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Back The Lollipop Shoes
Chapters (96)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. The Lollipop Shoes
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. PART TWO
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. PART THREE
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. PART FOUR
  29. 1
  30. 2
  31. 3
  32. 4
  33. 5
  34. 6
  35. 7
  36. 8
  37. 9
  38. PART FIVE
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. PART SIX
  52. 1
  53. 2
  54. 3
  55. 4
  56. 5
  57. 6
  58. 7
  59. 8
  60. 9
  61. 10
  62. 11
  63. 12
  64. PART SEVEN
  65. 1
  66. 2
  67. 3
  68. 4
  69. 5
  70. 6
  71. 7
  72. 8
  73. 9
  74. PART EIGHT
  75. 1
  76. 2
  77. 3
  78. 4
  79. 5
  80. 6
  81. 7
  82. 8
  83. 9
  84. 10
  85. 11
  86. 12
  87. 13
  88. 14
  89. 15
  90. 16
  91. 17
  92. 18
  93. 19
  94. Epilogue
  95. About the Author
  96. Also by Joanne Harris

I hate it when he says ‘cool’. I mean, he’s old – he’s fifty at least – and I know he tries, but it’s just so embarrassing, don’t you think?

When Zozie says ‘cool’, it’s as if she means it. It’s as if she actually invented the word. America would be cool with Zozie in it. Even the chocolaterie looks cooler now, with the gilt mirror in front of the old glass case, and her lollipop shoes in the window like magic slippers filled with treasure.

If Zozie was here, she’d sort him out, I thought, remembering the Jeanne Moreau waitress in the English tea-shop. Then I felt bad – almost as if I’d done something wrong, as if just thinking about it might cause an Accident.

Zozie wouldn’t care about that, said the shadow-voice inside my head. Zozie would just do as she pleased. And would that be so bad? I thought. Well, of course it would. But all the same . . .

This morning as I was getting ready for school I caught Suze looking into the new shop window, nose pigged up against the glass. She ran off as soon as she saw me – we’re still not really talking right now – but for a minute I felt so bad that I had to sit down on one of the old armchairs Zozie brought in from somewhere, and imagine Pantoufle sitting there listening, with his black eyes shining in his whiskery face.

You know, it isn’t even that I like her that much. But she was so nice, when I was new; she used to come to the chocolaterie and we’d talk, or watch TV, or go to the Place du Tertre and watch the artists, and once she bought me a pink enamelled pendant from one of the stalls there, a little cartoon dog with Best Friend written on it.

It was only a cheap thing, and I’ve never liked pink, but I’d never had a Best Friend, either – not a real one anyway. It was nice; it made me feel good just having it, even though I haven’t worn it for ages.

And then Chantal came along.

Perfect, popular Chantal with her perfect blonde hair and her perfect clothes and that way she has of sneering at everything. Now Suze wants to be exactly like her, and I’m just the one who stands in when Chantal has something better to do, or, more often, I’m just a convenient stooge.

It isn’t fair. Who decides these things? Who was it decided that Chantal deserved to be the popular one, even though she never raised a finger for anyone, or cared about anyone but her little self? What makes Jean-Loup Rimbault more popular than Claude Meunier? And what about the others? Mathilde Chagrin, or those girls in their black headscarves? What is it about them that makes them freaks? What is it about me?