Read Online Billie by Anna Gavalda, Jennifer Rappaport - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna Gavalda, Jennifer Rappaport
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their idiot brains couldnât find the clap button on the remote control.
The worst was the teacherâs clap button. It had completely disintegrated into the remote . . .
Â
Seriously, it lasted for a long time, a long time . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . you could have counted the seconds like a boxing referee. We didnât move. We didnât know if we were allowed to go back out to change our clothes or if we should go back to our places in our costumes and then there was a little explosion in the back and, of course, all the others followed.
All of them. Insane. Unrelenting.
As though an enormous firecracker had blown up in our faces.
And . . . oh . . .
How pretty it was . . .
Â
But the most beautiful part, for me, was now:
When the bell rang and they all took off for recess, the teacher came up to us while we were packing up our props and asked us if we would agree to perform the scene again in front of other classes. And even for other teachers and the principal and all that.
I didnât say anything.
I never said anything at school. I went there to rest.
I didnât say anything but I didnât want to do it. Not because I had stage fright, but because life had taught me not to ask too much of it. What we had just experienced was a gift. Now, thatâs it. Weâd put it all out there, so enough. Leave us in peace. I didnât want to risk ruining it or wrecking it. I had so few pretty things and I loved our performance so much I no longer wanted to show it to anyone.
Madame Guillet made little Puss in Boots eyes at us, but instead of flattering me, it made me sad. Well, she was just like the others . . . she knew nothing. She saw nothing. She understood nothing. She had no idea about . . . how far we must have come, both of us, to be able to make them shut their fat mouths once and for all . . .
And now? What did she think? That we were little circus animals? . . . well, no . . . before I arrived, I was in a crypt and he was in an isolation chamber. Today, we proved to you though that we were free, so great, itâs over, go home,
Â
but donât count on us to come eat sugar out of your hand. Because for us it wasnât a scene, you know . . .
It wasnât theater; they werenât characters. For us, they were Camille and Perdican, two little rich kids who blathered on too much and were super egotistical, but who helped us out when we were in hell and who sent us on our way during your applause, so move on with your need for a show, move on. Weâre no longer performing and will never perform again for the simple and good reason that it was never a performance in the first place.
And if you havenât already understood, youâll never understand, so . . . no apologies . . .
Â
âYou donât want to?â she repeated, all disappointed.
Franck looked at me and I said no with a tiny shake of my head. A sign that only he could see. A code. A murmur. A sign between Indian brothers.
So he turned toward her and said, in, like, a decisive and super-cool way:
âNo, thank you. Billie isnât eager to do it, and I respect her wishes.â
And that really hit me with full force.
I still have the mark on my skin and Iâll never do anything to hide it.
Iâm too proud of it . . .
Because his kindness, his patience, Claudineâs kindness, her grenadine that had been expired since 1984, her Pépito candies, her Banga soda, her warm hands on my neck when she was arranging my dress, the silence earlier, the applause to die for, the teacher who had never reckoned that she would do anything other than humiliate me or put zeros next to my name and who was now doing contortions in front of me so she could look good in front of the principal, all that was very nice, and though I wouldnât argue, it was zilch compared to what he had
The worst was the teacherâs clap button. It had completely disintegrated into the remote . . .
Â
Seriously, it lasted for a long time, a long time . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . you could have counted the seconds like a boxing referee. We didnât move. We didnât know if we were allowed to go back out to change our clothes or if we should go back to our places in our costumes and then there was a little explosion in the back and, of course, all the others followed.
All of them. Insane. Unrelenting.
As though an enormous firecracker had blown up in our faces.
And . . . oh . . .
How pretty it was . . .
Â
But the most beautiful part, for me, was now:
When the bell rang and they all took off for recess, the teacher came up to us while we were packing up our props and asked us if we would agree to perform the scene again in front of other classes. And even for other teachers and the principal and all that.
I didnât say anything.
I never said anything at school. I went there to rest.
I didnât say anything but I didnât want to do it. Not because I had stage fright, but because life had taught me not to ask too much of it. What we had just experienced was a gift. Now, thatâs it. Weâd put it all out there, so enough. Leave us in peace. I didnât want to risk ruining it or wrecking it. I had so few pretty things and I loved our performance so much I no longer wanted to show it to anyone.
Madame Guillet made little Puss in Boots eyes at us, but instead of flattering me, it made me sad. Well, she was just like the others . . . she knew nothing. She saw nothing. She understood nothing. She had no idea about . . . how far we must have come, both of us, to be able to make them shut their fat mouths once and for all . . .
And now? What did she think? That we were little circus animals? . . . well, no . . . before I arrived, I was in a crypt and he was in an isolation chamber. Today, we proved to you though that we were free, so great, itâs over, go home,
Â
but donât count on us to come eat sugar out of your hand. Because for us it wasnât a scene, you know . . .
It wasnât theater; they werenât characters. For us, they were Camille and Perdican, two little rich kids who blathered on too much and were super egotistical, but who helped us out when we were in hell and who sent us on our way during your applause, so move on with your need for a show, move on. Weâre no longer performing and will never perform again for the simple and good reason that it was never a performance in the first place.
And if you havenât already understood, youâll never understand, so . . . no apologies . . .
Â
âYou donât want to?â she repeated, all disappointed.
Franck looked at me and I said no with a tiny shake of my head. A sign that only he could see. A code. A murmur. A sign between Indian brothers.
So he turned toward her and said, in, like, a decisive and super-cool way:
âNo, thank you. Billie isnât eager to do it, and I respect her wishes.â
And that really hit me with full force.
I still have the mark on my skin and Iâll never do anything to hide it.
Iâm too proud of it . . .
Because his kindness, his patience, Claudineâs kindness, her grenadine that had been expired since 1984, her Pépito candies, her Banga soda, her warm hands on my neck when she was arranging my dress, the silence earlier, the applause to die for, the teacher who had never reckoned that she would do anything other than humiliate me or put zeros next to my name and who was now doing contortions in front of me so she could look good in front of the principal, all that was very nice, and though I wouldnât argue, it was zilch compared to what he had
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