Stephanie Morcombe was dropped from. Other than that, things return to normal. When events as inane as unauthorised hair colouring usually excite weeks of illicit analysis and debate, it seems odd that Maud has died on the lips so quickly. I have a feeling staff are nipping it in the bud, due to Mr Thornton’s involvement. They’ve closed ranks. Apparently, a drunk French teacher doesn’t even warrant a flyer. Shame about that. I would have kept that flyer.
TWENTY-ONE
The-Ro-mance-Lang-uage
French is a Romance language. It does not mean romance in the way people think, though: it comes from Vulgar Latin and means to speak in Roman. Vulgar just means popular. When I hear French, I hear earthy words in the mouths of earthy people, open-mouth words, not the la-di-da-tight-lipped how to order in a French restaurant and find-the-toilet-after stuff they teach us at school. Dad uses the word vulgar a lot, and he is not talking about good, simple people when he says it. He says Creepy’s mum and dad are Vulgar. He thinks he is calling them crude and offensive. He does not know that I am the Vulgar one. Creepy is a good, common, ordinary boy in the Romance language.
Mum and Dad do not like me speaking in French.Especially now. It is not just because they are afraid I might be using swears at them; it is because it excludes them. I might as well take up Wicca, judging from the look they give me when I answer them in French. Nancy calls my use of a foreign language a device and a contrivance, which annoys me, because I used to think having a facility for languages was a good thing. But I do not tell Nancy this. I am beginning to think that anything I do or say these days will be interpreted as defiance. And I do want to cooperate, very much.
Having a facility. Mum calls toilets ‘facilities’. When we are out, she will ask where the facilities are. So I have a facility and she goes to one, or on one, or in one. She asked after the facilities at Nanna’s funeral, and the man looked at her as if she were asking directions to the crematorium. She tried repeating herself but eventually had to say the word: toilet. Except she did not say it; she whispered it. I do not think she is trying to be fancy. I just do not think she likes the word toilet. There are a lot of words my mum does not like, and most of them are to do with me. Now she has words in two languages to cringe at.
I found out early that you have to be careful what you say. And what you write. There is no romance to language. No one actually communicates with each other through language. I figured if no one was listeningto me in English, they might as well ignore me in French, as well. I did not know a different language would upset everyone just as much as my silences do. It makes me sad. I am not that powerful. Now all the romance is being slapped out of me, but at least Mum will lose that pinched look. I will go back to school in mittens. I will be the hero of my own life. I will be miserable and that is okay. Misery breeds facility. My hidden romance.
There are hidden romances all over the place. I see the little adventures in other people, even the ones they do not see themselves. Creepy is having a romance with the romance I am having with hair. His mum is romantically involved with the bottle and her husband, although neither of them realise it. My mum and dad are romantically involved with the daughter Nancy has promised to squeeze out of the wreck of me. Secreted, veiled stories we would never show anyone else on purpose, so quiet they become a loud ringing in the ears, like a bride spitting in her dad’s ear at the last minute: ‘I’ve changed my mind!’ Of course, she walks down the aisle anyway because the caterers are already heating up the chicken.
When I go back to school, they are putting me in a remedial class for reading. That is pretty romantic. Shame it will not be a bit more hidden, but I did agreeto it, so you could
TWENTY-ONE
The-Ro-mance-Lang-uage
French is a Romance language. It does not mean romance in the way people think, though: it comes from Vulgar Latin and means to speak in Roman. Vulgar just means popular. When I hear French, I hear earthy words in the mouths of earthy people, open-mouth words, not the la-di-da-tight-lipped how to order in a French restaurant and find-the-toilet-after stuff they teach us at school. Dad uses the word vulgar a lot, and he is not talking about good, simple people when he says it. He says Creepy’s mum and dad are Vulgar. He thinks he is calling them crude and offensive. He does not know that I am the Vulgar one. Creepy is a good, common, ordinary boy in the Romance language.
Mum and Dad do not like me speaking in French.Especially now. It is not just because they are afraid I might be using swears at them; it is because it excludes them. I might as well take up Wicca, judging from the look they give me when I answer them in French. Nancy calls my use of a foreign language a device and a contrivance, which annoys me, because I used to think having a facility for languages was a good thing. But I do not tell Nancy this. I am beginning to think that anything I do or say these days will be interpreted as defiance. And I do want to cooperate, very much.
Having a facility. Mum calls toilets ‘facilities’. When we are out, she will ask where the facilities are. So I have a facility and she goes to one, or on one, or in one. She asked after the facilities at Nanna’s funeral, and the man looked at her as if she were asking directions to the crematorium. She tried repeating herself but eventually had to say the word: toilet. Except she did not say it; she whispered it. I do not think she is trying to be fancy. I just do not think she likes the word toilet. There are a lot of words my mum does not like, and most of them are to do with me. Now she has words in two languages to cringe at.
I found out early that you have to be careful what you say. And what you write. There is no romance to language. No one actually communicates with each other through language. I figured if no one was listeningto me in English, they might as well ignore me in French, as well. I did not know a different language would upset everyone just as much as my silences do. It makes me sad. I am not that powerful. Now all the romance is being slapped out of me, but at least Mum will lose that pinched look. I will go back to school in mittens. I will be the hero of my own life. I will be miserable and that is okay. Misery breeds facility. My hidden romance.
There are hidden romances all over the place. I see the little adventures in other people, even the ones they do not see themselves. Creepy is having a romance with the romance I am having with hair. His mum is romantically involved with the bottle and her husband, although neither of them realise it. My mum and dad are romantically involved with the daughter Nancy has promised to squeeze out of the wreck of me. Secreted, veiled stories we would never show anyone else on purpose, so quiet they become a loud ringing in the ears, like a bride spitting in her dad’s ear at the last minute: ‘I’ve changed my mind!’ Of course, she walks down the aisle anyway because the caterers are already heating up the chicken.
When I go back to school, they are putting me in a remedial class for reading. That is pretty romantic. Shame it will not be a bit more hidden, but I did agreeto it, so you could
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