There's a good chance the smallest sunbeam will burn me to the bone.

When my dad comes back from his meeting two hours later, I use a pounding headache as an excuse for him not to come in and open the shutters. He tells me through the door that he has to attend a talk. He adds that I can help myself in the kitchen if I feel like it; there's a bit of yesterday evening's chicken with pan-fried potatoes left. I thank him in a feeble voice.

Shortly after he left, I venture to the kitchen with great care. The blinds are down. I find a candle in a drawer; I light it and put it down on the table. The leftover chicken lies in the dish on a bed of pan-fried potatoes. Though my mouth had been watering at the sight of it the day before, I can feel my stomach shrinking right now. I raise my fork half-heartedly, then I give up before I have even stuck it into a piece. I'm not hungry at all.

I heave a sigh and go searching the fridge for a drink. A little pick-me-up such as raspberry champagne should do the trick. I pour myself a glass and take a few sips: it scalds my gullet so hard that I feel like I'm swallowing bile. I spit it all out.

Then I gaze at my empty plate, where a coating of pinkish champagne is floating. Woeful symbol of the metamorphosis that my body underwent. I can't take anything anymore. Food sickens me and drink tears my insides.

From now on, there is an unsuspected liqueur that I yearn for—much stronger than alcohol.