Status: Work in Progress
One Hundred Different Lives
Paulette Couvier
"I think you'll find Great Valley an excellent school," Mrs. Withers was saying. "And one well-suited to Paulette's situation. Our French program is one of the best in the state." And of course, as principal, she was paid to have a vast knowledge of every pro of the school and hock it to any likely bidder.
"Thank you. That is a wonderful thing, that there's a school able to accommodate her. It's amazing how adverse some are to helping out a student like that..." my mom's voice trailed off and I looked out the window, bored. It was a nice enough school, I guess, with a well-manicured lawn, a fairly new football stadium, and laptop computers supplied to each and every student. I wondered idly if I would have to sensor what I did on it, just in case they checked up on the web history or any kind of file. My thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Withers, who seemed to have finished speaking to my mom.
"Well I can say this at least: Bonjour and bienvenue!" Her statement was terminated with a terrific flourish of her hand, as if waving in the air dramatically would make up for her horrible accent. My first instinct was to sneer, but my mom had taught me better than that.
Sticking to our current plan, I pulled on my sweetest and most endearing smile and replied, "Merci, Madame Withers."
***
"Wait, do YOU know how to speak French?" I heard one boy ask his friend.
"No way, man. You know I failed out the first year."
"Dude, I'm seriously contemplating switching my schedule and taking it this year. I think maybe I found some . . . motivation." The boy's name was Derek Green, and he looked over at me like I was a fucking steak and he was a half-starved, half-crazed hyena, as if his look couldn't be understood by someone who didn't speak English. I don't know why these people put me through classes today. The translator wouldn't be here until Thursday, and I “couldn’t” understand a lick of English. Until I got to French class, I was supposedly a fish out of water.
"Do you think that's her natural hair color?" a girl whose name I didn't know said.
"Nah, look at it, it's darker at the roots. It's definitely dyed, and crappily at that." Wow, that speaks leaps and bounds for human nature, I thought. When you don't have to say something to someone's face, you have no qualms about insulting them. Whatever, I thought. We'll finish this job and then move on to Napa. This was just a holdover gig anyway until we reached Cali, like a pitstop. It wasn't designed to take long and soon we would leave these bastards behind.
The bell rang then, signaling the change of class and reminding me that I was headed to French. The office people had assigned me multiple buddies, so there would be at least one person to take me from one class to the next. This one's name was Alex, and she was in her fifth year of French, the highest the school offered, so of course she was clambering for the chance to show her skills and probably earn extra credit.
"Bonjour, Paulette! My name is Alex and I take French also. How do you like our school so far?" she asked in French. Her eager face was a little too exuberant, but I was forced to humor her.
"Oh, it's wonderful! All the people are so nice and helpful! And of course, your French is excellent." She beamed at the false compliment, and continued to chat with me until we reached the door. Now was when I would be taken to the front and put on display, then used as a tool to further these horrible people in their meaningless educations. The French teacher would talk to me till the cows came home, desperately trying to get informed about the culture and customs of my native country, or try to create a sort of special relationship between us, feeling obligated as the French professor.
"Bonjour!" the teacher exclaimed as we entered the hushed classroom. No doubt she'd already explained to her students that too many people talking at once would frighten me. Foreign people are "delicate." I fixed on a shy smile.
"Bonjour," I replied.
"Oh, your accent, it's such a wonderful thing to hear, after all these American accents butchering the French language." Ouch. Way to throw her own students under the bus. She was taking the relationship approach and I would bet anything that she would go out of her way to meet me after class.
"Now remember, these kids aren't anywhere near fluent. So be patient with them; I'm sure they'll try their best." I nodded and turned to her class; the students were obviously completely oblivious to everything their teacher had just said.
After Madame Nasser introduced me, she had everyone ask me a question. Some people were clearly brainiacs, and some people probably only took this class at their parents' urging. The questions seemed rehearsed and nobody really seemed like they had a good grasp on the language. Class ended leaving me wanting to brush off the teacher and leave so that I could get to my other classes and go home. People at this school were getting on my nerves more than usual.
"Oh, Paulette!" Madame Nasser called just as I was trying to leave with my new escort. "I just wanted to thank you for being such a good sport. The students just loved you." Yeah, I could tell they were brimming with excitement and gratitude, I thought sarcastically. But I didn't say that out loud.
"It was my pleasure, Madame. I'll see you tomorrow!" I added that bit at the end so she would get a clue that I had to leave now. She nodded and 'Becca' and I were off to calculus.
***
"She doesn't even look French," a girl at the lunch table said. I was sitting at a medium-sized circular table with some of the people I had met in my classes. Two of the girls who had shuttled me between classes sat on my left, and the girl who spoke was one of them.
"How do French people look?" the other asked. I didn't really bother trying to remember names; I never did. Making friends was kind of the opposite of the point.
“Hairy,” the first girl continued. By now, my patience had been spent from just the first half of the classes. I was sorely tempted to cuss out this blond bimbo until her eardrums broke, but unfortunately, I wasn’t supposed to understand English at the moment, and my mother taught me better than to lose my cool. It could cost us everything.
“Ew, I thought that was a myth,” the second girl squealed. “They really don’t shave?” I did my best to drown them out, with the help of some particularly ambitious French III students who stopped by my table just then. So by the time I got to our apartment, I was about ready to bite my mother’s head off.
“Remind me why we did this one again? I can’t fucking stand the people at school, talking about me like I’m not there. And they’re so damn stupid!”
“You know why, darling,” she said in a patronizing tone, ignoring the rest of my rant, which was back in English by now. “It keeps you out of trouble, practically pays for your tuition to that wonderful school, and it’s easier to keep it up when you’re lying in French. You don’t even have to pay attention to people, just feign confusion. Great for beginners. Oh, yeah," she added, "and you don’t exactly have a school transcript. So you’re either a truant, or a clueless foreigner.” Yeah, and that makes her my even more clueless “adoptive” mother.
“Ugh!” I groaned loudly. “I’m not a friggin’ child anymore, mom. I can do it; you know I can. I did it back in Houston!”
“And you almost gave yourself away in Houston. Don’t argue with me, Sky. I decide when you’re ready, and you’re not ready. If you can prove to me that you can do this, maybe we’ll change it up in Napa.” Though that may sound generous, my mom was really telling me that I had no choice in the matter until I turned eighteen and legally became eligible to wipe my own ass. So I just groaned again and headed to my room.
The furniture in there was nice and modern, with a plain metal bed frame, a large, empty wooden bookcase, a wooden desk to match, and a black office chair. At least this one had nicer furniture than the last one. We always rent pre-furnished apartments - it doesn’t exactly make for a quick getaway if we have to load up a bunch of things before clearing out. The only things in here that were mine were my closet full of clothes and shoes, and a little purple pillow with the words “Je t’aime” embroidered in pink stitches on it. My grandmother had made it for me when I was a baby - my dad’s mother.
I walked over to my window where the fire escape was and squeaked it open with surprisingly little resistance. The structure looked rusted, but not too badly. Taking out my cell phone, I sat down with my legs folded Indian-style and my back against the brick of the side of the apartment building.
My contact list opened when I pressed on the text message icon. Literally hundreds of names popped up, and I scrolled through them like I always do, never picking one, just looking. I couldn’t exactly keep in touch with these people, some of them knowing people we stole from, some of them being people we stole from, and every single one of them conned into thinking I was someone else. Nobody knew who I was. Nobody really wanted to be my friend. I rarely got a text message after we finished our job and left town. But that wasn’t their fault – it was my mom’s. After a girl named Clair texted me when we had left town seven years ago, my mom flipped, going off on me about how careless I was, and didn’t I know that the police could track us from that? My ten-year-old self, of course, did not know, but she still made me change my phone number and told me to never do it again. Since then, I’ve avoided giving people my real number, though they’ve given me theirs. I keep them in my phone, and when I have nothing else to do, because I have no friends to text, I look through them and sometimes fantasize about calling one or two. But that can never happen.
"Thank you. That is a wonderful thing, that there's a school able to accommodate her. It's amazing how adverse some are to helping out a student like that..." my mom's voice trailed off and I looked out the window, bored. It was a nice enough school, I guess, with a well-manicured lawn, a fairly new football stadium, and laptop computers supplied to each and every student. I wondered idly if I would have to sensor what I did on it, just in case they checked up on the web history or any kind of file. My thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Withers, who seemed to have finished speaking to my mom.
"Well I can say this at least: Bonjour and bienvenue!" Her statement was terminated with a terrific flourish of her hand, as if waving in the air dramatically would make up for her horrible accent. My first instinct was to sneer, but my mom had taught me better than that.
Sticking to our current plan, I pulled on my sweetest and most endearing smile and replied, "Merci, Madame Withers."
***
"Wait, do YOU know how to speak French?" I heard one boy ask his friend.
"No way, man. You know I failed out the first year."
"Dude, I'm seriously contemplating switching my schedule and taking it this year. I think maybe I found some . . . motivation." The boy's name was Derek Green, and he looked over at me like I was a fucking steak and he was a half-starved, half-crazed hyena, as if his look couldn't be understood by someone who didn't speak English. I don't know why these people put me through classes today. The translator wouldn't be here until Thursday, and I “couldn’t” understand a lick of English. Until I got to French class, I was supposedly a fish out of water.
"Do you think that's her natural hair color?" a girl whose name I didn't know said.
"Nah, look at it, it's darker at the roots. It's definitely dyed, and crappily at that." Wow, that speaks leaps and bounds for human nature, I thought. When you don't have to say something to someone's face, you have no qualms about insulting them. Whatever, I thought. We'll finish this job and then move on to Napa. This was just a holdover gig anyway until we reached Cali, like a pitstop. It wasn't designed to take long and soon we would leave these bastards behind.
The bell rang then, signaling the change of class and reminding me that I was headed to French. The office people had assigned me multiple buddies, so there would be at least one person to take me from one class to the next. This one's name was Alex, and she was in her fifth year of French, the highest the school offered, so of course she was clambering for the chance to show her skills and probably earn extra credit.
"Bonjour, Paulette! My name is Alex and I take French also. How do you like our school so far?" she asked in French. Her eager face was a little too exuberant, but I was forced to humor her.
"Oh, it's wonderful! All the people are so nice and helpful! And of course, your French is excellent." She beamed at the false compliment, and continued to chat with me until we reached the door. Now was when I would be taken to the front and put on display, then used as a tool to further these horrible people in their meaningless educations. The French teacher would talk to me till the cows came home, desperately trying to get informed about the culture and customs of my native country, or try to create a sort of special relationship between us, feeling obligated as the French professor.
"Bonjour!" the teacher exclaimed as we entered the hushed classroom. No doubt she'd already explained to her students that too many people talking at once would frighten me. Foreign people are "delicate." I fixed on a shy smile.
"Bonjour," I replied.
"Oh, your accent, it's such a wonderful thing to hear, after all these American accents butchering the French language." Ouch. Way to throw her own students under the bus. She was taking the relationship approach and I would bet anything that she would go out of her way to meet me after class.
"Now remember, these kids aren't anywhere near fluent. So be patient with them; I'm sure they'll try their best." I nodded and turned to her class; the students were obviously completely oblivious to everything their teacher had just said.
After Madame Nasser introduced me, she had everyone ask me a question. Some people were clearly brainiacs, and some people probably only took this class at their parents' urging. The questions seemed rehearsed and nobody really seemed like they had a good grasp on the language. Class ended leaving me wanting to brush off the teacher and leave so that I could get to my other classes and go home. People at this school were getting on my nerves more than usual.
"Oh, Paulette!" Madame Nasser called just as I was trying to leave with my new escort. "I just wanted to thank you for being such a good sport. The students just loved you." Yeah, I could tell they were brimming with excitement and gratitude, I thought sarcastically. But I didn't say that out loud.
"It was my pleasure, Madame. I'll see you tomorrow!" I added that bit at the end so she would get a clue that I had to leave now. She nodded and 'Becca' and I were off to calculus.
***
"She doesn't even look French," a girl at the lunch table said. I was sitting at a medium-sized circular table with some of the people I had met in my classes. Two of the girls who had shuttled me between classes sat on my left, and the girl who spoke was one of them.
"How do French people look?" the other asked. I didn't really bother trying to remember names; I never did. Making friends was kind of the opposite of the point.
“Hairy,” the first girl continued. By now, my patience had been spent from just the first half of the classes. I was sorely tempted to cuss out this blond bimbo until her eardrums broke, but unfortunately, I wasn’t supposed to understand English at the moment, and my mother taught me better than to lose my cool. It could cost us everything.
“Ew, I thought that was a myth,” the second girl squealed. “They really don’t shave?” I did my best to drown them out, with the help of some particularly ambitious French III students who stopped by my table just then. So by the time I got to our apartment, I was about ready to bite my mother’s head off.
“Remind me why we did this one again? I can’t fucking stand the people at school, talking about me like I’m not there. And they’re so damn stupid!”
“You know why, darling,” she said in a patronizing tone, ignoring the rest of my rant, which was back in English by now. “It keeps you out of trouble, practically pays for your tuition to that wonderful school, and it’s easier to keep it up when you’re lying in French. You don’t even have to pay attention to people, just feign confusion. Great for beginners. Oh, yeah," she added, "and you don’t exactly have a school transcript. So you’re either a truant, or a clueless foreigner.” Yeah, and that makes her my even more clueless “adoptive” mother.
“Ugh!” I groaned loudly. “I’m not a friggin’ child anymore, mom. I can do it; you know I can. I did it back in Houston!”
“And you almost gave yourself away in Houston. Don’t argue with me, Sky. I decide when you’re ready, and you’re not ready. If you can prove to me that you can do this, maybe we’ll change it up in Napa.” Though that may sound generous, my mom was really telling me that I had no choice in the matter until I turned eighteen and legally became eligible to wipe my own ass. So I just groaned again and headed to my room.
The furniture in there was nice and modern, with a plain metal bed frame, a large, empty wooden bookcase, a wooden desk to match, and a black office chair. At least this one had nicer furniture than the last one. We always rent pre-furnished apartments - it doesn’t exactly make for a quick getaway if we have to load up a bunch of things before clearing out. The only things in here that were mine were my closet full of clothes and shoes, and a little purple pillow with the words “Je t’aime” embroidered in pink stitches on it. My grandmother had made it for me when I was a baby - my dad’s mother.
I walked over to my window where the fire escape was and squeaked it open with surprisingly little resistance. The structure looked rusted, but not too badly. Taking out my cell phone, I sat down with my legs folded Indian-style and my back against the brick of the side of the apartment building.
My contact list opened when I pressed on the text message icon. Literally hundreds of names popped up, and I scrolled through them like I always do, never picking one, just looking. I couldn’t exactly keep in touch with these people, some of them knowing people we stole from, some of them being people we stole from, and every single one of them conned into thinking I was someone else. Nobody knew who I was. Nobody really wanted to be my friend. I rarely got a text message after we finished our job and left town. But that wasn’t their fault – it was my mom’s. After a girl named Clair texted me when we had left town seven years ago, my mom flipped, going off on me about how careless I was, and didn’t I know that the police could track us from that? My ten-year-old self, of course, did not know, but she still made me change my phone number and told me to never do it again. Since then, I’ve avoided giving people my real number, though they’ve given me theirs. I keep them in my phone, and when I have nothing else to do, because I have no friends to text, I look through them and sometimes fantasize about calling one or two. But that can never happen.