Les Vies des Fruits
Chapitre 1
Day One. Fig Scott Castelli.
And there sat Harold, scribbling some nonsense into that notebook he dragged around with him everywhere he freaking went. He arched over his work with a furrow on his brow and a pout on his lips, wordlessly mouthing whatever the heck he was writing. No one could ever make heads of tails of anything that freak ever did. Certainly, I could never quite understand him. I made no effort to try either; I preferred instead to ignore him and focus on my own thoughts. My fingers itched for the feel of smooth plastic and rubber buttons. I longed for the flash of bright colors and the sound of the incessant noise of crashing and screaming and fighting. I ached to play my glorious video games. But, of course, I was stuck here instead. I was forced to come here, this torture chamber of unending suffering to do what? Learn. I chuckled under my breath. We don’t learn here. No, more like, we get brainwashed here. Society thinks it’s so freaking brilliant, herding us all into these institutions called “schools” and getting us to believe whatever mindless dribble drips from our “teacher’s” mouth. But I know better. I know better than anyone in this room. That’s right. I know.
The teacher walks in, his head held high, as if he’s some kind of god. Jerk. He calls attendance, in that dull monotone voice of his, trying to lull us into some kind of comfort of disinterest before he can attack us with his false ideas and ideals. First day of class, and I’ve already got this guy figured. Piece of cake. But then he pulls a move that I did not expect. How he did it, I do not know, but he has cease the flow of words from his mouth and is staring blankly around the room. He seems puzzled. The rest of the class is looking at me, expectantly. I stifle my confusion and smile cunningly. I know the game he’s playing. He’s trying to get me to reveal what I’ve discovered about him. I’ll look like a lunatic to the class. They’ll all disregard me and never listen to a word I say again.
The teacher breaks the silence. “I said, is there a Fig Castelli?”
Is this some kind of joke? I consider my words carefully before replying, “Of course there is. I’m right here.”
It seems that everyone in the room has given me the same bizarre look before promptly ignoring me. What exactly was the teacher getting at? Was he trying to null my existence? Pretend I wasn’t here when I so clearly was? I focus on what he’s saying.
“Alex Marshall?”
A bored voice, “Here.”
“Rebecca Polmeroy?”
“Heeere.”
“Marie Porter?”
“Here!”
Oh. Oh… I guess… He was just taking attendance? I look down at my lap and shuffle my feet. And I thought I was so smart. Nothing has changed. I expected some excitement. Something I could involve myself in. But no. No thrilling mysteries. No arch villains. Certainly no mind games with secret teachers trying to brainwash us. I sigh and prepare myself for another boring year of high school. I’ll find an adventure. Somewhere. I will.
Day Two. Orange Chad Eliad.
The shrieking clock did not help me in the least. I sat up groggily, fully willing to arrive late to school a second day. Oh, crap! I jumped out of bed and promptly fell over. But that didn’t stop me. I heaved myself up, threw on whatever was in my closet and rushed out of my house. I didn’t pass Go. Nor did I collect $200. I was just in time, too, for any later and I would have to explain to my mom how I managed to get a detention with only two days into the school year.
I got on the bus and sat in the back next to some people I didn’t know who didn’t seem to mind me there. The ride to school was slow and uncomfortable. I wished no more than to be in my nice, warm bed dreaming away the day. I looked around the school bus. I may have just been the beginning of the year, but already the floor was filthy with dirt and mud. The seats were an ugly brown faux leather with countless holes and patches. I leaned back in the seat, feeling the springs viciously stab me in the back. But oddly, I could happily ignore it. It was fine if I closed my eyes. I pretended I was still in bed. Nice, warm, fluffy, comforting, soft… nice, warm, comforting, and soft… nice… and warm… comforting… and sooooft…
I was awoken by a hand being place gently on my shoulder. I looked inquisitively at it. I was rather small and pale, but the fingers were long and smudged with ink. I looked up into the blank face of… um…
He motion to the front of the bus, where the rest of the bus’ occupants were disboarding. He turned away and flowed into the stream of people leaving before I could ask his name. I had seen him before, I just didn’t remember when.
I got to class and sat down anxiously. I had already made a bad impression on my homeroom teacher from being late yesterday. I didn’t want to do that again. I looked around, trying to see who was in my homeroom this year. I recognized a few faces. I even remembered some of their names. I started as my eyes found the boy who had woken me up. He sat in his chair, hunched over a small navy notebook. He was writing in it thoughtfully, pausing, and then scratching some words out with intensity. His lips murmured as he wrote, but what he mouthed was simply unintelligible.
Mr. Freestone shuffled into the room and smirked at the class. “Morning class.” There were a few grumbles in reply, to which Mr. Freestone shrugged and retrieved his attendance sheet. “Alrighty then, let’s take roll and then we’ll get started for the day. George Barrett?”
I paid close attention as he inadvertently introduced me to everyone in the room. After calling the name Castelli, however, there was a long awkward pause.
“Not this again Mr. Castelli. Don’t think I don’t remember you from yesterday. If you don’t answer I will mark you absent.”
The boy called “Fig Castelli” looked up with a startled face. He glanced about the room, realized what must have happened, and grinned sheepishly. “I’m here.”
Mr. Freestone smiled good-naturedly and continued, “Apple Cervantes?”
The boy who had woken me on the bus flinched. He took a deep, shaky breath and carefully set down his pen. “Call me Harold.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. I forgot to write it down. Alright. Orange Eliad?”
I smiled. “Here.”
Some students gave me odd or amused looks. So, I have a funny name? It’s nothing that I can help. Mr. Freestone finished and addressed us again. “Alright, take out a pen and some paper. We’ll be taking notes on Huckleberry Fin by Mark Twain…”
And that’s when I realized that I had completely forgotten my backpack.
Day 3. Apple Harold Cervantes.
Chère journal,
Aujourd’hui est normale comme tout les jours…
Today was just like every other so far. I woke early and watched the sun rise above the tall buildings surrounding my apartment. I didn’t expect anything special for today and I didn’t receive it. It’s true that life acts only according to what you make of it. The same guy sat next to me again. He wears ridiculous, jubilant colors and frilly clothing. If I cared enough to speculate, I might wonder if he was queer. But I do not care either way. I do not know him nor do I plan to acquaint myself with him. This time as he approached, he proudly carried with him a backpack, as if it was a great accomplishment that he managed to remember to bring one this time around. Yesterday, he was in sore want of supplies and stooped to beg those around him if they would be kind enough to lend him some of theirs.
Orange introduced himself today, with a great smile upon his visage. His physiognomy revealed him to be a good person and I made the effort to nod back at him and murmur my own name. Not my first name, no, but my second. The name that did not stir in me an anger toward my hopeless mother. “Harold.” I told him, before turning to this very same notebook and writing as I will. What a commodity that I write in French yet never speak it, that I even know French at all. I have never left the United States. I have not even been out of California. I have experienced practically nothing. What greater wonder is there for me that I may discover? So much more I would ponder. I wish to go to France to live in the countryside and forget this all. I long to be truly alone.
Je veut être seul… Seul vraiment. Mais… peut-être, je…
Je ne sais pas.
À bientôt,
~Harold.
Day One. Fig Scott Castelli.
And there sat Harold, scribbling some nonsense into that notebook he dragged around with him everywhere he freaking went. He arched over his work with a furrow on his brow and a pout on his lips, wordlessly mouthing whatever the heck he was writing. No one could ever make heads of tails of anything that freak ever did. Certainly, I could never quite understand him. I made no effort to try either; I preferred instead to ignore him and focus on my own thoughts. My fingers itched for the feel of smooth plastic and rubber buttons. I longed for the flash of bright colors and the sound of the incessant noise of crashing and screaming and fighting. I ached to play my glorious video games. But, of course, I was stuck here instead. I was forced to come here, this torture chamber of unending suffering to do what? Learn. I chuckled under my breath. We don’t learn here. No, more like, we get brainwashed here. Society thinks it’s so freaking brilliant, herding us all into these institutions called “schools” and getting us to believe whatever mindless dribble drips from our “teacher’s” mouth. But I know better. I know better than anyone in this room. That’s right. I know.
The teacher walks in, his head held high, as if he’s some kind of god. Jerk. He calls attendance, in that dull monotone voice of his, trying to lull us into some kind of comfort of disinterest before he can attack us with his false ideas and ideals. First day of class, and I’ve already got this guy figured. Piece of cake. But then he pulls a move that I did not expect. How he did it, I do not know, but he has cease the flow of words from his mouth and is staring blankly around the room. He seems puzzled. The rest of the class is looking at me, expectantly. I stifle my confusion and smile cunningly. I know the game he’s playing. He’s trying to get me to reveal what I’ve discovered about him. I’ll look like a lunatic to the class. They’ll all disregard me and never listen to a word I say again.
The teacher breaks the silence. “I said, is there a Fig Castelli?”
Is this some kind of joke? I consider my words carefully before replying, “Of course there is. I’m right here.”
It seems that everyone in the room has given me the same bizarre look before promptly ignoring me. What exactly was the teacher getting at? Was he trying to null my existence? Pretend I wasn’t here when I so clearly was? I focus on what he’s saying.
“Alex Marshall?”
A bored voice, “Here.”
“Rebecca Polmeroy?”
“Heeere.”
“Marie Porter?”
“Here!”
Oh. Oh… I guess… He was just taking attendance? I look down at my lap and shuffle my feet. And I thought I was so smart. Nothing has changed. I expected some excitement. Something I could involve myself in. But no. No thrilling mysteries. No arch villains. Certainly no mind games with secret teachers trying to brainwash us. I sigh and prepare myself for another boring year of high school. I’ll find an adventure. Somewhere. I will.
Day Two. Orange Chad Eliad.
The shrieking clock did not help me in the least. I sat up groggily, fully willing to arrive late to school a second day. Oh, crap! I jumped out of bed and promptly fell over. But that didn’t stop me. I heaved myself up, threw on whatever was in my closet and rushed out of my house. I didn’t pass Go. Nor did I collect $200. I was just in time, too, for any later and I would have to explain to my mom how I managed to get a detention with only two days into the school year.
I got on the bus and sat in the back next to some people I didn’t know who didn’t seem to mind me there. The ride to school was slow and uncomfortable. I wished no more than to be in my nice, warm bed dreaming away the day. I looked around the school bus. I may have just been the beginning of the year, but already the floor was filthy with dirt and mud. The seats were an ugly brown faux leather with countless holes and patches. I leaned back in the seat, feeling the springs viciously stab me in the back. But oddly, I could happily ignore it. It was fine if I closed my eyes. I pretended I was still in bed. Nice, warm, fluffy, comforting, soft… nice, warm, comforting, and soft… nice… and warm… comforting… and sooooft…
I was awoken by a hand being place gently on my shoulder. I looked inquisitively at it. I was rather small and pale, but the fingers were long and smudged with ink. I looked up into the blank face of… um…
He motion to the front of the bus, where the rest of the bus’ occupants were disboarding. He turned away and flowed into the stream of people leaving before I could ask his name. I had seen him before, I just didn’t remember when.
I got to class and sat down anxiously. I had already made a bad impression on my homeroom teacher from being late yesterday. I didn’t want to do that again. I looked around, trying to see who was in my homeroom this year. I recognized a few faces. I even remembered some of their names. I started as my eyes found the boy who had woken me up. He sat in his chair, hunched over a small navy notebook. He was writing in it thoughtfully, pausing, and then scratching some words out with intensity. His lips murmured as he wrote, but what he mouthed was simply unintelligible.
Mr. Freestone shuffled into the room and smirked at the class. “Morning class.” There were a few grumbles in reply, to which Mr. Freestone shrugged and retrieved his attendance sheet. “Alrighty then, let’s take roll and then we’ll get started for the day. George Barrett?”
I paid close attention as he inadvertently introduced me to everyone in the room. After calling the name Castelli, however, there was a long awkward pause.
“Not this again Mr. Castelli. Don’t think I don’t remember you from yesterday. If you don’t answer I will mark you absent.”
The boy called “Fig Castelli” looked up with a startled face. He glanced about the room, realized what must have happened, and grinned sheepishly. “I’m here.”
Mr. Freestone smiled good-naturedly and continued, “Apple Cervantes?”
The boy who had woken me on the bus flinched. He took a deep, shaky breath and carefully set down his pen. “Call me Harold.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right. I forgot to write it down. Alright. Orange Eliad?”
I smiled. “Here.”
Some students gave me odd or amused looks. So, I have a funny name? It’s nothing that I can help. Mr. Freestone finished and addressed us again. “Alright, take out a pen and some paper. We’ll be taking notes on Huckleberry Fin by Mark Twain…”
And that’s when I realized that I had completely forgotten my backpack.
Day 3. Apple Harold Cervantes.
Chère journal,
Aujourd’hui est normale comme tout les jours…
Today was just like every other so far. I woke early and watched the sun rise above the tall buildings surrounding my apartment. I didn’t expect anything special for today and I didn’t receive it. It’s true that life acts only according to what you make of it. The same guy sat next to me again. He wears ridiculous, jubilant colors and frilly clothing. If I cared enough to speculate, I might wonder if he was queer. But I do not care either way. I do not know him nor do I plan to acquaint myself with him. This time as he approached, he proudly carried with him a backpack, as if it was a great accomplishment that he managed to remember to bring one this time around. Yesterday, he was in sore want of supplies and stooped to beg those around him if they would be kind enough to lend him some of theirs.
Orange introduced himself today, with a great smile upon his visage. His physiognomy revealed him to be a good person and I made the effort to nod back at him and murmur my own name. Not my first name, no, but my second. The name that did not stir in me an anger toward my hopeless mother. “Harold.” I told him, before turning to this very same notebook and writing as I will. What a commodity that I write in French yet never speak it, that I even know French at all. I have never left the United States. I have not even been out of California. I have experienced practically nothing. What greater wonder is there for me that I may discover? So much more I would ponder. I wish to go to France to live in the countryside and forget this all. I long to be truly alone.
Je veut être seul… Seul vraiment. Mais… peut-être, je…
Je ne sais pas.
À bientôt,
~Harold.