The dreaded day has arrived: back to school. I had a little trouble sleeping last night, but despite everything, I feel refreshed for the day ahead.
Two or three years ago, I set myself the goal of following a well-planned routine before and after school. It lasted one day. I still manage to do everything right from time to time, but I don't like to follow plans, even if I try my best to convince myself I do.
So I get ready for school, get dressed, check if I have everything in my backpack, eat a very small breakfast, and in between, I glance at my phone to check the news feed.
I can't wait too long because it takes me about thirty minutes to get there, if I'm lucky, there are no strikes or delays, and the traffic lights are in my favor. The commute is so long, quite simply because my school isn't in my hometown, but right in the center of Paris. Well, almost.
My high school is located at 3 rue Condorcet, a twenty-minute walk from the Montmartre district, where I go quite frequently for lunch with classmates. For those unfamiliar with Paris, it's located towards the north of the city.
Once outside, I realize my bag is very light compared to what I usually carry. As I'm about to open it to check that I haven't confessed anything, I stop checking, reminding myself that it's still early in the school year, and the binders aren't yet filled with hundreds of sheets of paper.
So I run to La Défense station, even though I know I'll be at least ten minutes early, and I take the metro to my high school.
Upon arrival at the school, I notice a rather unusually long line in front of the main gate. This is all due to the presence of a new security gate, the same one found at the entrance to busy public places.
Of course, I pass through it without any problems, and then I present my ID card to the receptionist. However, it's still very strange that such security has been installed at the entrance to the school. I wonder what could have driven the principal to do something like this...
The building doesn't resemble the ideal school one could imagine. It's a six-story building, consisting of a parking lot that runs from floors 1 to 3, the middle school on floor 4, and the high school on floor 5. On the sixth floor, there's the playground on the roof of the school, which is quite often full. That's why I've gotten used to eating outside at lunchtime.
They're waiting for us in the playground, to be divided into different classes and assigned a homeroom teacher. I see Ronald behind me. I wait for him, and then we start chatting.
"Hi Ron, did you have a good vacation?"
"Yeah, well... I went to the countryside for a week. I can't say it was exciting."
Strange, I have the feeling he's not at all interested in what I said. Maybe he's tired? Or else, could he simply not particularly want to talk about what he did? Both are possible. So I'll change the subject.
"Well, I see you don't want to talk about that. Um, well... I hope we'll be in the same class this year."
He doesn't answer, so I might as well not push it. I think he's probably tired, he can't be, there are other possible explanations. Once in the courtyard, my classmates are there, except for a few who either repeated a year, changed schools, or will simply be arriving a little later. Something is wrong. I don't know if it's just me, but I feel like everyone is looking at me strangely, as if I've committed murder.
"Ron, don't you think everyone's looking at me strangely?"
"Of course they're giving you that look. After what you did, I hope you weren't hoping it wouldn't have any consequences!"
"What the hell did I..."
"Shut up, Ronald Backley and Maxence Lombard! Get in line."
But what could I have done? I don't remember committing any act that could have harmed them. Perhaps I caused harm without realizing it, without meaning to. No, impossible. I know what I did, and what I didn't do; there must surely be a case of mistaken identity.
Ten minutes later, the one who interrupted us earlier, the deputy headmaster, calls the roll by class and in alphabetical order of last name.
Ron is in Class A. When I say A, that doesn't mean the best class; it's just that there are two class names, A and B. It's as simple as that, and I sincerely hope the headmaster kept his promise by putting me in that class.
At the end of the Class A roll, I'm surprised I haven't been called. So I call the deputy principal.
"Mr. Deputy Principal, there's a problem."
"What problem? Don't interrupt me during roll call, wait until I finish."
After this remark, the students suddenly start laughing like hyenas. It really bothers me, and I feel humiliated. I hate more than anything when people make fun of me.
"Cou-could I tell you a-a-later, please? Or-or not here?"
Oh no! Not now! My stutter is back... I haven't had it for two years, and it's back at the worst possible time: first thing in the morning, and in front of everyone, no less. I hope no one pays too much attention to it. "I don't understand, we'll figure that out later."
As he moves on to the roll call for the other class, where I should definitely be, I hear people start imitating my stutter, once again to mock me. It's humiliating, and it almost makes me cry.
I think if I were alone, I'd have a good cry.
We're then led into our classroom for the year, and I sit in my usual seat at the front, in the middle column.
Then someone comes in.
"Hello, let me introduce myself, Ms. Rey. I will be your homeroom teacher and Spanish teacher. I will have you on Mondays from 8 to 9 a.m., Wednesdays every other week from noon to 1 p.m., and finally on Thursdays from 4 to 5 p.m.
To begin, I will give you some documents to be completed by your parents, which must be returned to me by Wednesday at the latest. You will also have to complete a presentation sheet and read the internal regulations as well as the schedule, which you will have your parents sign."
She distributes the sheets to us, we fill them out, and then, after a whole morning during which our English, French, and natural science teachers presented the program and the items we would need, we are finally free to eat.
As I had feared, I probably won't need three notebooks and three binders. At lunchtime, I go outside to eat with Ronald, whom I demand an explanation for what I did, according to most of the tenth-grade students.
"Stop acting like you don't know! I know perfectly well you refuse to admit what you did, so that's enough!"
"But I still don't know what you're talking about! If you could enlighten me, it would help a lot. Besides, you have no evidence to prove my guilt!"
"By reporting Arthur, you got him expelled from school, and he had to repeat the year!"
What! This can't be right! I knew he was cheating, but to go so far as to accuse him, I would never have dared do that? Is this some kind of conspiracy being organized against me? I have to find the person who is spreading this misinformation. I don't want my reputation to be tarnished for something I didn't do, and I don't want others to avoid me so that I end up alone.
End of chapter