Billie by Anna Gavalda, Jennifer Rappaport Page A

of a female boar in heat . . . Yes, you know . . . that thing . . . the bait . . . the product that you put on the trunks of trees that attracts males in heat . . . Yeah . . . they used the entire bottle . . . Hahaha! . . . Man, he was completely soaked . . . And then they dumped him in the middle of the woods . . . Like that, man, there’s no way he didn’t get it up the ass, the damn queer! Just what he’s been dreaming about for so long! Hahaha! Damn, how they were roaring with laughter . . . Oh, the moron . . . Oh, the little queer . . . Boy was he going to have a nice night; he could thank them tomorrow morning . . . Hey, but to do that, he would have to be able to walk, right? Hahaha!”
    I remember, I was in the middle of doing the ironing and it was already dark. Fuck, electroshock. There, in the blink of an eye, just like the Incredible Hulk, my true nature came back.
    There, my veneer cracked and, in a second, I was no longer the nice girl but once again the angry little outsider from the Morels.
    There, I again thanked my father and all those assholes who had taught me how to load whatever weapon was at hand and who had forced me to fire on all those poor little creatures who rummaged around amidst the decaying car chassis because seeing me cry made them laugh.
    There, yes.
    There, thank you.
    There, I felt my true inheritance.
    And there, Manu, he didn’t understand a thing.
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    I said nothing. I unplugged my iron, collapsed my ironing board, and put it away in the basement. I was in our bedroom, I put the clothes in his sports bag, I gathered up my ID and other documents, I put on my jacket and grabbed my handbag and then, aiming his beautiful hunting rifle right at the door, I waited for him to finish pissing his beer and finally come out of the crapper.
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    He didn’t seem to believe me, the moron, so I shot off the door, taking a piece of his ear along with it. And after that, go figure, he believed me.
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    With one hand on his ear, he led me to the spot where they had abandoned Franck. “If you don’t find him for me, I’ll kill you,” I warned him in a voice that was not my own. “If the least little thing has happened to him, I’ll mess up your windshield.”
    We honked the horn and flashed the headlights, and spotted him going along a bridle path.
    Seeing the rifle, my expression, and the asshole who was half-deaf and completely terrorized at the steering wheel, Franck connected the dots. He got in the back of the car with me and our obliging chauffeur drove us to Franck’s parents’ house.
    â€œDo as I have,” I told him. “Grab a bag of clothes. And make it quick.”
    During the ten minutes he was gone, the asshole didn’t stop repeating, “But, you know him? But, you know him? But, you know him?”
    Yes, asshole. I know him.
    And now, shut up. That’s what I want and here my wishes are respected.
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    Our kind and friendly chauffeur then drove us to the city where Franck had gone to high school (I’m not saying the name on purpose but you, little star, of course, you know where) and he parked in front of the police station. I asked Franck to go look for an armed cop and, when they both came out, I surrendered to Manu the rifle I had bought him as a gift. Ah, yes, Mr. Policeman . . . because to keep it now would be stealing . . .
    The pig didn’t understand a thing. In any case, as he watched Manu’s car pulling away, we escaped to the other side of the road. The cop bawled me out for appearance’s sake and then hurried back to his pigsty.
    I should mention that it was freezing that evening . . .
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    We went to a crappy hotel near the train station and I requested a room with a bath. Franck was blue. Blue with cold, blue about me, blue about everything. Yes, I think he was afraid of me at