Billie (2 page)

They shone so brightly it was almost tacky.

As though they were LEDs or brand-new toys barely out of the box. As if someone had turned up the dimmer switch.

It was . . . magnificent . . .

 

Suddenly, I wasn't alone, and I turned to Franck to wipe my face on his shoulder.

Ah, yes, have some decency, you deadbeat
.
You have to stop snuffling when God lends you his disco ball.

 

Are there spring tides for galaxies as for oceans or was this display just for me? A big up to me from the Milky Way? A tremendous rave party of Tinkerbells come to sprinkle a bundle of gold dust on my head to help me recharge my batteries?

 

They came from everywhere and it seemed like they were making the night warmer. I felt as though I were getting a tan in the dark. I felt the world had turned upside down. That I was no longer at the bottom of the abyss whining about my misery, but on stage . . .

Yes, no matter how low I went (how low I got?) (well, in short, even if I made myself flat as a crêpe), I was on top.

I was in a huge open-air concert hall, like the Zénith in Paris, the type that went from one end of the Earth to the other, right in the middle of a killer song, and with all those lighters, and those screens, and all those thousands of magic candles that the angels turned toward me, I had to show I was worthy. I was no longer entitled to cry about my plight, and I wished Francky could have enjoyed it too.

He wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper either, but he would have been so happy to see so much beauty, so happy. Because that was him, the artist of the two of us. It was thanks to his sensitivity that we had succeeded in getting out of our shithole and it was because of him that the universe had taken out its sparkly tuxedo.

To thank him.

To pay him respect.

To tell him: “You, little one, we know you. Yes, indeed, we know you . . . For a long time, we've been watching you and have noticed that you're obsessed with beauty. All your life, you've done nothing but look for it, care for it, and invent it. And uh, well . . . look . . . for the effort you've made . . . Look at yourself in this mirror in the sky . . . This evening, we're paying you back with interest. Your friend, she's quite vulgar, she does nothing but spit all over the place and swear like an old slut. I wonder who let her in. While you . . . you're family . . . Come, son . . . Come dance with us.”

 

I was speaking out loud.

In all modesty and for a boy who couldn't hear me, I had just spoken on behalf of the universe!

It was stupid, but it was cute . . .

It showed how much I loved him.

 

Uh . . . otherwise . . . one last thing, Mr. Universe . . . (and right when I said that, I saw James Brown), no, two things, in fact.

First, you leave my friend there where he is. It's not worth the trouble to call him, he won't come. Even if I embarrass him, he'll never leave me here. That's how it is and even you can't do anything about it.

Second, I apologize for the way I'm speaking.

It's true, I overdo it, but every time I offend your ears, it's not because I lack respect, it's because of the frustration at not finding the right words quickly enough. It's a man's world, you know.

I feel good
, he answered.

 

* * *

 

I was looking at all the stars, searching for ours.

Because we had one, for sure. Not one each, unfortunately, but one for the two of us. A little nightlight to share. Yes, a little lamp we'd found the day we met and who, in good years and bad, had done good work up to that point.

Sure, she'd screwed up a bit a few hours back, but everything had blown over since then . . .

She was getting all dolled up, the little doll.

She was using up all her Sephorus glitter spray.

Hey, it was only natural. She was our star! And if her friends were going off to the fireworks, she wasn't going to be left behind.

 

I was looking for her.

I looked them all over in order to find her because I had stuff to say to her, to remind her about.

I was looking for her to convince her to help us one more time.

Despite us.

Despite me, especially.

Yes. Since I wasn't infalliable…infalloble… Oh, fine, since everything was my fault, it was up to me to keep talking her pointy ears off so she would reactivate the hotline.

The others, they were beautiful too, but I really didn't give a fuck about them—sorry, I mean, I couldn't care less about them—while as for her, if I put all my heart and soul into describing the situation, I was sure she would soften up again.

I
think I found her.

I think it was that one there, all the way up in the air, hovering above my fingertip, say, and billions of years away.

So little, so cute, like a teensy Swarovski crystal, and slightly misaligned in the sky.

Slightly set back from the herd . . .

 

Yes, she was the one. XXS, solitary and wary, but giving it all she had. The one who was twinkling with all her might. Who was too happy to be there. Who loved to sing and who knew all the lyrics by heart.

Who was sparkling beautifully in the night.

Who would be the first to bed and the first to wake up. Who was going to be out every night. Who had been partying for trillions of years and who always had that much flair.

Hey, was I wrong?

Hey, was it you?

Oh, excuse my bad manners. Was it you,
Mademoiselle?

 

Hey . . . can I talk to you for a minute?

Can I tell you again who we are, Franck and me, so you will love us this time for eternity?

 

I took her silence for a sigh of resignation, as in, hey, you're wearing me out, you losers; but fine . . . you're lucky, it's a slow dance and I don't have a date. So go ahead, I'm listening. Sell me on your story quickly so I can go back to munching my Milky Way.

 

I sought Franck's hand, squeezed it with all my might, and took a minute to get us in order.

Yes, I got us all spruced up, all polished and combed, in order to show you our best side, and after that I launched into our story.

 

Like Buzz Lightyear.

To infinity and beyond . . .

H
is name is Franck because his mother and grandmother adored the singer Frank Alamo (
Biche, oh ma biche
,
Da doo ron ron
,
Allô Maillot 38-37
,
 
and all that. Yes, there really are songs with those titles) and my name is Billie because my mother was crazy about Michael Jackson (
Billie Jean is not my lover / She's just a girl
,
 
et cetera).

In other words, we didn't start out in life with the same namesake and we weren't necessarily destined to hang out together one day.

His mom and his grandma took such great care of him when he was little that to show his appreciation he bought them a Return of the Yéyés CD, tickets to Frank Alamo's Yéyé revival concert as well as to a musical, a Blu-ray DVD, and even the cruise that went with all that.

And when Dadooron Frank kicked the bucket, Franck asked for a day off, went looking for them on the train to the funeral, moved them up to first class, and accompanied them to the front of I don't remember what church.

All that so he could support them in their grief as they hummed Alamo's
Sur un dernier signe de la main
while his coffin was being loaded into the hearse . . .

 

As for my story, I don't know if my mother had other kids after me whom she called Bad or Thriller nor if she cried when Bambi disappeared into the void since she took off when I was a year old. (I have to admit I was quite a pain in the ass . . . ) (That's what my father told me one day: “Your mother took off because you were too much of a pain in the ass. It's true, you did nothing but bawl all the time . . . ”) (Hey, I don't know how many shrinks it would take to get over such an explanation, but loads of them, if you want my opinion!)

Yes, one morning, she left and we never heard from her again.

My stepmother never liked my first name. She said it sounded like a guy's name—a guy with a bad reputation—I never had the guts to contradict her. Anyway, don't count on me to badmouth her. It's true she's a bitch but it's not really her fault. Plus this evening, I'm not here to talk about her. We all have our shit to deal with.

 

So, voilà, little star, that's it for childhood.

Franck rarely speaks about his and when he does, it's only to distance himself from it. And as for me, I didn't have a childhood.

The fact that I still like my first name, given the circumstances, is quite an achievement, I think.

Only the brilliant Michael Jackson could perform such a feat . . .

 

* * *

 

Franck and I went to the same junior high. But it wasn't until our last year there, the only year we were in the same class, that we spoke to each other. Since then we've admitted that we noticed each other the morning of the first day of our first year. Yes, we picked each other out immediately, but unconsciously we avoided each other all those years because both of us sensed that the other was in such a sorry state and we didn't want to suffer even one ounce more than we were already.

It's true, too, that I specifically sought out the company of girls who dressed like Polly Pocket. All cutesy with long hair, their own bedrooms, packs of fancy cookies, and a mom who happily signed the correspondence that came home from school. I did everything I could so they would like me and invite me home with them as often as possible.

Alas, there were times when I was a bit less popular . . . in the winter especially . . . I didn't really understand it until much later, but it was a matter of . . . of a hot-water tank . . . and also of . . . uh . . . odor . . . of . . . fuck . . . but hey, I'm thinking about it so much that I'm starting to get embarrassed again. Okay, let's move on.

All this time, I lied so much about my story that I had to write down the main points in order not to mix up one school year with another.

 

At my place, I behaved like a hungry animal who smelled bacon next door but couldn't have any since no one was bringing it home, but at school, I was always calm. At any rate, I wouldn't have had the necessary energy to be on the defensive twenty-four hours a day. You have to have experienced it to understand, but those who have, they know exactly what I'm talking about: on the defensive . . . always, always . . . And especially when things were calm. Calm moments, they were the worst, they . . . no, never mind . . . nobody gives a damn.

 

One day, in my social studies class, the teacher, Monsieur Dumont, without realizing it, taught me something about my life. The underclass, he said. The teacher said it just like that, like exportation of wealth or the silting of Mont Saint Michel, but I remember, my face turned bright red with embarrassment. I didn't know there was a word in the dictionary invented specifically to indicate where I came from. Because I was well placed to know it, this milieu; it's not necessarily apparent to the naked eye. The proof is in the fact that social workers have never shown up . . . If you don't stick out and you go to school every day, that safe haven of childhood, you get by easily, and my stepmother, I won't say that she looked bourgeois, but really, people would treat her with respect when she went to the supermarket, they said hello, how are the kids? And so on.

 

I never knew where she bought the oil for the furnace.

The oil was there, maybe it was little mice or Santa's reindeer, but for me, the great mystery of my childhood would remain those fucking empty bottles of oil.
Where
did they come from? Where?

The great, great mystery . . .

 

* * *

 

It wasn't public school that got me out of there. It wasn't the teachers or the sweet Mademoiselle Gisèle who prepared us for communion or the students' parents who were always shocked by the weight of our backpacks or those sophisticated girlfriends of mine who listened to public radio and read books and all that. No, it was him (and I was pointing to him in the darkness). It was Franck Muller.

Yes, him there . . . that weakling Franck Mumu, who was six months younger than me and six inches shorter, who lost his balance every time you tapped him on the shoulder and who was always acting like a pain in the ass at the bus stop. He was the one who saved me.

Him alone.

 

Honestly, I'm not angry at anyone and even now, you see, I'm telling you all this and it's okay, I'm doing well these days. That was a long time ago. Such a long time ago that it isn't really even me, in fact . . .

Fine, I admit, I always feel a bit anxious when I have to fill out paperwork. Family name, place of birth, and all that. Right away my stomach drops, but it's okay, it passes. It passes quickly.

The only thing is that I never want to see them again. Never, never, never . . . I never want to go back there, never. Not for anyone's marriage, not for anyone's funeral, not for anything. Also, whenever I pass a car with a license plate from my region, I immediately look elsewhere to regain my composure.

At one point—and as I don't think I'll have time to tell you about it in detail tonight I'll just give you a summary—during one period of my life when I kept screwing up, when my childhood came back to haunt me too often, and when I got into the habit of hitting the bottle, as they say, to hide from the world, I listened to Franck and hit the reset button.

I completely wiped out my hard drive in order to restart in safe mode.