Firestorm | ✎

7. comme d'habitude

     Isla couldn't focus.

     All she heard was the soft tapping of her pencil, the clock ticking and the million thoughts racing through her head. How did Blair know about her past? How did she get access to those photos taken of her and Elias? And most importantly, how did she get her hands on the one thing that could possibly destroy her future and everything she worked hard for?

     How did Isla expect to fight back?

    "Mademoiselle?"

     She blinked. "Pardon?"

     Madame and the whole class was staring at her.

    "J'étais en train d'expliquer à la classe sur le film Au revoir des enfants (I was explaining to the class on the film)," the professor explained sternly. "Pourriez-vous nous faire part de la scène qui a eu le plus d'impact?" (Could you explain to us the scene that was most impactful?)

     Shite, she hadn't paid attention at all.

    "C'est... uh, c'est—" (It's... uh, it's—)

    "C'est la scène où Julien découvre que Jean est un juif." (It's the scene where Julien finds out that Jean is a Jew.)

      Isla turned around at the sudden voice. The girl sitting behind her answered it with a satisfied smile, like she already knew she was right. Brown hair, clear skin, red lips—she definitely didn't recognise her. A face like that, she would've remembered. Maybe she was new.

     Apparently not, because the girl winked at her afterwards.

     When the bell rang, Isla was quick to shove her books inside to catch up with her mystery saviour, who was already by the door and out of sight. Much to her surprise, the girl was already waiting for her, a nonchalant shoulder against the wall.

    "Zélia," she greeted, kissing her cheeks. "Zélia Charpine."

     She grinned, knowing that was how the French greeted each other: un bisous. "I'm Isla. Enchantée," she added, guessing she was also fluent. "Thanks for having my back there."

    "Pas de souci." (No problem.)

    "T'es nouvelle?" (You're new?)

    "No," Zélia shrugged. "I've always been in French Literature, I think you just keep to yourself most of the time. Am I right?"

     Isla blushed. "Yeah, I guess."

    "No pressure. I like having my alone time, too." 

     The two francophones bonded for the rest of their time before heading to different classes. Zélia didn't mention anything about the lewd rumours or the photos spreading around. Or the dreaded E-word. Isla couldn't even say the same for her best friend, Amber, so it was indubitably refreshing. Not everyone here were, in fact, psychopaths.

    "Again, thanks for before," Isla started, feeling like she owed her gratitude. "I've just... I don't have much friends in that class."

     Much less anywhere.

     Zélia winked. "C'était un plaisir." (It was a pleasure.)

—

      When the day was over, a few only rushed back to the dorms. Most of them preferred to utilise their free time before the general eight o'clock rule. The curfew, though, would add up an hour every year of high school until midnight; so Isla, being in her second-to-last year, had a bit of an upper hand than most.