least ugly clothes, especially the fake Levi's jeans (very good imitation) she picked up for me at La Courneuve market. "Coooome on, ladies 'n' gents, it's too good to be true! Just too good to be true! We're
giving
them away, Levi's jeans at twelve euros! They're seventy in the stores! It really is just too good to be true! Get 'em while stocks last! Cooooome and
get 'em!" She fixed up my long black hair. Hers was just like it when she was younger. After, as she got older, she lost some of it and it wasn't all black anymore. She did my hair up in a ponytail, after she'd brushed it with olive oil. That's old-school hairdressing. Like they do in the
bled.
Me, I don't like it so much, but I didn't say anything to her because she was too happy making me all pretty. It reminded me of the mornings we had class photos at elementary school and she used to do the same thing. My hair was all silky and shiny in those photos, like in the Schwarzkopf ads: "Professional quality care for your hair." But actually, it was greasy and smelled of food fried in Zit Zitoun olive oil. When the teacher patted me on the head for giving a good answer, she'd wipe her hands on her jeans. On class picture day, all the teachers wore jeans.
I don't care. For a little while I was pretty in Mom's eyes. When people say I look like her, I get proud. I hardly look anything like my dad at all. Except my eyes, which are green like his. In my father's eyes, there was always some nostalgia. So when I look at myself in the mirror, I see him and his nostalgia too.
All the time. Mme Burlaud told me I'll be completely cured the day I see me in the mirror. Just me.
So that people see my eyes better, Mom drew around them with liner. She kissed me on the forehead and closed the door, asking that God go with me. I hope he's got his own ride because public transport, man, it stresses me out. I walked down to city hall to catch the bus to Louis-Blanc. And there, in the bus, who do I see spread out across four seats, Walkman jammed into his ears? Nabil the loser. Some luck.
Our eyes cross paths and, like in the movies, he makes this guy-full-of-guilt face. He struggles to nod his head and gives me this tiny..."Uh, how y'don?" So now he's being a lazybones too. Too annoying and bored to pronounce the letters
O
and
U
and
I
and
G?
My answer's to screw up my eyes and pinch my lips really tight, so he gets: "I'm over you, Nabil the fat bastard, you pizza-faced microbe, homosexual, and total ego-trip." Hope he knew how to translate all that.
Then I went and sat next to an old African man holding these wooden prayer beads in his hand. He was turning the beads slowly through his fingers.
Reminded me of my dad in his rare moments of piety, even if he was nothing like a good Muslim. You don't pray after demolishing a pack of Kronenbourg 1664. There's no point.
So, anyway, Nabil got out three stops before me. He didn't say good-bye, or see you, or
beslama.
Nothing,
walou.
It must have already taken it out of him saying: "How y'don?" Not even a real "How are you?" So "see you" was too much to ask. I admit that pissed me off so much I was feeling some hate. But the worst was to come.
I got to the Lycée Louis–Blanc, man of the proper-name dictionary, and found myself in the middle of thirty bleach-blond bitches with big perms. It was all liberty, equality, fraternity. It didn't look like the first day of school. It felt more like a casting call. They were all so decked out, sporting "the look," as they say on TV. And there's me with my kohl eyeliner and fake jeans. I didn't exactly feel with it.
Then they called us up by group to go to our classrooms. Our principal's a woman. Her name's Agnès Bernard, but there's no connection to the designer Agnès B. She's a young teacher, barely thirty, blond, who talks with a lisp and dresses kind of like the
students. Yeah, she's common. Lucky she talks funny, or else there'd be nothing original about her at all, poor thing. She
giving
them away, Levi's jeans at twelve euros! They're seventy in the stores! It really is just too good to be true! Get 'em while stocks last! Cooooome and
get 'em!" She fixed up my long black hair. Hers was just like it when she was younger. After, as she got older, she lost some of it and it wasn't all black anymore. She did my hair up in a ponytail, after she'd brushed it with olive oil. That's old-school hairdressing. Like they do in the
bled.
Me, I don't like it so much, but I didn't say anything to her because she was too happy making me all pretty. It reminded me of the mornings we had class photos at elementary school and she used to do the same thing. My hair was all silky and shiny in those photos, like in the Schwarzkopf ads: "Professional quality care for your hair." But actually, it was greasy and smelled of food fried in Zit Zitoun olive oil. When the teacher patted me on the head for giving a good answer, she'd wipe her hands on her jeans. On class picture day, all the teachers wore jeans.
I don't care. For a little while I was pretty in Mom's eyes. When people say I look like her, I get proud. I hardly look anything like my dad at all. Except my eyes, which are green like his. In my father's eyes, there was always some nostalgia. So when I look at myself in the mirror, I see him and his nostalgia too.
All the time. Mme Burlaud told me I'll be completely cured the day I see me in the mirror. Just me.
So that people see my eyes better, Mom drew around them with liner. She kissed me on the forehead and closed the door, asking that God go with me. I hope he's got his own ride because public transport, man, it stresses me out. I walked down to city hall to catch the bus to Louis-Blanc. And there, in the bus, who do I see spread out across four seats, Walkman jammed into his ears? Nabil the loser. Some luck.
Our eyes cross paths and, like in the movies, he makes this guy-full-of-guilt face. He struggles to nod his head and gives me this tiny..."Uh, how y'don?" So now he's being a lazybones too. Too annoying and bored to pronounce the letters
O
and
U
and
I
and
G?
My answer's to screw up my eyes and pinch my lips really tight, so he gets: "I'm over you, Nabil the fat bastard, you pizza-faced microbe, homosexual, and total ego-trip." Hope he knew how to translate all that.
Then I went and sat next to an old African man holding these wooden prayer beads in his hand. He was turning the beads slowly through his fingers.
Reminded me of my dad in his rare moments of piety, even if he was nothing like a good Muslim. You don't pray after demolishing a pack of Kronenbourg 1664. There's no point.
So, anyway, Nabil got out three stops before me. He didn't say good-bye, or see you, or
beslama.
Nothing,
walou.
It must have already taken it out of him saying: "How y'don?" Not even a real "How are you?" So "see you" was too much to ask. I admit that pissed me off so much I was feeling some hate. But the worst was to come.
I got to the Lycée Louis–Blanc, man of the proper-name dictionary, and found myself in the middle of thirty bleach-blond bitches with big perms. It was all liberty, equality, fraternity. It didn't look like the first day of school. It felt more like a casting call. They were all so decked out, sporting "the look," as they say on TV. And there's me with my kohl eyeliner and fake jeans. I didn't exactly feel with it.
Then they called us up by group to go to our classrooms. Our principal's a woman. Her name's Agnès Bernard, but there's no connection to the designer Agnès B. She's a young teacher, barely thirty, blond, who talks with a lisp and dresses kind of like the
students. Yeah, she's common. Lucky she talks funny, or else there'd be nothing original about her at all, poor thing. She
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