Feeling lighter, Mélissa walks to school without talking.
* * *
Standing tall on the stoop of the apartment block, Roxanne waits. She likes being outside better than being inside, even when it’s cold. She swallows air and tries to make rings with the winter vapour that comes out of her mouth. It works.
In the street, the neighbour is clearing the snow from his car with a broom.
The yellow school bus is at the end of the street.
Roxane still takes it even though she’s too old. Her mother, the social worker, the school, the principal, everyone decided for her.
She could walk, she told them. ‘It’s not far. I could walk.’
She could take the regular bus too. But they don’t want her to. They’re afraid.
Plus, the yellow bus is free for dummies. If it’s free …
‘Sorry!’
Kevin bumps into her as he runs by and rushes into the street. He runs to the end of it and disappears around the corner.
The yellow bus stops in front of Roxane. From the stoop, she looks off into the distance, as if the bus weren’t here for her. ‘Who, me? You came to get me?’ As if it had the wrong girl. She doesn’t keep it up long, because pretty soon the bus starts honking.
She goes down the steps. One, two, three. Climbs the other steps. One, two, three. The lady says the same hi as every other day, and Roxane doesn’t answer.
She heads through the bus, which is so long. Walks through it like it’s a hospital corridor under fluorescent lights. She doesn’t want to see the other dummies. They’re gross. She sits beside a guy in a wheelchair. He’s all strapped in, attached so he doesn’t roll away when they take a corner. Everyone on the bus is crazy. They can’t talk or they can’t walk. They drool. They stink.
The bus drives around Hochelaga picking up trash.
Roxane looks out the window. She’s not a dummy. She’s not like other kids, but she’s not a dummy.
Socially maladjusted. That’s her label.
They didn’t say whether there’s a cure, or whether it’s catching.
The bus stops in front of the school. She gets off, fast. Always first.
She crosses the street to the depanneur.
* * *
At the depanneur counter, a few bodies waking up. Men and women, hunched so they can’t see too far ahead. They got their cheque, and they’re lining up to scratch for a million. Straightening up a little, they can see they haven’t won. But for just a second before seeing the result, the second when they picture another life for themselves somewhere in the sun or in someone’s loving arms, just to savour that moment before the ‘Better luck next time!’ they line up, they pay, and they scratch for a glimpse of promise in the day-to-day slush.
Roxane takes the empty beer bottles out of her bag, puts them on the dep guy’s counter, and he counts them at a glance. ‘Ninety cents,’ he says.
Roxane gets a May West. Her eyes meet Mélissa’s, the neighbour with the snot-nosed little brothers stuck to her like glue, their noses in a bag of chips, in a salty hole. If they could burrow their entire bodies in it, they would. Roxane looks at Mélissa hiding behind her overgrown bangs and thinks she’s no better off, because her mom’s a prostitute.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
Roxane exchanges her beer bottles for a May West, and for two seconds considers herself lucky.
* * *
The bell has rung. Kevin is lined up in the schoolyard. All the other kids are at least two heads taller than him. He would give his PlayStation to grow a bit more, particularly when he’s lined up. It’s cold, but the teachers leave them standing around in the schoolyard before going in so they’re in order, so they’re properly lined up.
Kevin gets whacked in the back of the head. He turns around. Laughter erupts from the lineup. Kevin pulls his toque down on his head, turns again to see who hit him. Chews on his lip. Gets hit a second time. Harder this time. Bites his lip, ouch, ouch, ouch in his head. Tears well up. Don’t start crying, you poof. Kevin doesn’t turn around and this time hopes with all his heart that the line will move move move … His toque flies to the back of the line. It’s like everyone is laughing, everyone is doubled over.‘Go on! Go get your hat, headcase!’ ‘Not moving anymore?’‘Put your pill in the wrong hole?’ They’re laughing hard. Kevin walks back along the line, staring as far into the distance as he can. His lip is bleeding, he’s holding back tears – the line is long, endless. At the very end, a hand holds out his toque. It’s Roxane, the one who talks to herself. He grabs it from her and jams it on his head. That’s when they decide to get the line moving.
* * *
Roxane walks against the flow in the hallway. Just like in life. Everyone is heading to class, rushing in the other direction. She weaves her way toward the library at the other end of the hall. At her desk, Ms. Bilodeau barely lifts her head, pretending to read the dictionary. Ms. Bilodeau stalls at the letter L because she is dreaming of Love.
‘Hello, Roxane.’
Every morning, Roxane goes by the library. She knows that Ms. Bilodeau is hiding a Harlequin romance behind her dictionary.‘Because anything is still possible within these pages,’ she explained to Roxane one day, visibly moved.
The principal isn’t romantic, so Ms. Bilodeau pretends to read the dictionary during busy periods.
‘Hi, Ms. Bilodeau.’
Roxane walks past her, heads toward the aisle. Her aisle. The one that says ‘World.’ She walks back and forth a
