“Thanks.”

“But you don’t work hard enough. You’ve only had to repeat the year once, but I’ve seen your results: you always pull yourself together at the end of term. Clever, but it’s a shame —”

“Yes, I know.”

“You got involved in drama this year. That’s good. I hope you carry on.” Jo doesn’t reply.

The adviser lets out a staged little sigh. “And now you’re going to the lycée. Very good. It’s quite a feat, really, considering … well…”

“What?”

“Let’s just say that you do better than … the rest of your family.”

Jo rocks back and the chair legs creak dangerously. She slides into the woman’s eyes, and without batting an eyelash attacks her with all her silent hostility. The adviser pretends not to see and continues. “But… Are you able to work at home? Is everything all right?”

“May I go now, Madame? I have to meet my sister.”

The woman shakes her head and, resigned, indicates the door. “Go. Have a nice summer. And good luck at the lycée.”

Jo sits at the side of the road outside the technical college, waiting for Céline. She’s not afraid of the heat, and lets the sun hammer the back of her neck until it stings from sunburn. She scrapes the gravel on the asphalt with a small stick, creating tiny paths. Her tousled hair conceals her eyes and she blows it off her face; her bony shoulders stick out. Lycée pupils come out in clusters, and the sound of laughter and scooters fills the street. She raises her head and looks for her sister.

There’s something hovering around her, a hollow sound in the wake of her former belle-of-the-ball aura. Whispers, embarrassed giggles, appalled silences. Eyes concentrate on Céline’s belly then travel up to her pretty face, still a little damaged from the blows. There are many comments.

Jo watches the guard of dishonour, the fall. She feels pain on her sister’s behalf but doesn’t show it. Perfectly still, she takes in every movement of these animals, every yelp of the herd. And she follows with her eyes her sister’s steps as she travels against the current for the first time in her life. Céline is almost walking in slow motion, slicing through the groups, lifting her chin to challenge the bitches who’d dare. Everybody stands aside to let her through, makes way so they can see her fall better. The rumour has become truth, confirmed by her silence.

Céline’s mates push the kickstands with their sneakers and start their mopeds and scooters. Not one of them offers her a lift like they usually do; sometimes they even fight over the privilege, then one of the losers takes Jo home. They’re always nice to Jo, as though they could score points with one by smiling at the other. Besides, they’re a little scared of her. But today, the two-wheel dance takes another form. Embarrassed, they drive near Céline, turn around her, then one of them – perhaps Lucas – cuts her off, forcing her to stop. There are a few titters. He really wants an explanation. But Céline resumes the long walk across the street, towards her motionless sister. Another little guy, encouraged by the first, makes his scooter engine roar a little louder and brushes against Céline: she jumps. Her fright makes the sharks snigger. Céline stares at her sister’s mop of hair and draws strength from her green eye. All she sees in it is steadiness, a presence that’s always there. Neither judgement nor compassion. At a different time, Céline would have probably been the target for rotten fruit, pebbles and insults. The little witch who fell on her back too soon or too quickly. And who with?