Billie by Anna Gavalda, Jennifer Rappaport Page B

own cosmogony when it suits you. I hate it when you do that. I hate it when you wallow in that type of easy complacency. Anybody can anathematize others’ flaws in place of his own, you know? And I hate to see you like everyone else . . . not you . . . not her . . . Not my Billie . . . The world is nothing but a bottomless pit where the most shapeless families slither and twist on mountains of muck, but there is for us something holy and sublime that they don’t have and that they will never take away from us: courage. Courage, Billie . . . The courage to not be like them . . . The courage to triumph over them and to forget them forever. So stop crying
right now
or I’ll ditch you where you sit and take off right away with my two well-endowed stretcher-bearers.”
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    Oh boy . . . He really sounded angry, huh? You sure are cranky, Perdican, when your fingers come to life . . . Oh boy . . . and . . . uh . . . What’s a cosmogony? And what does anathematize mean? Organize by themes? Oh boy . . . I’m going to shut up now . . .
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    * * *
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    Okay, little star . . . Come a little closer because I don’t want Francky to hear . . . Shhhh . . . So . . . uh . . . to recap: You’re there, but it’s no longer you, and you don’t exist, but you exist anyway, okay? If Franck doesn’t believe in you, that’s his problem, but I’m used to your company, so I’m going to continue to tell you my little soap opera in secret, ’kay?
    â€™Kay, she twinkled.
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    * * *
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    So where was I? Ah, yes . . . in Jason Gibaud’s rotting trailer . . . oh my God . . . how it stank inside! A mix of smelly feet, cold tobacco, and old moldy cushions. Well, you could say that I would have gladly swiped a few cans of Oust deodorant spray at that time!
    I was there. I was cutting classes. I was sitting on the steps on the side by the shed so that his parents couldn’t see me and I was smoking cigarettes.
    When my morale was at zero, I told myself my life was over and I could just as well turn on the TV, open the butane canister, and suck out the gas once and for all while watching
The Young and the Restless
, and when there was a ray of sunlight, I told myself I was Camille . . . that I was just in the process of rotting away in a type of convent while waiting to turn eighteen and that one way or another, things were bound to change one day . . . I didn’t quite see how, but okay, that’s what a ray of sunlight is: something that allows you to close your eyes and believe a little . . .
    There was Jason and there were others, needless to say. When his parents had finally had enough, I picked up my bag of clothes and went off to frighten other old folks.
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    One day, much later, but roughly around that time, I ran into Franck in town. I know he saw me, but he pretended to be looking elsewhere and I was truly grateful.
    Because it wasn’t me, the extremely vulgar girl who was hanging around the market that day. Dressed like a floozy, mounted on stilettos, and wearing way too much makeup. No it wasn’t the Billie whose wishes he had wanted to respect, it was . . . some sort of slut . . .
    Ah yes, you have to call ’em like you see ’em, little star . . . In those years spent in the crappiest of waiting rooms, there was no Camille of the convent, rather a Billie Holiday of the brothel . . .
    Of course, I was acting like a slut . . . I knew it . . . But what of it? I had discovered that with my body, I could obtain a certain amount of peace, something to eat, and even . . . even . . . if I tried hard to find it, a bit of affection. So . . . I would’ve been pretty stupid to deprive myself, right? I didn’t love all those boys who made it possible for me to