“Mademoiselle Hart?” Madame Page calls from the front. “A word with you outside, please.”
All heads turn to me when I follow Madame Page outside. Benoit and one of the guards stand a short distance down the hallway. Madame Page startles at their presence. With their suits and dark glasses, there’s no guessing as to who or what they are, and what they’re doing here.
Ignoring them with visible effort, she shuts the classroom door and pushes her glasses over her head. “You may think you don’t have to attend classes like everyone else, but I won’t allow you to make an idiot of me and a joke of my course.”
“I’m really sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. I know it reflects poorly on me, especially since it was only the second day, but I assure you I’m very serious about this course. My absence was due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Circumstances, mm?” Her look is sour. “That’s your excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Then care to tell me why you didn’t grace us with your presence?”
“I… Um, personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons.” She purses her lips. “If this was anyone else, they would’ve been expelled.” She points a finger at me. “No absence without a doctor’s certificate. The fact that you’re here means someone else lost out on an opportunity, someone talented and willing to work. If you can’t appreciate what’s been given to you on a silver platter, at least try to respect the rules.”
“I’m sorry. I really am.” I can’t even say it won’t happen again, because my life isn’t in my own hands. Maxime decides. He controls my days, nights, hours, and minutes.
She drops her glasses back over her eyes. “Apology not accepted. Get inside and try not to disrupt the rest of the class, especially not Thérèse. She’s on the bottom of the ladder. If she can’t beat five of her fellow students, she’s out. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” I say, averting my eyes.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I follow her back inside, but I ignore the stares and arrange my pencils and sketchpad on the table. For the rest of the morning, I try to catch up on what I’ve missed. They’ve completed the first model on business theory. Even if practical isn’t until next year, all of them have brought in pieces for Madame Page’s feedback. That was what the others were working on until late last night. I’m a good seamstress with three years of experience, but I realize with a sinking heart they’re all better than me. If I’m to keep up, I’ll have to work at home. I’ll have to work harder and longer hours. I don’t have a choice but to use the sewing machine Maxime gave me, even if I was adamant about not touching it after finding out how I got into the school.
Madame Page announces a group project where we’re supposed to work in teams of two to hand-dye an organic textile for our textile science class. There’s a lot of excited whispering about it. Some of the girls already call out one another’s names to pair in teams.
At lunchtime, Benoit and the other guy follow me to the canteen where I grab a sandwich and fruit salad. They get the cooked lunch, pay for their meals and mine, and sit down at a table in the corner. I doubt they’ll appreciate my presence, so I approach Christine, the pretty dark-haired girl.
“May I?” I motion at the empty seat next to her.
She blows a sigh from the corner of her mouth. “I don’t own the tables or the chairs. You can sit wherever you want.”
“Do you want to work together on the team project?” I ask as I sit down.
“Work together?” She laughs. “With you?”
I unwrap my sandwich. “It could be fun.”
She snorts. “No, thanks.”
The rejection stings a little, but I’m the one who has to put more effort into getting on with my fellow students. I understand why they’re mad. I can’t give up that easily. “Why not?”
Her fork clanks as she puts it down on her plate. “Why not?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a bite from the baguette.
“Here’s why. You don’t have to work. You don’t have to earn this degree. Hell, you don’t even have to show up. You’ll graduate with flying colors, open an exclusive brand label with a head office on the Riviera that your rich mafia boyfriend pays for, and because you’re null and worthless at designing but like to pretend that you’re a hotshot fashion guru, you’ll pay people like me who worked my ass off to work for you.
“My designs will be branded with your label, and you and your shady boyfriend will carry on drinking champagne with the high society and making more money while I work my fingers to the bone, get paid your peanuts, and watch as you take all the credit. That’s fucking why.”
It takes me a moment to find words. “Is that what you think of me?”
“That’s how it works, sunshine.” Picking up her tray, she gets to her feet. “Excuse me if I’m not exactly in the mood for teaming up with you.”
“You don’t know me. You have no right judging me.”
“I have every right. My father works three jobs to pay for my studies. I would’ve worked six if I didn’t have to study day and night. We don’t get things handed to us. We earn it.” She adds with a sneer, “You won’t understand what that means.”
“Maybe I understand more than what you give me credit for. Maybe if you give me a chance—”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want to give you a chance.”
Aware of everyone staring, I keep my voice low. “Surely, we all deserve a chance.”
“You want me to spell it out for you? Even if your work didn’t suck, you’d still be a fake.”
The tightness in my stomach grows. “What do you mean my work sucks?”
“Madame Page presented our profiles yesterday while you were playing hooky. Grow up. You’re not a princess, and this isn’t the eighties. Frills and lace are long since out of fashion. Your designs are cheesy and immature. You’re only making a fool of yourself.” Giving me a pitiful shake of her head, she walks to the table next to ours. “Can I please sit somewhere I won’t get indigestion?”
The girls move up to make space. Someone takes her tray while she comes back for her chair. It makes a screeching sound as she drags it over the floor to her new place. The dining room has gone quiet. Everyone is looking at me.
I bite into my sandwich and chew like I don’t care. I swallow like the food isn’t a lump of sawdust in my throat that threatens to choke me. From the corner of my eye, I see Benoit wipe his mouth and dump the napkin on the tray. When he pushes back his chair, I give him a small shake of my head. Interfering, and God forbid forcing Christine to sit with me, will only make matters worse. I eat in silence while the people around me go back to their conversations. Their whispers are quieter than before, their gazes often colliding with mine. They don’t even bother to look away when I catch them staring.
This is the moment I hit rock bottom, when the day just gets too much. Finishing off the last of the sandwich, I swallow it down with some water and brush the crumbs from my skirt. I grab my bag and walk outside into the heat where I can drag in the salty sea air and bite the inside of my cheek until the urge to cry passes.