You Deserve Nothing - Alexander Maksik [10]
We came to the same place every day. We all had our problems, our preferences, our talents, our failures. We were part of one another’s lives.
My junior year I was miserable and lonely and tired and bored of everything. I wanted to get out of there. Out of ISF, out of Paris, out of France. Away.
I’d wake up at 5:45, have a coffee, maybe eat something, take a shower, and then stand in front of the mirror putting on lotion disgusted by my body trying to figure out what to wear. I dressed and hated my choice no matter what. I’d dry my hair, brush it, and put on makeup. Then afterward I’d call Ariel to make sure we weren’t wearing the same thing.
When I went downstairs my mom would be in the kitchen, usually standing at the counter drinking her coffee. We’d barely speak. I’d say bonjour, maman and pretend to search for something in my backpack and if she spoke at all it was because she didn’t like my shoes.
At 6:45 I’d leave and walk to the bus stop. We lived to the east, outside of Paris, near the school in St. Mandé in a nice house right up against a forest. From my window all I saw was green. My dad was the vice president of a company that made containers. Juice boxes, milk cartons, water bottles, yogurt cups.
The walk from the house was fifteen minutes and I’d spend the whole time on the phone with Ariel. She was my best friend. I hated her. That’s one of the strange things about those years. You spend all your time with people you despise. Even after everything that happened with Colin, the way he treated me, the things he made me do, there’s no question in my mind, I hated Ariel more. You can’t imagine a hatred more intense, more pure. We were vicious. Not just us two. I mean all of those girls. I was right in the middle of it. I was part of it and looking back, remembering how mean we were, really hating one another, it still makes my stomach ache. You couldn’t pay me enough money to go back to high school. Not as a teacher or a student or a visitor.
I caught the bus with all the other kids from my neighborhood, found a seat and tried to sleep or do some homework. I met Ariel by the front gate where we’d share a cigarette and tell each other how good we looked. She’d tell me her stories, I’d tell her mine, and then we’d go to class. That was it. When I wasn’t in class I was with Colin or Ariel or both of them or some other people we were supposed to be friends with back then.
About Colin, I don’t know what to say really. I can’t remember a single conversation we had while we were together. I don’t know what he said to me or what I said to him. Really the whole thing only matters at all because of what he did to me. I mean I remember it, him, because of that one thing. And maybe if that had never happened I wouldn’t remember his face or what he smelled like.
GILAD
Our first day in Paris. We’ve been driven from Roissy to our new apartment on the rue de Tournon. My mom’s in the living room, sitting on a low white couch facing the fireplace. All the windows are open. There’s a slight smell of paint. My dad is in a light-brown linen suit he bought in Rome. A blue shirt. His pale orange tie draped over the back of the white chair in the corner. She’s sitting with her arms spread out behind her. She’s golden there, so tan, wearing a dress the color of his tie.
I sit in the chair facing my father. After so long in the desert, the absence of a buzzing air conditioner is loud. The street noise floats through. No one speaks. I look at her cheek. She’s following my dad’s gaze out the window. I’m sure I know what they’re thinking.
This is the city where they fell in love. After all this time they’ve finally returned. All this time gone by. This marriage. It isn’t happiness they feel. Something else. They feel possibility, a faint hope perhaps. But it has nothing to do with love. It has nothing to do with them together.
We’re