Une croix à porter | A Cross to Bear [Solo]

Welcome to Une croix à porter! (English Translation: A Cross to Bear) Thank you for your interest in reading.

Chapters (some chapters are composed of one or more posts. Each post is 500-2000 words for easy digestion )

OOC Notes

• This is a solo writing project, taking on something different from the usual national and political stuff. If you have comments and suggestions, feel free to DM me on Discord.
• ICly, this is a novel(ette) in Saintonge. More details (and hopefully a book cover!) will be posted.
• Also, for those asking: Yes; the narrator shares my name. Also, no, I am not the main character; this is not about me. This is not an autobiography. In Chapter Two you will see why the narrator was named that way.

Acknowledgments
Special thanks to:

• @Prydania for answering my questions for the backdrop to this writing.
• @Highton for reviewing the posts about football.

Eighty-eight and a half minutes. Tied at 1-1.

I kept my sights on the ball on the right side of the field as most players on the pitch were running towards our opponents’ half. Past the halfway line, our right midfielder Jérôme made a quick pass to our striker Charles. With two defenders in red kits stalking him, Charles was unable to drive the ball towards the goal. Charles returned the ball to Jérôme. I saw Jérôme, with his usual mercurial moves, make a sudden left pass to our centre midfielder Cédric.

The game was on. From Cédric’s expression I knew he was going for me – it was something I had learned after so many games I had played with him. Instinctively and quickly I scanned the field ahead. All was clear. The audience’s cheers and excitement grew louder and louder as the game’s last few seconds slipped away.

Cédric made a feint towards Charles but suddenly kicked the ball high towards me. The opponent’s two defenders were caught off guard with the left pass. With my sights set on the ball, I saw a red blur on my peripheral vision. At the precise moment, I jumped high for a header to direct the ball towards the net. Everything seemed to slow down. The ball came nearer and nearer; the red blur became larger and larger; the cheers became louder and louder. I felt the ball hit my head before the red blur overwhelmed me.

Intense pain engulfed my body as the sounds seemed to become more muffled, more remote, more inaudible. The last sound I heard was the referee’s whistle before everything went black.


“Kyle?”

I heard someone call my name. I struggled to open my eyes. My body screamed to my brain all the trauma it had sustained; it was sending all these pain signals that paradoxically started to make me even more numb.

“Get off him!”
“Kyle, are you alright?!”

The voices were familiar, but they sounded so distant. It was like I was underwater and all the people were talking to me from above. Was I dying?

I told myself to keep fighting. Ignoring all the agony, I managed to open my eyes but the light blinded me. Like the voices, everything looked like a blur. I could barely make out the faces of the people hovering over me.

My body wanted to surrender. Before my eyes, my life flashed before me: my difficult childhood, my struggles to adapt to this country, my friends and the people who had been good to me. I saw my mother, my long-suffering mother. Was I about to give her another heartache?

After the procession of my life’s experiences, I saw the clear blue sky at the centre of my vision. Something about it beguiled me. It was as if it wanted me to take the journey towards it.

“Kyle, it is not your time.”

Unlike the other voices around me, this one was crystal clear – like a distinct signal amidst all the static. It was a voice I couldn’t recognise, yet it seemed benignant and reassuring.

“You still have a mission to do.”

My already burdened mind became even more confused. Was this even real?

"You are being chosen for the mission.”

What. The. F*ck? Mission? I wanted to have all this pain gone. I don’t care about any mission. As if mocking me, the pain became more severe. It felt like my body was being crushed under a never-ending steamroller. Anything that will end this pain, I will take, I mentally told myself, just please let me live.

The sky slowly became blurry and opaque, as if a veil was being pulled over my eyes.

“Rest well, Kyle.”

“Kyle!”

I heard my mother jubilantly say my name as I slowly opened my eyes. She reached over to hug me. For the first time during this experience, I felt safe in my mother’s embrace.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” she told me. From the creaks in her voice, I knew she had been crying a lot. “I love you very much.”

“Love you too mum,” I put my arms around her as well. It was then that I noticed the IV line attached at my left hand, connected by tubing to the IV fluid bottle hanging by my bedside. My eyes scanned my surroundings. The bright white walls and curtains. The clean white ceiling. That distinct sterile smell. The bedside table with a tray of unrecognisable food. The steel-framed white hospital bed I was lying on.

“I’m still here, mum,” I told her. I felt like crying. But I had to be the man for my mother. I swallowed the lump in my throat and felt something… odd. I looked down and saw a tube snaking from my nose. “What is this tube?”

My mother then stood up beside me. Her blonde hair was in disarray, her eyes were swollen from all that crying, her face creased with worry and sadness. She wiped off her tears with her hands before answering, “They used it to give you food.”

I was being kept alive by a tube all this time. A barrage of questions burst out of my mind. But the only one that came out of mouth was, “What happened to me?”

My mother sat beside me and held my hand. “You were injured during your football game last Tuesday. Doctors said you had a concussion.”

“How long was I like this?”
“Two days.”

Now I realized why this must have been difficult for my mother. I was unconscious for two days. She probably did not know when and if I would ever wake up.

“Am I brain damaged?” I looked down at my feet to see if I could still wiggle my toes. I still could. I still could feel my mother touching my hand. Hopefully nothing else was lost.
“The doctors said that they will be running another scan tomorrow to see if the swelling in your brain had subsided.”

Swelling in my brain? That sounded serious.

“Now I have something to blame for my terrible math scores,” I joked. It seemed that the mood needed some lightening up.
My mother smiled. “You’re still the Kyle I remember,” she told me. “Looks like the brain swelling haven’t dampened your lousy sense of humour.”
“Mum…” I tried to give her the best puppy eyes as I could, “Maths are hard.”
She rolled her eyes. “Says the guy who knows more about trigonometry than me.” She then stood up. “I’ll go tell the nurse that you’re now awake.”


It seemed that hospitalisation was no excuse to avoid maths. Dr. Brichet, the doctor that came to check up on me that afternoon – she said she was a neurologist – asked a lot of questions. Questions that she said was “to check on my mental status.” As if I was going insane.

“What is your name?” The doctor asked me.
Was that a real question? I thought I’d answer with a joke, but then she might think I might really be going insane. This was serious business. “My name is Kyle-Colbjörn Bronconnier.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”

The doctor pointed to my mother. “Who is she?”
“My mother.”
“What is her name?”
“Ulrica.”

The doctor then told me three things I must remember. “Can you repeat the three things I have mentioned?”

I huffed a bit. So easy. I repeated the three things she said. “You know, doctoresse, if school exams were this easy, I’d get full marks every time.”

She ignored my comment. “Alright, Kyle, what is one hundred minus seven?”

Ugh. Maths. I spoke too soon. “Ninety-three.”
“Minus seven?”
“Eighty-six.”
“Minus seven?”
“Seventy-nine.”
“Minus seven?”
“Seventy-two.”
“Minus seven?”
“Sixty-five… are we going to count down to zero?”

The doctor smiled as she jotted down something on the chart. “We’re not going to do that Kyle, but you’re doing well.” She looked at me again and asked, “what were the three things I asked you to remember earlier?”

Uh… what? My mind struggled to remember what she said before she asked me maths. Maths was so distracting. One of them was food. Apples? Oranges? Uh… “Bananas?”

The smile evaporated from the doctor’s face. Her demeanour became more serious. “Okay… what were the other two?”

It felt like I made a mistake. “It wasn’t bananas?” I turned to my mother. She wagged her head slightly.

“Kyle, what were the other two?” The doctor asked.

I stammered for what seemed to be a long time. I wanted to say that it was at the tip of my tongue, but I knew I can’t even find it there. I figuratively squeezed my brain dry for the answer, nothing was coming out. My mind was drawing blanks and I didn’t know why. I was becoming agitated. I felt it, and they felt it too. The doctor tried to change the topic by telling me about a portefeuille on the street.

“…what would you do?” She asked me.

My mind struggled with the question. I could not understand it. What would I do if what?

The doctor prompted me. “Kyle..?”

I looked at her and asked, “I’m sorry, but what is a portefeuille?”

The doctor’s expression now started to show signs of worry. “A portefeuille?” She turned to my mother. “Kyle speaks Santonian fluently, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, doctor, he knows Santonian,” my mother answered in her accented Santonian. My mother looked at me. “Kyle… you do know what a portefeuille is… right?”

Portewhat? I racked my brain for what it is, mentally urging it to spit out what that damned term is. The word seemed familiar. I knew that I knew it. But nothing came out.

The doctor finally produced her wallet. “Kyle, this is what a portefeuille is.”

“Oh,” I muttered, “Yes, of course. A portefeuille.” I tried to cover my embarrassment with a nervous laughter.

The doctor prompted me again. “So, Kyle, can you answer my question?”
“What question?”

The doctor said that I was going to be kept admitted for “more observation” and “more tests”. While I had made a lot of progress, she said that I still hadn’t fully recovered. But the good news was that they were taking out the damned tube out my nose and I could finally eat food. That unrecognisable hospital food was probably an upgrade over what they had fed me through the tube.

The “more tests” part came that afternoon, in the person of this jolly red-haired young woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs. She parted the white curtains enclosing my space, and then proceeded to put her toolbox full of tubes, needles, and syringes on the bedside table.

“Good afternoon!” She said with a big smile. “I’m Fabienne, and I’m the phlebotomist!” Fabienne said the word ‘phlebotomist’ as if she was the most awaited clown at a children’s birthday party. She was so bubbly and full of joy, she seemed out of place working in a place of suffering like a hospital. But then again, the children might have really needed her cheer as she stuck her sharp pointy things into their arms.

Fabienne took out a form from her toolbox and read it for a moment. “Okay, can you tell me what your name is?”
“Does nobody really know my name here?” I asked her. My words might had come out as a bit sarcastic because I noticed her grin disappear. “I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s okay,” she smiled again. “I know that you’re already in pain so we’ll make this as quick as possible.” She took a tourniquet from her tray. “Can you show me your right arm please?”

I stretched out my right arm towards her and she proceeded to inspect it for a suitable place on which to stick her needle in.

She then straightened back up to pick out coloured tubes from a rack. “So, what is your full name please? It’s for verification.”

So that’s what they need my name for. “Kyle-Colbjörn Bronconnier.”
Her eyes widened with amusement. “’Kyle’? Like the sausage?”

I sighed. I get that a lot. Santonians associate my name with the long sausage from Bethany. Which was… actually true. My unwitting mother named me after the sausage. It was a source of much teasing and bullying at school, so much so that my mother had to explain to me at a young age as to why I shared my name with a sausage.

She was a recently-arrived Prydanian refugee in 2004. Being heavily pregnant with me, she was prioritised to be sent to safety in Saintonge. She underwent preterm labour during the flight to Saintes. Little me wanted to see the world early, methinks.

Fortunately, I did not emerge during the flight. As soon as the plane landed at Gentilly Airport, an ambulance sent her from the tarmac straight to Haute-Grâce Hospital in Saintes, the nearest one with a neonatal intensive care unit for me.

My mother told me that she shared a room with another new mother who originally came from Bethany. Her roommate’s mother used to come every day, bringing food to her daughter; while my mother was only eating hospital food because she was a refugee and had no family to even visit her. My mother spoke no Santonian, they did not speak Prydanian. The occasional staff from Saintonge’s Immigration and Integration Agency were the only visitors my mother had. Sometimes I wondered about how she must’ve tried to cope with her situation – safe and free, but alone and afraid in a foreign land.

Despite not sharing a language, her roommate’s mother started to assist my mother too. One day, she brought my mother a care package filled with Santonian food. It contained the Bethanian sausage, still with the label on it, which they gestured was the best in Saintonge. My mother thought that “Kyle” was like this successful businessman in Saintonge who had made a name for himself; and so, when asked to fill out my birth certificate, she put it there.

“Yes, like the sausage,” I told Fabienne blandly. I can take comfort in the fact that because Santonians are familiar with the sausage, they don’t mispronounce ‘Kyle’; that isn’t true with ‘Colbjörn’, which they butcher in a myriad of ways.
“What is your birthdate?”
“12 September 2004.” A date that will be forever be remembered by our little family. It wasn’t just because it was my birthday. It was also the day that my mother set foot in Saintonge.

After verifying my identity, Fabienne then proceeded to draw blood from my right arm. She cleaned the hollow of my arm with antiseptic, and then wound a tourniquet around my upper arm. She then stuck into my vein a needle with a plastic casing at one end, and then pushed the coloured tubes one after the other into the translucent plastic casing. I saw the tubes suck crimson blood out of my veins.

As Fabienne was withdrawing her needle out of my arm, the nurse in charge of me came in. From her accent, she was probably from Hessunland. “Mr. Bronconnier, you have people who want to visit you. Four people, one said his name was Cédric Doulchard. Should I let them in?”

“Sure,” I told my nurse as Fabienne put a small adhesive bandage on my arm and she started labelling the tubes.

“Please press here.” Fabienne told me to apply pressure on the puncture site. “I hope you get well soon.”
“Thank you.”

“Hey Bronco!” Jérôme exclaimed as he rushed into the room, nearly bumping into Fabienne, who was on her way out.
“Be careful Jérôme,” Charles told him, “that’s Bronco’s precious blood.”
“Right. Sorry,” Jérôme said. “I’m just happy that le Bronco is back.”

Le Bronco was how my teammates called me, a shortening of my surname. At school and on field, I was better known by that name. Only my closest friends and family use Kyle. Only my mother uses Colbjörn, typically when she is angry with me, and is usually accompanied with other Prydanian expressions I barely understand.

I found it amusing that people and my peers shifted from calling me “Kyle” (which they associated with bullying someone named after a sausage) to “Bronco” when I got on my school’s football team. I had Cédric Doulchard to thank for that. He was the one who told me to try out for the team. I was accepted and with it came the recognition – and I shall say it – popularity. Nobody dared bully me over my name anymore.

“Hey Kyle,” Cédric said with a big grin as we did our usual friendly fist bump. “Good to see you again.”

Cédric and I had known each other since we were children. He was our next-door neighbour. Ever since we were small, we played football at the courtyard and at the playground. We treated each other like the brothers we never had: I was an only child, and Cédric had two sisters.

Cédric then hugged me. “We thought you’d be gone.” Cédric’s words were tinged with worry. “We thought you won’t wake up again,” Cédric said as he broke off the hug.
“Cédric was actually crying on field,” Jérôme said with a slightly taunting tone.
“F*ck off Jérôme,” Cédric told him. “You yourself was screaming at the referee like a madwoman.”
They all laughed.

“Who screamed what?” I asked.
“Jérôme was yelling at the referee to call out the assh*le that nearly killed you,” Tobie told me.

My mind started going back to the events of that day.

“That m*therf*cker Chatizel played dirty,” Jérôme remarked, his words brimming with contempt. Typical Jérôme – loud and angsty – which was incongruous with his innocent babyface. “He tackled you to prevent you from heading the ball into the net.”
“And what happened?” I asked.
“GOOOOAAAAAAL!!” The four of them cheered.

I was incredulous. I succeeded? “No joke?”

“No joke, Bronco,” Tobie said. “Even with Montbrillais playing dirty, they can’t even win.”
“That last-minute header of yours - it won the game,” Charles related. “We’re going to the Round of 16!”

I slowly remembered the game. Our high school, Lycée de Luzerne, was up against Lycée de Montbrillais for the right to represent the 13^th arrondissement in the Round of 16 in Saintes’ high school football championship. Because of the scores and standings of the various schools in the 13^th arrondissement, last Tuesday’s game was crucial. We needed a win to advance. Montbrillais only needed a draw.

“Bronco, you saved the game for us,” Jérôme told me. “We won because of you.”
“Normally it’s a cause for celebration,” Tobie began, “but when we saw what happened to you… we were actually worried and angry than happy.”
“Kyle, you were knocked unconscious,” Cédric related, “You were unresponsive. We called the attention of the referee, who had just declared your goal in and the game finished. An ambulance was called and you were brought out of the field on a stretcher.”
“Chatizel got a red card and he now has disciplinary proceedings against him, by the way,” Charles added. “He might be removed from the Montbrillais team at the very least.”

“We got more worried when we heard that you still hadn’t woken up for two days,” Tobie admitted. “We thought you were dying or something.”
“Hmph, such drama,” Jérôme huffed. “Our Bronco is as tough as nails,” he chortled a bit before putting on his more serious face. “But honestly, we were concerned for you. That’s why when we heard from Cédric that you had woken up, we wanted to see you immediately after school.”

“Thanks guys,” I told them. Jérôme might’ve sometimes sounded like he didn’t care, but our team captain was fiercely protective of his teammates. On his last year of high school and being the oldest in the team, it was rumoured that he was being scouted by the Stade de Saintes football club - which represents left-bank Saintes in the highest tier of Santonian football league.

Charles was from the same year as Jérôme, and Charles was already in the youth team of Stade de Saintes. He regularly teaches us some of the tricks he had learned from the youth academy of Stade de Saintes. Charles and Jérôme were the best of friends, and of the opposite demeanour. If Jérôme was more jokey, spontaneous, and boisterous, Charles was more serious, brooding, and taciturn.

Tobie was one year older than me and Cédric. I looked up to him as he, along with Charles, had the patience to assist me to hone my rough skills as a striker, especially helpful in improving my footwork. Also along with Charles, Tobie attends the youth academy of Stade de Saintes. Does it mean I’m next in Stade de Saintes? That’s probably wishful thinking. No way an immigrant working-class kid like me would make it to the big leagues.

“Get well soon, Bronco,” Jérôme told me as he gave a jokey salute. “I want you in the game next month.”

Half an hour after my friends and teammates had left, my mother returned to my hospital room. She was bringing this bag full of my clothes and some paper bags filled with what looked like containers brimming with food. What was this, a party?

“Mum, you’re acting as if I’m going to be discharged tomorrow,” I commented cheerfully. “The doctor said I’ll have to stay for a few more days.”

My mother put my clothes and other stuff inside the cabinet of the bedside table. “Kyle, you can’t blame me for hoping.” She then ran her hand through my blond hair and ruffled it a bit, like what she used to do when I was a child. “Also, I brought something to entertain you.”

She pulled out a translucent bright blue AE2015 handheld game console from a paper bag and handed it to me. I was both surprised and a little bit worried about it. Arts Électroniques handheld game consoles were all the rage right now. Granted, the AE2015 model was a bit outdated than the recently-released AE2020, but it was still a treat. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want one… and I think I might have mentioned it to her in the past. But I didn’t demand it. I knew that even the outdated AE2015 was beyond our means.

“Mum… don’t tell me you bought it.”
She might have sensed the concern in my head.

“No Kyle, I didn’t buy it,” my mother said. “A doctor at Haute-Grâce gave it to me. He said his children got the new ones, so he was giving away the old ones.”

Ah, the lifestyles of the well-off. Easily throwing things away when not needed anymore. At least I got showered with some of the blessing.

“And you got the old one?” I asked. “How?”
“I was cleaning his office and I saw three of these lying around in a corner. I remember you asking about it. So I asked him how much it was. He mentioned the horrendously expensive old price when he bought it years ago for his children. No way I can afford that, Kyle,” she then started taking out the contents of her other paper bags.
“I didn’t tell you to ask for it.”

My mother smiled. “I know.” She momentarily stopped unpacking to look at me in the eye. “But I also know when my child wants something and deserves it.” She then returned to her unpacking and laid down some fruits on the bedside table. “Then the doctor mentioned that he was planning to give it away to random children in the paediatric ward. He said his children didn’t need it anymore because they got the new ones. He then asked me if I had a child, how old you are, and so on. When I told him that you were sixteen, he told me, ‘Oh, go ahead and take one of them for your son. Kids his age will enjoy it.’ So… who am I to refuse a gift?” She then put some food into the mini-fridge.

“This is one of the swankiest things you got from your workplace,” I commented. “Apart from those pearls.”
My mother laughed as she remembered the events surrounding her pearl necklace – the only piece of expensive jewellery she owns. “Oh, those pearls. I’ve always wondered what happened to that couple after they broke up.”

The story of my mother’s pearl necklace was an interesting one. My mother got it after a woman broke up publicly with her wealthy boyfriend at my mother’s workplace. She threw away the pearl necklace, apparently a gift from the boyfriend. My mother picked it up and returned it to the woman, but the woman refused it and told my mother to “keep it, do whatever you want with it, I don’t want it anymore.” My mother’s supervisor told her to keep it.

Over the years, my mother had been given many things by people from her workplace. She works as a janitress at Haute-Grâce Hospital – the same place where she gave birth to me. People there knew about her circumstances and tried to help her as much as they can. To me, as a child growing up, Haute-Grâce Hospital was like this place filled with kind and generous people. The hospital took care of me when I was little. It was also the first place in this country where my mother found that ordinary Santonians were willing to help a fellow person in need.

Aside from the Bethanians who gave her the care package containing the sausage that she named me after, one of the first people to help my mother was a young neonatal intensive care unit nurse named Timothée Bronconnier.


Timothée Bronconnier was one of the many people to help my refugee mother. The surname gives it away: he’s also my adoptive father.

My mother’s stories about my stepfather paint a very warm picture of him. My mother first met him when she was called up to the neonatal intensive care unit to give breastmilk for me. He was surprised to see my mother empty-handed: usually, expectant Santonian parents bring baby clothes and other things for their newborns, even if it’s just the government-issued paquet de maternité. My mother, a refugee who literally arrived that day, had nothing.

My mother could not understand the staff’s bewilderment or pity expressed in Santonian. My stepfather, who knew some Gottian after spending some years in Hessunland, attempted to communicate with her. Kalt. The baby was getting cold. He quickly procured a small hospital gown and fashioned it into clothes for the presumably naked me.

Two days later, Timothée Bronconnier gave my mother his own version of a paquet de maternité. He solicited cast-offs from his co-workers. Some of the staff gave the old baby clothes of their children. Others donated old toys. One of them even gave the box of their child’s paquet de maternité.

Being prematurely born, I had to stay in the neonatal unit for more than a month. My mother had to come every day to pump breastmilk so they’d have something to feed me. It was during those visits that my mother became close to my stepfather, being one of the few staff members who could partially understand her Prydanian.

After my discharge, Timothée Bronconnier continued to visit my mother at the refugee centre in Saint-Alban. From my mother’s stories, it seemed that they fell in love with each other despite the language barrier. They married when I was almost a year old. When my mother could understand enough Santonian, Timothée Bronconnier admitted that it was not just his love of my mother that led him to marry her. He told her that he had grown attached to me that he wouldn’t want me to grow up without a father.

Cruel fate decreed that I would grow up without a father. My mother’s bliss lasted three years. My stepfather died in a car crash when I was four. My then-pregnant mother had a miscarriage afterwards from all the grief.

I had little memory of my stepfather; maybe it was for the better that I had no such memories to which I would pine for. But my mother… she had to go through all those losses and traumatic experiences. So it wasn’t surprising that she’s going all out for me during these times – she didn’t want to lose the only remaining family she had. Which was amusing for me, because she normally didn’t have time for me because of her work and civic activities.

“Kyle, there’s food in the fridge if you don’t like the hospital food tomorrow,” she told me, pointing to neatly-packaged plastic food containers filling almost an entire shelf. As if I was going to eat six meals tomorrow. She closed the fridge’s door and sat on my bed. “You need to eat to recover.” She then put her arm around my shoulders and brought me closer to her. “I love you.” She then kissed me in the forehead, like when I was a child. I might be too old for that, but my mother was that clingy during times like these. Most of the time, she just leaves me alone. But not when I am sick.

“I would’ve wanted to stay with you during the day, but I am being called for work this weekend,” she told me, almost remorsefully, as if she was asking for forgiveness that she couldn’t be with me round-the-clock. “I promise I’ll come back in the evening.”

“I understand, mum,” I told her. “It’s alright.” I really understood her situation. I knew that my mother’s job was the one that pays the bills and puts food on the table. My mother was still not a Santonian citizen; she would not be eligible for the full range of unemployment benefits. She had to keep working.

“Call me if you need something,” she told me.

Even though her expression was much brighter than earlier today, I could still see the dread and worry in her face. “I’ll be fine,” I tried to give her my most comforting smile. “You should sleep now if you have work tomorrow.”

I woke up the next day, alone. I was used to it; my mother works long hours and I’m used to being alone in the house. I descended the hospital bed and put on a pair of cheap slippers that was lying on the floor. It’s better than my bare feet on the cold floor.

I grabbed the metal IV pole where my intravenous bag was hanging from and dragged it towards me. Now I had this metal stand to accompany me when I use the washroom.

I parted the curtains and realised that I was meant to share the room with three other people. Though Santonian healthcare was mostly free, but they probably prioritise some people to those single-occupancy rooms. It’s no big deal. That day, it was like being in a private room – there was nobody occupying the two other beds. I headed to the washroom for my morning routine, made doubly difficult by my new metal appendage.

Changing clothes was made more complicated as well. I was able to change my lower garments despite the IV line sticking out of my hand. But the top was more complicated. Perhaps that was why the hospital gowns here were designed like that. No need to pass the IV line and IV bag through the sleeves. Very easy to remove and wear. But then again, stubborn me wanted more comfy clothes. I took a random shirt from my bag and tried to put it on, getting tangled up in a knot of my arms, the fabric, and the IV line.

After about ten minutes of struggling, I gave up trying to change clothes. I was standing there half-naked when I heard somebody came in the door. I quickly snatched the blanket off my bed to salvage some of my dignity.

“Who’s there?” I asked, peering through the gap in the curtains.
“Good morning, Kyle,” a young female nurse with a Hessunland accent greeted me. She was carrying a tray with pills. “I’ve brought your medications.” She then probably noticed me wrapping myself in the blanket.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I retreated back behind the curtain.

Undeterred, the nurse went inside my space. She finally realised what I was trying to do. “Are you… trying to change clothes?”
“Uh… yes,” I replied sheepishly.
“Okay, let me help you.” She put down the tray on my bed and pulled the blanket off me. She chortled a bit at my embarrassment. She took the shirt I was trying to put on, and first passed the IV bag and IV line through the left sleeve.

“You really chose this?” She snickered a bit as she passed my left arm onto the left sleeve. Apparently what I was trying to wear was a printed black-and-white roundneck T-shirt with three-fourths raglan sleeves, adding to the difficulty of me putting them on. “It’s a nice shirt, but you should’ve chosen ones with shorter sleeves or no sleeves at all.”
“I got that at random,” I told her. “I have other shirts in my bag, maybe those would be more suitable?”
The nurse laughed. “Too late to change it,” she said as she gestured for me to put my right arm onto the right sleeve. “Is your mother here?”
“She’s at work, but she’ll be coming later.”
“Good, because you will need probably need assistance taking this off as well.” She put the neck part of the shirt over my head. When my head emerged from the top of the shirt, she told me, “Although you can call one of us nurses as well.”
“Thanks,” I said as I straightened my shirt on my body.
“Did you know that visitors are coming, that’s why you changed clothes?”

I gave the nurse a quizzical look. I wasn’t trying to look nice for visitors. I didn’t even know there would be visitors.

“On certain Saturdays, schoolgirls from the École de Sainte-Scolastique come to visit sick children here in the hospital,” she explained. “It’s their outreach program. You’re here at the right day.”

École de Sainte-Scolastique. I heard about that school. An all-girls private church-run school in right-bank Saintes. Girls who went to that school are stereotyped as beautiful but snobbish upper-middle-class girls.

“Would you want a visitor too?” The nurse asked. “You seem lonely.”
“Sure,” I was intrigued about all these things. And perhaps it would be nice to have someone to talk to this boring day.


A few minutes later, I heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said loudly as I tried to make myself as presentable to the visitors. After ensuring I didn’t have dirt on my face, I opened the curtains and then I saw her. I felt my heart skip a beat.

She was roughly my age. She had this pleasant angelic face that was beautiful even without her wearing makeup. Behind her transparent-rimmed glasses were expressive blue eyes that indicated that we must’ve been feeling the same thing. Her cheeks blushed as our eyes locked in a gaze.

If heaven was real, it made this angel come down on me.

Sensing some discomfort in her, I looked away for a moment. But I could not resist returning my eyes on her. Her long blonde hair was neatly pinned into a chignon. A crucifix hung from her neck. She was wearing a yellow tea length dress that covered up as much skin as possible, yet hugged her petite body, accentuating her feminine curves. In front of her, she clutched a fruit basket, wrapped in clear cellophane and tied up in a neat pink bow. She looked like she was going to church, dressed in her Sunday best, going to the altar for the Offertory. She might be overdressed, but it fits her aura of being a shy, conservative type.

I then heard someone clear her throat. It wasn’t the girl. I was startled a bit and looked up. Standing behind her was a nun dressed in a habit.

Of course there would be a nun somewhere in the equation! They’re from École de Sainte-Scolastique, an all-girls school run by an order of nuns. It shouldn’t be surprising there was a nun present. Good thing my mother was not there or she would’ve gone berserk.

I respectfully smiled at the nun, I think I even bowed my head a bit. Even though I’m not religious, Santonian society afforded a lot of respect for the men and women of God. Some of that rubbed off on me.

“Good morning, Sister,” I greeted her.
She smiled pleasantly as if she hadn’t noticed anything. “May the Lord be with you, my son,” she replied, and then introduced themselves. “I’m Sister Narcisse, and this is Danielle.”

So Danielle was her name.

“We are from the École de Sainte-Scolastique, and we visit the sick children every now and then,” the nun continued. “Danielle is here to visit you.”

Danielle turned her head towards Sister Narcisse. The nun gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I will leave you here, I’ll accompany your classmates,” she told Danielle. “Just call me if you need anything.”
“Yes Sister.”

Sister Narcisse then left the room.

As the nun started to leave, I scrambled for something to say just to break the ice. She was this shy, prim-and-proper girl stuck in a room alone with a boy her age. It was a bit… awkward.

After the nun closed the door, I pushed the curtains away to reveal my little space. If she had been afraid of being cornered in a small space with me, opening up my space would signify to her that I’m open and I have nothing to hide.

When I finished opening up the area around my bed, I caught her looking intently at me. She quickly averted her gaze to stare at her fruit basket.

“You were expecting to visit little kids, am I right?” I asked her in a comforting tone. “But instead you were assigned to me.”

Danielle looked up from her fruit basket. Colour again came up her cheeks as our eyes met. “No, I volunteered for this.” She then offered me the fruit basket. “This is for you.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. I continued to think of ways on how to possibly make her feel at ease. Dragging my IV pole with my left hand, I took the fruit basket with my other hand. “I can add these to my growing fruit collection,” I joked, tipping my head towards the bedside table that my mother stocked with fruits. I started heading towards the bedside table when she laid her hands on the fruit basket, inadvertently touching my hand.

“Uh… I can put these on the table for you,” she told me.
“Thank you… you’re very nice.”

I saw her smile at the compliment as she put the fruit basket astride the bananas and apples on the bedside table. She had the sweetest smile, very earnest, very genuine. I wanted to bring it out. I wanted to get her out of her shell. Maybe getting to know her would lessen the awkwardness?

As she returned towards my side of the bed, I realised that we haven’t been formally introduced to each other. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves to each other yet,” I said.

“Oh right,” she muttered.
“I’m Kyle-Colbjörn Bronconnier,” I introduced myself as a I extended my hand for a handshake. Maybe that would be a more professional way of being introduced.
She took my hand. “I’m Danielle-Jéssica Briault,” she said as she looked at me. She was blushing less now. That was a good sign.

“Nice to meet you, Danielle,” I told her as I shook her hand. She had soft and silky hands, unaccustomed to manual labour. I then ended the handshake for fear of making the situation more awkward.

“Nice to meet you too… Kyle?” She said, smiling. “Is that the name you use?”

“Yes, I’m called Kyle.”
“Like the DJ? So cool.”

Finally somebody had a different point of reference for my name.

“Thank you for saying that,” I told her. “I don’t get that quite a lot.” I noticed her still standing with a quizzical look in her face. “Come and take your seat first.” I gestured for her to sit on the cushioned bench opposite my bed.

As she was taking her seat, I told her the truth about my name. “Actually, I was named after the sausage.”

I half-expected her to laugh. Despite having been bullied about my name in the years past, I eventually learned to make light of it when needed.

“Really?” She asked, incredulous, as she sat on the bench. “I’d still like to think you’re named after the DJ, because I think you’re cool.”

If that was flattery, it didn’t sound like it. She said it with sincerity and authenticity that would be hard to fake. Did that mean she thought I was cool?

“You think I am cool?” I asked her.
“Wouldn’t a guy who won their football game be cool?” She said with a big grin.

I didn’t know why this girl from École de Sainte-Scolastique cared about the high school football championship in Saintes.

“How did you know about… ?”

She answered the incomplete question. “Search engine,” she fished out her smartphone from her pocket and showed me the news article that covered last Tuesday’s game. “You’re the hero of the game.”

“Oh, that,” I muttered. I felt myself blush a bit. “This striker’s gotta score.”
“Congratulations for winning. I hope you get well soon.”
“Thank you.”

After a moment of silence, she picked up another conversation topic. “Also, you have a second name, right?”
“Colbjörn.”

My second name, Colbjörn, was my biological father’s name. My mother didn’t want to tell me his story in detail. All I know was that my biological father was killed while trying to protect her from the murderous Syndicalists. The Syndicalists had killed her family because they were Courantists; they were after her as well. I had only seen a picture of my biological father once. I know that she has a picture or two of him somewhere, but I feel that it stirs up so much painful memories that she keeps it away from sight.

“What does it mean? Is it Santonian?”
“Colbjörn is a Prydanian name. My mother is Prydanian. Colbjörn was the name of my biological father…”
And then I got lost in relating to her the story of my life. My biological father. My refugee mother. My adoptive father. Growing up poor, raised by a single mother. Telling the stories was cathartic. All of those stories of pain, they lose their bite, one telling at a time. Still, all of those stories made me what I am now. Alone.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear all of that,” Danielle said sympathetically at the end of my story. “Can I give you a hug?”

I was too overwhelmed to resist. I nodded weakly.

Danielle stood up and gave me a close friendly hug. “I hope it gets better for you,” she whispered. “You deserve better.”

She straightened back up and held my hands. “If you want, I can stay here until your mother comes so that you’ll have someone to be with.”

It was an interesting offer, but I doubt my mother would be happy to see her or the nun in my room.

“I’ll be okay,” I told her with a feigned smile. “Thank you for your concern.”

I then tried to change the topic. “How about you? How’s your family?”

She then related parts of her story. As expected, she came from an ordinary Santonian family. A father, a mother, a sibling. Upper middle class from right-bank Saintes. Relatively sheltered, comfortable life.

As Danielle and I continued talking, we became at ease with each other. It brought out the conversationalist in her. We swapped stories, laughed at each other’s jokes, and dreamt about the future. I felt the connection between us. I thought that a sheltered girl like her would have nothing much to share, but I found every bit of her interesting. How she and her brother spent some of their past birthdays visiting orphanages, because their parents wanted to show them how lucky they were. How devout and prayerful her mother was, and how her mother goes to Mass every day. How her parents talked to her openly about choosing the right boyfriend and how they would want to be involved in the process.

Minutes turned into hours, and we lost track of time. The hunger pangs we assuaged by helping ourselves to the fruit basket and the plentiful food my mother left in the fridge. She even complimented my mother’s Prydanian cooking. I found out that she liked bananas the best – especially overripe ones because “they’re mushy and sweet.”

“Just like you want your boys to be?” I jokingly asked her. “Mushy and sweet?”
Danielle gave out a dainty laugh. “Maybe. I haven’t found the one yet.”

A knock on the door interrupted our conversation.

“Come in.”

Sister Narcisse must’ve noticed our expressions and the emptied food containers lying around us. “I see you two have had a good time,” the nun commented. “I hate to interrupt your fun, but I think it’s time to go…?”

Danielle looked at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry sister, I didn’t notice the time,” she remarked. “I’ll just help Kyle clean up. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
“Sure. We’ll be waiting at the lobby,” the nun replied.

Danielle and I started picking up the fruit peels and the disposable food containers. “Kyle, are you sure you don’t want me to stay here? I can ask Sister Narcisse if I can stay.”

I threw the banana peels in the garbage can at the corner of the room. “I’ll be alright, Danielle. I’m used to this. And besides, I don’t want to take too much of your time… you might need to do something else.”

“I have no plans, actually. Mum and I went already went to Mass at dawn, so I’m free until the end of the day.”

So that was why she was dressed that way on a Saturday. She went to church.

“I appreciate your offer. I enjoyed being with you,” I told Danielle. “I gained a new friend.”
“Me too.”

Inasmuch as enjoyed her company, I don’t think my mother will approve of her. Then I remembered I was scheduled for a scan later that day. A perfect excuse. “I might also be in for a scan later today. Maybe instead we can stay in contact…?”
“Sure.”
“Can I have your number?”

Danielle hesitated for a moment as she threw the food containers in the trash can. I saw the reluctance. My question sounded like I was picking her up.

“Oh, I understand if you don’t want to give it out,” I backpedalled a bit. There are probably other ways to keep in touch. Like on social media. “It may be a private… thing.”

“Uh… Sister Narcisse and the outreach programme forbid us to give out our contact details,” she told me. She strode towards my side of the bed. “But if it’s okay with you,” she said as she sat beside me, “why don’t you give me your number instead?”

I became a bit flustered. Was she picking me up?

I did not even think of the answer to my mind’s question. Having no qualms whatsoever, I gave her my mobile number.

“Thank you, Kyle,” she told me after saving my number on her pretty pink smartphone. “It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Same here. Keep in touch.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “One hug before we part?”

We gave each other a friendly hug before she left. As I closed the door behind me, the empty room stood before me. Welcome back to your real life, Kyle.


“You ate a lot,” my mother remarked later that night, as she noticed the emptied food containers and the fruit peels in the trash bin. “If you have said you wanted grapes, I would’ve bought you some.” Clearly, she caught sight of the bunch of grapes from the fruit basket and thought I might’ve gotten it somewhere.

“Oh no I didn’t eat all of it,” I told her. “There were some visitors giving gifts to sick children.” I had to be careful with what I say. I had to say as much that she won’t pry around what happened earlier, yet say as little as possible so that she won’t be upset. I tried the jokey way. “I qualified as a sick child. So they gave me a fruit basket.” I pointed to the grapes she was referring to. “They came during lunchtime. I offered them your food, ‘cause that’s how Santonian hospitality works, right?”

My mother smiled. “You and the visitors ate some of the food?”
I nodded. “They liked it. It was the first time they tasted Prydanian food, and your cooking passed Santonian taste buds.”
“I’m glad they liked it,” my mother smiled at my flattery. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“Yes mum, after the scan.”
“So how was the scan?”
“It felt like nothing,” I shrugged. “You wouldn’t like it, ‘cause you’re claustrophobic.” I let out a short laugh.

“You’re really like your father,” she said as she sat beside me on my bed. “You like to tease me, but I love you to bits,” she said as she gave me a bear hug, like how she used to play with me as a small boy.

“Which father?”
She paused for a bit, and then abruptly broke off the hug. “Colbjörn.” She then stood up and looked away. Uh-oh. Her bad memories were coming back.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured as I reached out to her.

When she turned to face me again, her misty blue eyes betrayed her forced smile. “It’s not your fault.” She leaned closer to me and gingerly touched my face. “You look like him, too.” A tear fell from her left eye. “Litli Colbjörn,” she murmured lovingly.

I wisely shut my mouth. This was her moment. I let her have it. She rarely talked about my biological father, and I was not going to interrupt her storytelling with my corny jokes.

“Your father Colbjörn was about your age when we met,” she said. “He was such a sweet boy. A bit… uh… passionate too,” she giggled a bit, punctuating the general sadness of her words. “That's why I was pregnant at seventeen.”

That child was me.

“That’s why you, mister, should get a job first before having children,” she told me. “I don’t want to be a grandmother at thirty-four.”
“Yes ma’am,” I answered.

My mother wiped off her tears. “You need to rest now, litli Colbjörn.”

One week later

I idly whittled time away on my new AE2015 while waiting to be called. After losing another game on the silly Écraser les Bonbons, I looked at my watch. 12:30 PM.

I turned to my mother, who had accompanied me to Dr. Brichet’s clinic at Hôtel-Dieu Hospital for my outpatient follow-up visit. My mother was busy reading something on her phone too. She didn’t have to be here. I was discharged from the hospital last Tuesday, and had to go on a follow-up visit within a week. I could’ve gone by myself during the weekday, since I’m already sixteen and can legally be left alone (no babysitters needed!). But my mother said she wanted to know what’s happening with me and so she insisted that she come as well. We had the appointment on a Saturday morning, because she had work during weekdays and it was only Saturday that her work starts late – because it was a side gig.

We had been waiting for almost three hours already and I still hadn’t been called. Saturday was a bad idea. The clinic was full of patients and the queue was long. I was in competition with dozens of epileptics, hydrocephalic patients, and children with cerebral palsy. Me, a teenager who could walk and speak and otherwise had no other complaints, would be last in the priority list.

“Don’t you have work at two o’clock?” I asked my mother.
She also looked at her watch. “Yes, but I want to know what Dr. Brichet thinks of your condition.”
“I can tell you later,” I told her.
“But I want to know. And besides, the trip to Clavières will take only an hour. Maybe we should have lunch instead?”

My mother then brought out the packed lunches we brought from home. Oftentimes food from establishments within hospitals were expensive. If we had been at Haute-Grâce, she would’ve been able to use her employee discount.

We finished our food in half an hour. Still hadn’t been called. It was now one o’clock.

“Mum, you will miss work if you don’t leave now.”
She frowned and brought me closer to her. My mother really becomes cloyingly clingy when I get sick. “It’s okay. You, too, will miss your football practice, right?”

Saturday afternoons were football practice time for us. Practice sessions had become more regular and intense, now that our team had advanced into the Round of 16. “Coach Landreau told me I couldn’t join the practice session, because I needed medical clearance.”
“Ask Dr. Brichet for your clearance.”
“I will.” I held her hand. “Now you must go to work.”
“I don’t want –”
“Mum –”
“But Kyle…”
“Listen, mum,” I looked at her in the eye. “You’re sounding like me when I don’t want to eat my broccoli.”

My mother laughed. “You got me there.”
“You don’t have to worry,” I assured her. “I will be fine.”
“Are you sure you will be alright?”
“Yes mum,” I gave her the most comforting smile.
“Well then, I will go,” she said as she hugged me before she left. “I love you Kyle.”
“Love you too mum.”
“Remember to message me when you get home.”

After my mother left, I thought of other things that would keep me preoccupied. Écraser les Bonbons was a bit boring after a few games. I wondered how long do I have to wait. I remembered that last Saturday, Dr. Brichet made her rounds at around dinnertime – she said she had a lot of outpatients to see that day. I hoped I wouldn’t be stuck at the clinic until sunset.

If only there was a Danielle that day. She would keep me occupied on a Saturday. Out of curiosity, I looked her up in the search engine. I saw that familiar pretty face again as I scrolled for more info. She was an honour student at École de Sainte-Scolastique. A lector/commentator at her local parish at Église de Sainte-Trinité. Her Facegram account was set to private.

“Kyle Bronconnier?”

I looked up when I heard my name. I was being called. Finally.

Dr. Brichet apologised profusely for having me wait for a long time. She said that the other paediatric neurologist was on leave and she was covering for her patients as well. She examined me and asked a lot of questions (including maths, again).

“Kyle, I think you’re okay now.”

That was a relief. I had been hospitalised for one week, stayed at home for three days, out of school for almost two weeks. I wanted to go back to my old life.

“Can I get back to doing the stuff that I did before?”
“Such as?”
“School?”
“Of course,” she laughed a bit. “That’s a given, you know.”
“Can I play football again? My coach wants to see a medical certificate.”
“Sure,” she answered. “Give me your coach’s email so I’ll give him the certificate. The receptionist will also print one out for you.”
“Can I also go to work?”
“Depends on what work it is.”
“Flipping burgers.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Okay, cool,” I told her. “I’m back to normal then.”
She nodded. “You’ve recovered really well. You just have to be careful next time.”


That night, I had dinner at Cédric’s apartment next door. He learned that my mother won’t be home for dinner and so he invited me to join their family dinner instead.

It wasn’t really unusual. I ate at Cédric’s place frequently, about twice or thrice a week, especially when my mother was out. When I as a child, Madame Rozenn Doulchard, Cédric’s mother, often babysat me when my mother was out working and I was alone in the house. As far as I knew, Mama Rozenn, as I fondly called her, did not ask for payment from my mother – she did it out of good neighbourly relations and the fact that Cédric and I became best friends.

The Doulchards were like my second, larger, Santonian family. Weekends were the time the Doulchards get together at their small apartment that was opposite ours. They were complete that Saturday night: Papa Nicholas, patriarch of the Doulchard family; Mama Rozenn, who had cooked up her family’s favourite dishes for that night; Éliane, the eldest of the Doulchard children, currently attending the University of Saintes; Maëlys, the middle child, who was set to follow her older sister to university; and Cédric, their youngest child and my best friend. That night we had a new addition: Katell, Éliane’s girlfriend. Éliane introduced her girlfriend to the family as it was the first time they were meeting her. The Doulchards were able to accept Éliane being lesbian and in a relationship, and they showed it by welcoming Katell warmly like they receive other guests.

Katell, being from Bethany like Mama Rozenn, brought some Bethanian specialties for the Doulchards. Naturally it contained the sausage with my name on it. “I brought your sausage,” Katell said jokily, looking directly at me. Éliane playfully pinched her girlfriend’s waist. “Hush, Katell, don’t insult my lil’ bro’s best friend!”

Cédric leapt to my defence. “Yeah, Kyle’s been bullied over his name.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Katell said, realising what grave error she must’ve made. She wanted to put her best foot forward in meeting her girlfriend’s family. Now a single joke could’ve ruined the night. “I didn’t mean to –”

“It’s okay,” I told her in my best non-offended voice. “I get that a lot.” There was still a way to salvage her joke. I went to her and inspected the sausage. “See how long this sausage is?” I dangled the sausage for everyone to see. “Who wouldn’t be proud to have a sausage as long as this?”

Everyone laughed. “Naughty joke is naughty, Kyle,” Mama Rozenn said in a mocking rebuke of me. “Wait till your mother learns of this.”
“Oh please no, I don’t want to be grounded again,” I begged in jest.

“It’s nice to see that you still haven’t changed,” Papa Nicholas told me. “We missed the happy Kyle.”
“Come, let’s all take our seats and eat. Later we can open the treats Katell brought us,” Mama Rozenn said.

Katell whispered a thank you to my ear before she took her seat beside Éliane. I gave her a thumbs-up sign.

Over the sumptuous dinner at the Doulchard home, the conversation revolved around Éliane and Katell’s love story. Inevitably, the question was asked, coming from Cédric: “What did your family think of your relationship with my sister?”

Katell and Éliane looked at each other. Éliane nodded encouragingly to her girlfriend. “They didn’t… like it,” Katell said slowly, in measured tone, as if to prevent herself from breaking out the waterworks.

For a few moments the table fell silent. Maëlys looked at her mother. Papa Nicholas silently passed the plate of custard to Cédric. I shoved ice cream into my mouth.

“Kompren a ran,” Mama Rozenn told her in a motherly voice. Using the Bethanian language probably made the expression more comforting and familiar to Katell. “Trust me, honey, they will understand eventually,” Mama Rozenn said, reaching out across the table to touch Katell’s arm. “They just need time.”

Éliane smiled at her girlfriend. “Mother is right,” she told her. “People need time.”
“But that’s no excuse to deny that you love each other,” Papa Nicholas told them. “I’ll admit – and Éliane knows this – that I had difficulty accepting it at first, but that was my problem, not hers.” He cut another piece of custard with his spoon. “But I’ll confess and say that I still want grandchildren from Éliane, but that’s probably not happening.”

Honesty and openness were things I appreciated in the Doulchard home.

“Papa, we can have sperm donors!” Éliane said, laughing. “A woman doesn’t need no stinkin’ man to have a child nowadays!”
“That sperm has to come from someone,” Cédric commented. “A man is still gonna be involved somewhere.”
“Oh, don’t be so pedantic, lil’ bro,” Éliane facetiously scolded her younger brother before accepting the plate of custard from him. “Why don’t you give papa the grandchildren he wants?”

“Oy, oy, Cédric is too young to have children of his own,” Mama Rozenn declared before turning to Cédric. “You young man, should finish school first before having children.”
“Yes mama.”

Mama Rozenn and my mother agreed on that point.

“I wish I had a family like this,” Katell said, trying to smile while hiding the sadness in her voice.
“Honey, if you are a friend of Éliane, you are a part of the family,” Mama Rozenn told Katell. “We can be your family.”
“Thank you, Madame Rozenn.”
“You can call me Mama Rozenn.”

I wish I had a family like this. Katell’s words reverberated in my head. It resonated in my heart, epitomising the thing that had been missing from my life. Inasmuch as my mother tried to compensate for it, there was only so much that a single mother could do. I wished she had a partner in raising our little family. But we had to make do with what Fate handed us.

The words stayed with me as a went back to our apartment. My mother still wasn’t home. I cleaned up myself and went to bed, my mind filled with what ifs.


She stood there in front of me, resplendent in her flowing light gown the colour of the clear sky. Rays of pure white radiance emanated from her, enveloping me with warmth and comfort. I could look directly at her brilliance, like staring at the sun without being blinded. What seemed to be light clouds drifted in front of her, obscuring much of her features.

“Kyle, my child.”

This woman didn’t sound like my mother. She’s calling me as her child?

“Who are you?”

She gave a slight smile. “I will reveal myself to you eventually.”

Trying to be mysterious then.

“My child, you must be prepared. Trials and tribulations lie ahead of you. I want you to be strong.”

I was puzzled at what she was saying.

“Reach out to me when you need help.”

Before I could even reply, she suddenly disappeared. How can I reach out if I didn’t even know her number? Or even her name?

She took all the light with her. Everything went dark. A feeling of dread crept all over me, replacing the feeling of tranquillity and reassurance that she brought. It was as if something sinister was lurking around.

From behind me I could hear a soft mocking, menacing laugh. My heart beat faster. I wanted to run, but for some reason I couldn’t. The deep diabolical cachinnations became louder and louder.

I let out a shriek as I felt what I thought were countless needles pierce my head… my forehead, above my ears, the back of my head. The laughter intensified as the needles drove deeper and deeper through my skin and into the flesh. Currents of pain flooded my head as the needles hit my skull.

As if the torture wasn’t enough, I suddenly felt a sharp blow to my back. I cried out in pain, but it just fed my still-unseen torturers’ amusement. Another crack of the whip preceded another strike to my back. More laughter. The whip battered my back, my nape, my arms, my legs, my buttocks… everywhere it landed, it left a surge of pain and agony.

“Please… stop…” I pleaded.

They just laughed and whipped me again. And again.

A strange long buzz interrupted my torment.


My alarm clock was screeching as I woke up from one of the worst dreams I ever had. I slammed my palm over my clock to silence it, mentally thanking it for saving me from my unreal tormentors.

It was just a dream.

I sat up on my bed, drenched in sweat. My heart was still racing; I was still panting. It was as if I had run a marathon while sleeping.

“Kyle, it’s just a dream,” I told myself as I got off my bed. I took off my sweat-soaked shirt as I walked towards the light switch to my room. After I turned on the light, I rolled my shirt into a ball and tossed it straight into my laundry bin like a basketball. Perfect shot. Three points.

My gaze fell on my unkempt bed that I was supposed to tidy. My bedsheet and my blanket, too, were soaked in my sweat. That had to go to the laundry bin too. Gotta do the laundry then before going to work.

Sunday was a working day for me. My part time job was flipping burgers at a food truck called “Burger-On”.

I got the job thanks to my football coach, Coach Frédéric Landreau. Since the city slashed funding for sports programs a few years ago, we were now responsible for buying our own equipment. Cognizant of my circumstances, Coach Landreau found a part-time gig for me with his brother-in-law Timothée Bergeron. “Tim” Bergeron – we call him “Uncle Tim” – founded the Burger-On food truck as a side hustle a few years ago.

Uncle Tim operated his food truck business during Sundays, holidays, and weekend fêtes in Saintes and neighbouring towns. Burger-On’s most frequent location was at Place de Jouy, in front of the Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs* church in the 13^th arrondissement. Burger-On had been there religiously every Sunday for the past three years. The business-minded Uncle Tim noticed that some establishments in the area closed on Sundays, while demand increases as hordes of hungry churchgoers look for something to eat after Mass.

Burger-On had become some sort of a local landmark and tradition. Parishioners loved to chow down on burgers and sandwiches; even the parish priest of Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs sometimes ate there after celebrating his last Mass.

The food truck was tremendously successful, even if it was open for only one day a week. Maybe part of his success was because Uncle Tim treats his clients and workers well. Unlike some other food establishments, Uncle Tim paid us a bit over the minimum wage. He distributes the contents of that days’ tip box (he doesn’t take any from it) to his workers at the end of the day. We also got a bonus if we exceeded the target sales that day. In the few months that I had worked at Burger-On, I was able to buy my shinpads, uniform, and a pair of soft-ground boots with my small income. Now I’m saving up for a nice pair of firm-ground football boots, to replace my old worn-out one.

Uncle Tim also believed that no work is useless or inferior. Thus he rotated us through the various posts in Burger-On: laying out and cleaning tables, manning the till, flipping burgers (literally), making sandwiches, assembling orders. He wanted us to learn various skills and not be stuck in mechanical jobs.

“You’ll be assembling orders today, Kyle,” Uncle Tim told me as me and my co-workers donned our aprons and hairnets for hygienic purposes. He always had this quick ‘huddle’ before starting the shift, where he assigns our roles and gives us a quick confidence boost. “We’re glad to have you here again,” he said as he put his arm over my shoulder.

“Last week was crazy when you weren’t here,” commented Thomas, Uncle Tim’s son. Thomas also worked for Burger-On because Uncle Tim believed that Tom was old enough to earn his money. He treated Tom no different than us. And that day Uncle Tim assigned Tom to washing dishes and taking out the trash.

“Kyle, always remember to wear that bright smile,” Uncle Tim grinned, directing me to follow his happy face. I followed his cue and smiled. “That’s right, Kyle! More smile, more happiness for our customers. The happier the customers are, the more tips you’ll get. Same with you, Christelle, you’re the cashier today. You two will be the faces of the Burger-On.”

Uncle Tim then gave the others their roles. “Remember, guys, we work as a team, alright? If you see someone having difficulty and you are free, help each other, ok?”

Uncle Tim had the same attitude as Coach Landreau. Maybe because Uncle Tim also used to work as a football coach.

“Alright, to our posts guys,” Uncle Tim clapped his hands encouragingly. “Remember to Burger-On!”

Orders at Burger-On comes in waves, mostly coinciding with the end of Mass. Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs’ midday Mass was 11 am to noon. So from noon to about one and a half hours later, it will be a frenzy of orders, preparations, and customers.


It was amusing that Santonians took to eating burgers, which was viewed as an import brought by Hessunlander refugees into Saintonge. Folks in Saintonge think of Gottian cuisine as immangeable – inedible. Yet they could not stop eating burgers, as the orders attested that day.


Uncle Tim was very astute when it comes to what the customers wanted. He introduced vegan burgers a few months ago – I didn’t like the taste of the faux burger, but it had its converts. Uncle Tim also had this more complex “Santonian burger” thing in which the classic burger patty plus bread can be ‘improved’ with “Santonian ingredients” – from Santonian meats to Santonian cheeses. The “Santonian burger” was more expensive and they were quite a pain to assemble, but it became a hit among the diners.


Thank goodness Uncle Tim did not require us to shout out the orders in full like what the baristas do at coffeeshops like Tim Ortonne’s. Or else it would’ve been a mouthful saying all of these “Santonian burgers”.

“Order number 4-6-3!” I called out the order number. A middle-aged woman stepped forward to claim her burgers.

“Here’s your food, madame. We hope you enjoy it,” I told her cheerily, “Bon appétit!”

“My, you’re so full of energy today, Kyle,” Christelle commented. “It’s as if you hadn’t been sick.”

“It’s just a knock on the head,” I replied as I took another order slip. Santonian burger with brési des Vercors and Nébrodes cheese, fruit salad, and vin mariane. “Besides,” I said as I took out the food from the transparent food shelf-cabinets from behind me, “I’m okay now, the doctor said.” I looked down on the order slip and quickly counter-checked it with the food I put on the tray. “Order 4-6-4! Your delicious Santonian burger is here!”

Christelle chuckled as she entertained another bemused customer. “That’s Kyle,” she told the customer in front of her. “Our most jolly team member.”

As order 464 was being claimed, a slightly annoyed-looking man in his late twenties approached my counter. “Excuse me,” he said in a loud voice to get my attention, “I think you didn’t get my order right.” He waved his burger in front of me.

Oh no. This looked like trouble.

Nevertheless, I continued wearing my happy face. “Oh, I’m sorry monsieur. May I take a look?”

He handed me his burger. It was a “Santonian burger”, the burger that had a non-standard assembly, hence more chances of mixing up stuff. So what we usually did was to write the order on a sticker and tag it on the burger wrapping. From the burger wrapping, his was order number 4-5-4: Santonian burger with andouillette and Coulommiers cheese. I hurriedly retrieved order slip 454 and it said the same thing.

“Open the burger,” he instructed me, and then eyed my big ‘BONJOUR! JE M’APPELLE KYLE’ name tag. “You’ll see what’s wrong… Kyle.” He said my name with a smirk.

I nodded as I opened the burger to inspect its contents.

“I said I wanted an andouillette!” He then said in a tone steeped in malice, “I did not order my burger with your sausage on it!”

I saw Christelle momentarily look at me sympathetically. Sometimes customers can be… rude.

I’ve been through so much of this that it didn’t sting. “My apologies, monsieur,” I said sincerely. “My naughty sausage sneaks into things where it shouldn’t be,” I joked. I deduced that the mistake was with the one that prepared the sandwich, since both the sticker and the order slip were correct. Poor Josh, he was already inundated with orders.

I quickly re-wrote the order on a piece of paper and a sticker and handed it to our sandwich preparer. I went to his station and handed him the paper. “Josh, can you prioritise this? We’ve made a mistake. It should have an andouillette.”

“I’m sorry, Kyle,” Josh apologised. He clearly heard how the customer interacted with me.
“No worries,” I assured him and gave him a pat in the back. “Go make great burgers!”

“Monsieur, we’re preparing your new sandwich,” I told the customer when I came back to the claim window. “Apologies for the delay, we know you’re hungry.”

I took on another order. Order 465: Three Santonian burgers with saucisse de Kyle and Douvres cheese. I took the burgers from the shelf, checked it again, and called out the number. The claimants looked like a father and his two teenaged sons, who had been standing nearby waiting for their order to be called.

“Does this really contain your naughty sausage?” The man said jovially. He was clearly riding on my earlier joke. “We liked it because it’s long and juicy,” he guffawed. The sight of a big burly man exchanging dad jokes with me also made many of the other bystanders smile and laugh. Including his two teenaged sons.

“Of course, monsieur, my sausage is le délicieux,” I answered as I puckered my lips and made the ‘tasty’ gesture popularised by that Predicean TV chef. “Très bien, très bien,” I said happily in a faked accent. “Enjoy your burgers,” I said as I handed them their food.

As the teenaged boys took the food, the big man patted Mr Andouillette on the shoulder. “Take it easy man,” he told Mr Andouillette. “People make mistakes. He’s just a kid.” He then left afterwards.

I was touched. People were standing up for me.

“Kyle, the burger is ready,” Josh said as he handed me Mr Andouillette’s burger.

I took Mr Andouillette’s burger from Josh and inspected that it did contain the right sausage before wrapping it up. I handed the new burger and the previous one to Mr Andouillette. “Here are your sandwiches, monsieur,” I told him with a grin. “Hope you enjoy them.”

His annoyed expression was replaced with a baffled one. “I only ordered one burger.”

“We’re giving you the other burger, for free!” I told him cheerfully. “Just give it a taste, who knows, you might like it!”

“Thanks, I guess.” Mr Andouillette smiled a bit. I felt I had made progress on him – his expression was more pleasant now.

“You’re welcome!” I said as I saw him walk away. Time for another order. The next one, order number 466, was huge.


After assembling the order, I called out the number. A familiar face came to claim the food.

“Danielle?” I thought my jaw fell off. I didn’t think I would encounter her again in this big city called Saintes.

She was still dressed prettily like last week, after all, it was Sunday. She was blushing as our eyes met again. She accepted the tray of food from me. “Kyle… I never thought you’d be working here.”

It was my turn to get embarrassed. No amount of encouragement from Uncle Tim would make me feel proud of what I do in front of her. I was simply way below her status. While I told her I worked part-time, I didn’t tell her it was at a food truck in front of the Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs church.

I scrambled for my usual jolly words I gave to Burger-On’s customers. None came out.

Christelle, who had just finished with the last client in her queue, interrupted. “You know each other?”

“Yes – ” Danielle and I said in unison. We exchanged glances. “We met last week,” I told Christelle.
“Good for you,” Christelle remarked with a knowing smile. “Enjoy your food,” she told Danielle, who left with her tray of burgers and drinks.

After ensuring that Danielle had gone over to her table, Christelle leaned closer to me. “You like her, do you?” She teased me. “I can see it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I replied in fake irritation as I picked up another order number and started assembling.
“Kyle, you’re so transparent,” Christelle said. “Go ahead and make your move.”

I took the requisite burgers from the shelf. “Hush, Christelle. I’m busy filling orders here.”
“I can help you if you want,” she offered, and then added, “my lines are gone anyway.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Christelle’s lines thinning out meant that there would be fewer orders to be filled. At almost 2:00 PM, the flood of customers had slowed down to a trickle.

Uncle Tim, who had just returned with more burger patties and ingredients from his house, came into the food truck. “So, how’s everything guys?”

“It’s been good, Uncle Tim,” Christelle answered. “Sales are brisk.”
“Good, good,” our boss said. He then went straight to me. “Kyle, take off your apron and hairnet. Get a burger and have your lunch break.”

Just me? I thought to myself.

“Somebody’s waiting for you outside,” Uncle Tim told me.

---

*Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs = "Our Lady of Sorrows"

“Somebody” turned out to be Danielle Briault. She smiled as I descended the back of the truck. I clutched my burger and drink in my hands.

“Hello Kyle,” she greeted me. “I’m happy to see you again.”
“Me too,” I told her. “I hope the burgers were okay.”
“They’re delicious.”

I had some questions lingering in my head, and one that came out was, “Why are you here?”

Danielle gave out her dainty laugh. “We went to Mass at Notre-Dame-des-Douleurs.”
“You go to Mass here every Sunday?”
“No, just today,” she answered. “Me and my family went to Mass together.” Danielle then took my right hand and then started to walk. “My family wants to meet you.”

What was this? She was going to introduce me to her family? We aren’t even in a relationship. Heck, I haven’t even asked her out.

She might have noticed my hesitancy as I fixed my gaze on her hand holding mine. “Oh Kyle, I’m really open with my parents like I told you,” she explained, “They know all of my friends.”

We’re just friends then. Damn, she had me hoping at that moment.

“I hope you want to be friends,” she said, sensing the little bit of disappointment in my face.

I smiled to wipe off any trace of disappointment from my face. “Of course, I want to be friends with you.”

“Come with me.”

Danielle guided me to the table where her family sat and introduced me one-by-one to them. Patrick, her father, who works as a banker. Charlotte, her devout stay-at-home mother. Aurélien, her twelve-year-old younger brother, who was also a football fan.

“Wow I got to meet a football star!” Aurélien gushed as he shook my hand.
“Oh no, you must be confusing me with someone else,” I told him humbly.
“Nah, you were the saviour of the game,” he told me.

It seemed that news about last week’s game were spreading.

“We’ve heard so much about you, Kyle,” Madame Charlotte said. “Come have a seat and have your lunch with us.”

I glanced nervously at Danielle, who gave me an encouraging smile. I sat beside her and opposite her mother. What was this going to be, an interview, an interrogation?

“Don’t be too nervous,” Monsieur Patrick said with a comforting smile. Danielle had inherited that smile from her father. “We just want to meet our daughter’s friend.”

I sat down beside Danielle, opposite her parents.

“Your burgers are good,” Madame Charlotte started with a compliment.
“Oh no Madame, I did not make your burgers,” I said somewhat stiffly. “I’m just the assembler for today.”
“But I assume you also worked in the kitchen and you know how to make them.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Just call me Tata* Charlotte,” she said as she sipped her drink. “All of Danielle’s friends call me that.”
“Yes, Tata Charlotte,” I muttered awkwardly.

Now I know the awkwardness and embarrassment Danielle must’ve felt when she first met me.

“You know, I admire young people like you,” Monsieur Patrick commented. “Working at a young age to help the family.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled. “I gotta do what I gotta do.”
“I was like you back then,” Monsieur Patrick said. “My parents are farmers and we are a large family. I had to work to support myself in university.”

And now he works a banker. The hype about Saintonge being a land of opportunity is not untrue. I just hoped that me and my mother would be able to rise up and escape what Fate had handed us.

The rest of Danielle’s family were like her – once one had started getting to know them, the conversation goes on. The Briaults were like a wealthier version of the Doulchards: open, friendly, frank.

After half an hour of nice conversations, the dreaded question eventually came. As expected, it came from the devout Tata Charlotte. “Kyle, are you a chrétien?”

It made sense for her to use the Santonian word chrétien, which is more general and encompasses the other denominations. From my understanding, chrétien includes the Courantists, Laurentists, and Santonians; messianiste for Santonians, Courantists, Laurentists, and Orthodox; courantiste is for Courantists and Santonian Church members; catholique was the specific word for members of the Santonian National Church. Members of the Santonian National Church are messianiste, chrétien, courantiste, and catholique all at the same time. All those terminologies are quite confusing. Thankfully…

… I was none of the above… sort of. Technically I was catholique, as Santonian citizens like me were supposed to be members of the Santonian National Church. I was baptised when I was an infant, but I don’t pray, hear Mass, or participate in any way. Tata Charlotte’s question set me up for a wide range of adverse possibilities, from pity about my non-existent soul to deep humiliation, at the hands of the devout Briault family. Answering would likely cut off my budding friendship with Danielle.

But they were expecting an answer. Shall I be diplomatic? Shall I tell the truth? Pad it a bit? Give them a long, convoluted answer? My mind did not like the choices and the possibilities. Only a short answer came out of my mouth.

“Uhhh… I’m Prydanian,” I mumbled, and the following it up with a short nervous laugh.
What came next was something I did not expect.

“Oh yes, I forgot about that,” Tata Charlotte replied with a grin. “I hope you didn’t mind I asked.” She clearly sensed my discomfiture at her question.

“Maman is really devout,” Aurélien remarked. “She goes to Mass everyday.”

I nodded. Danielle told me that before. I decided to shift the conversation to them. “Do you always go to Mass in Douleurs?” I asked.
“No, this is not our parish church,” Tata Charlotte answered. “I’m doing the Pilgrimage in Saintes this year.”
“Pilgrimage?”
“Yes, Kyle,” Tata Charlotte began, “the Pilgrimage in Saintes entails visiting each of the 365 churches in Saintes, one each day. Today we went here to Douleurs.”
“Does the entire family go on the pilgrimage?”
“No, it’s just me,” Tata Charlotte clarified. “Patrick has work; Danielle and Aurélien has school. But sometimes they come with me on weekends.”

“They say that once you have finished the Pilgrimage, the thing you wished for everyday will be granted the next year,” Aurélien added.

I nodded, trying to look as sympathetic as I could, but I found the idea bordering on ridiculous. But each to their own beliefs.

The conversation then steered to other things, like Aurélien’s dream of becoming a professional soccer player. “Do you dream of becoming one?” He asked me.

“Sometimes, yeah,” I answered. “But what I know is that I should have a backup in case something happens. While pursuing that, I still need to get a good education so I can have a job if my football career doesn’t go too well.”
“That’s good advice,” Monsieur Patrick said. “Thank you.” He turned to his son. “You should heed that, Aurélien.”
“Yes Papa.”

Monsieur Patrick glanced at his watch. “It’s almost three,” he said. “Inasmuch as we enjoyed talking to you Kyle, we don’t want to hold you for long.”

Time flies when enjoying good company.

“Thank you for allowing us to meet you,” Monsieur Patrick and the rest of the family started to stand up. “It’s been our pleasure to meet my daughter’s new friend.”
“Thank you too, Monsieur Patrick,” I told them. “And Tata Charlotte. And Aurélien. Good luck on your dream. Remember, practice makes perfect!”
“Sure thing,” Aurélien said as we did a fist bump.

After the Briault family said goodbye to me and left for their car, I tidied up the table. Back to work.

---

*Tata = "Aunt"

Three days later

Wednesday afternoon was football practice. Coach Landreau finally allowed me to join the practice after class, after seeing the clearance from my doctor. Cédric and I were walking towards the school’s sports field at the far end of the campus.

“Help! I can’t breathe!” A faint cry of help seemed to come from the alleyway between the two now-empty school buildings.

“Cédric, did you hear that?” I asked my friend.
Cédric nodded as we rushed towards the source of the sound.

“Please stop! I’m allergic to perfume!”

When we arrived at the short dead-end alleyway, I saw a group of three teenaged students pushing a gangly bespectacled kid into the dumpster. One of them then snatched away the kid’s glasses and threw it on the ground. “I can’t see!” He exclaimed. The other teenager then sprayed perfume on the kid’s face. “Stop!” The kid exclaimed in a hoarse voice. “You are killing me!”

The teenaged bullies laughed as they sprayed more perfume on the kid’s face. My heart went out for the kid. I had been in that situation before.

I threw my gym bag on the ground. “You bullies should stop,” I declaimed. I saw Cédric put his bag down as well. We were all too familiar with this. When people used to bully me about my name, Cédric would come to help me.

The three bullies stopped their torment of the kid and turned to face us.

“Really?” The lead bully said. “Stop us.”

I let out a snigger when I saw the lead bully’s face. He was this pudgy teenager with eternal rosy cheeks that was out of place with his perpetual smirk. I knew this person. “Still doing what you used to do in the collège, Benoît?” I told him. “I thought you learned your lesson when you got expelled.”

Benoît Desescoutes was the bully in our collège, or middle school. I was one of his victims. He was expelled in Year 8 after bullying one student too many. It seems he was studying at Lycée de Luzerne as well.

“Sausage boy,” Benoît drawled tauntingly. I recognised him, he recognised me. He paced towards me and tried to give me his menacing look. I found it amusing that he now had to look up at me in order to threaten me. When Benoît used to bully me a few years ago, I was smaller than him. Now I was taller than him, thanks to those Prydanian height genes and the teenage growth spurt. Benoît, on the other hand, grew in girth instead.

“You’re not scaring me,” I told Benoît. “Leave him alone.”
“So what, you’re standing up to me now?” Benoît threatened me. “Prove it,” Benoît then tried to shove me out of the way, but his puny effort didn’t even make me budge or even take a step back. Cédric let out a mocking chuckle as he saw Benoît fail to manhandle me.

“You annoy me, sausage boy!” Benoît flung his pig fist towards my face. I parried his right-handed jab with a quick strong grip on his forearm. Easy. Just like blocking football opponents out of the way.

I pushed Benoît’s right arm down and I saw him flinging his other fist towards my face. I blocked his left-handed jab with my other arm, and then grabbed his left forearm as well. With both of Benoît’s forearms securely in my grip, I twisted his arms as far as I can, causing him to bellow in pain. After a few seconds of sweet revenge, I shoved him backwards, causing him to fall at the foot of the dumpster. His two sidekick-bullies then tried to run away, to leave Benoît to face my wrath alone. But they were pushed to the ground by some other students.

“What’s happening here, Bronco?”
I looked at the newcomers who prevented the bullies from escaping. My football teammates. Jérôme. Charles. Joël. Archambault. Tobie. Brice. Florian. Gérard.

“Bullies,” I answered, as I tipped my head towards Benoît’s direction.
Jérôme turned his attention to Benoît, who was now cowering in fear under the dumpster as the big burly Jérôme stood over him. “Listen, fat face,” Jérôme yelled at Benoît, “You’re not bullying Bronco.” Jérôme feigned kicking Benoît, but instead kicked the leaf-filled trash bags beside Benoît. Those feet, which could launch soccer balls at a hundred kilometres per hour, would’ve probably turned Benoît’s plump tomato face into mush. “Kyle might be named after a sausage but you look like what sausages are made out of, pig,” Jérôme said the last word with sheer disdain that it would’ve crushed whatever dignity Benoît had. “You’re not bullying anybody anymore or I’ll turn you into sausage, do you understand?”

Benoît was literally shaking in fear. And he also literally wet his pants in fear. I threw Cédric a sideways glance. Cédric slowly wagged his head in amusement.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!” Jérôme repeated the question in his loud booming voice. “No more bullying!”

Benoît nodded incessantly, signifying his agreement. “Yessir, no more bullying,” Benoît answered, his voice quivering as he mumbled his answer over and over again. “Yessir, no more bullying… no more bullying…”

“Good.” Jérôme said in satisfaction and then turned to us. “Guys, let’s haul these bullies to the headmaster’s office.”

As my teammates escorted the bullies to the headmaster’s office, I picked up the glasses of the bullied kid and handed it over to him. Cédric and I pulled him out of the dumpster.

His eyes were swollen from all the crying, and he was barely breathing from all the sobs. “Thank you, Bronco,” he muttered as he hugged me in gratitude. His accent hinted that he was an immigrant to Saintonge.
“No worries,” I said as we started picking up his things. “I did what anybody should’ve done. By the way, what is your name?”
“Casper,” he answered.
“Not Santonian?” Cédric inquired.
“I’m Prydanian,” Casper muttered, with overtones of shame and embarrassment.
“Gaman að hitta þig,“ I told Casper one of the few Prydanian phrases that I know. I saw Casper’s face light up in astonishment.
“You’re Prydanian too?”
“Yes I am,” I smiled at him as I gave him his books that I picked off the ground. “Come, we’ll bring you to the clinic.”

Cédric looked at me with a thoughtful smile. A few years ago, I used to be like Casper. Now the bullied is chasing the bullies away.

After the football practice, me and my teammates were changing in the locker room, exchanging comments and banter. Contrary to the clichéd portrayal of hypermasculine ‘jocks’ and ‘cool guys’ on foreign television, my teammates largely were an ordinary bunch. They don’t see themselves as superior to other students. They all came from similar lower middle class and lower-class backgrounds. All were trying to improve their lot, through football, education, or in whatever way they can.

I just listened to them as I was untying my old and battered firm-ground football boots, the cleats almost worn down smooth from the years of use. My feet were also outgrowing the shoes. I needed a new pair…

Archambault eyed my football boots. “No offense, Bronco, but you’re still wearing that?”

I looked up to Archambault, who was sitting opposite me, also untying his shoes. “Uh, this is only what I have,” I muttered.

“You need new ones,” he told me. “I’m surprised you can score with those worn shoes. You must have a lot of skill.”
“Our Bronco is that great,” Jérôme interjected, putting an arm over my shoulder. “When rich guys rely on their shoes to give them an advantage, le Bronco uses sheer talent!”
Everyone hooted.
“But yeah, seriously Bronco, you need new shoes. Just sayin’.” Jérôme then gave me a pat in the back.

“I have an old pair of FG boots. It’s not that worn out. Grandma gifted me this new pair for my birthday. I can give my old pair to you,” Tobie offered. “What’s your size?”
“I think I’m a size 48-49,” I answered.

“F*ck, those are some big feet,” Tobie blurted. “My shoes are size 46. And I thought I had big feet.”
“Those big Prydanian feet,” Jérôme chuckled as he went back to the area where his locker was. “Gotta get big Prydanian shoes for that too.”

“Aren’t your SG boots Prydanian?” Archambault asked.
“Ör Íþróttum,” I answered, telling them the brand of the shoes. “I bought them online.”
“Oerththothtum,” Jérôme babbled. “That’s a mouthful. No wonder they’re not easily available here – nobody can pronounce their name.”
“Very expensive too, because it’s imported – taxes and all,” I said a bit glumly. Because I was underage, I had to convince my mother to use her credit card to buy it online. And then I gave her the money so she could pay for the ridiculously expensive pair of shoes.

“LeFort sometimes has a size 49,” Charles mentioned. “It’s the biggest size they have. You might want to look at that – cheaper because there’s no import taxes.”
I nodded.
“But it’s not easily available,” he advised further. “I think you can get them only in the big LeFort stores. Maybe go to their store in Chambly.”
“Thanks. I will look into it.”

Yes, look. Probably just look for now. I didn’t have the money. Knowing that my shoe size was special, it was going to be pricey. Just like the last pair I bought.

The old and battered pair I had was suited for firm ground pitches, like the one we had at Luzerne. But Montbrillais and some of the other Saintes teams were playing on a soft ground pitch, and so I had to buy a new, different pair of soft-ground football boots for playing our away games. Given my shoe size, I could not simply borrow from somebody else; I needed to buy them. So I prioritised the SG boots because my FG one was still passable. And buying the pair of SG boots drained my savings – I could not afford to buy two pairs of football boots in one go.

I switched back to my also-worn sneakers and started changing clothes. As I pulled my T-shirt from my locker, I noticed my mobile phone blinking, wanting my attention.

I took my phone and unlocked it. Somebody sent me a message during football practice. I opened the message from the unknown number, sent just half an hour ago.


So this was Danielle’s number. First things first, I saved the number. And then I replied, my mind filled up with a mix of delight at her contacting me and astonishment that she chose to contact me.


The mix of emotions in my head was interrupted by Cédric. “Hey Kyle, who are you texting?”

I looked up at my best friend. Having finished changing clothes, he was trying to look at my phone.

“Uh, no one,” I said reflexively.
“Bah, that message from ‘no one’ brought a big grin to your face,” Cédric remarked as he stuffed his clothes in his gym bag. “You can’t fool me, Kyle. I know you like the back of my hand.”
I returned my phone back to the locker and resumed changing to my street clothes. As I put back my stuff in my gym bag, I whispered to Cédric, “Keep quiet, Cédric. I’ll tell you on the way home.”

Cédric gave me his knowing look. “I think I know what this is,” he remarked as he sat on a bench, waiting for me to finish packing up.


On the short bus ride home, Cédric brought up the issue. “So, who was the girl you were texting?”

My best friend really knew me well... and I was not sure whether that was an advantage that day. “Her name is Danielle,” I replied curtly.
“See, I knew it!” Cédric exclaimed in satisfaction. “Do you have a picture?”

I realised that Danielle and I never had a picture together. But then again, we’re still just friends. Why should we have pictures together?

“No, we’re just friends,” I muttered.
“Your face tells me otherwise.”
“You know, Cédric, sometimes you can be very nosy.”
“Your reaction also tells me otherwise.”

I sighed.

“You like her, don’t you?” Cédric asked rhetorically. He likely knew the answer to the question.
“We just met one and a half weeks ago.”
“Ok bro, tell me more.”

There was really no point hiding it from my best friend. I related the story of how we met when I was in the hospital. How I met her again last Sunday while at work in the food truck. How she introduced me to her family.

“Whoa, whoa, stop right there!” Cédric uttered in excitement. “She introduced you to her parents? Bro, that’s something else. That’s not simple friendship.”
“She said her parents know all of her friends,” I said, shrugging. “So she introduced me to her parents.”

Cédric stroked his chin. “There’s some potential right there, bro.”
“It won’t work,” I said resignedly as I pressed the button to signify to the driver that we were going off at the next stop. “She’s catholique.”
“Oh,” Cédric murmured as my phone beeped. A message. From Danielle.


“She’s inviting you to dinner?” Cédric was flabbergasted as he peeped at my phone. “Dude, like I told you, that’s really something else.”

The bus turned to our stop. Time to alight.

Cédric and I went off the bus and started walking towards the apartment tower block where we lived.
“Does your mother know?” Cédric asked.
“No, and that’s why it’s complicated,” I told him.
“Well, Aunt Ulrica didn’t have a problem with catholiques like us, so I presume she won’t have a problem with Danielle.” Cédric's family had also grown close to my mum that Cédric and his sisters call my mother Tata, or "Auntie".

“I think mum will," I said. "Danielle and her family are really devout. Like saintly levels. Danielle’s mother goes to church every day.”
“And Danielle’s parents didn’t have a problem with the heathen Kyle?”
“I told them I’m Prydanian,” I said. “I think they’re too nice and polite to say anything bad. Typical Santonians.”
“But at least they allowed Danielle to become friends with you.”
“Mm-hmm.”

As we neared our apartment tower block, Cédric asked another question. “How are you going to tell Aunt Ulrica that you’ll be meeting up with this proper catholique girl?”

Now there was the conundrum. My mother was likely going to look for me on a Friday night, it being the night that she stays the most at home. Her work during Saturday starts in the afternoon, leaving plenty of time for her to pester me on a Friday night if she wasn’t doing her stuff. Even telling Danielle’s name to my mother was probably a no-no, since she can search for her in the internet.

“Simple… I won’t tell her,” I replied.
Cédric looked puzzled. “And what will I say when she looks for you at our house?”
“You won’t be at your house,” I told Cédric. “You’re coming with me.”

“What am I, a third wheel?” Cédric complained in jest, and then laughed. “What is all this lying?”
“I can introduce you to her too,” I added.
“That’d be nice, but…” Cédric hesitated for a bit.

“Bro, please help me,” I begged my best friend. “I already said yes to the girl.”
“Dammit Kyle, why are you committing to stuff when you don’t have proper plans yet?”
“Please?”
“Alright, alright, I’ll go with you and feel free to use me as an excuse. But… what are we going to tell our parents?”

I thought for a bit as we approached the elevator lobby of our apartment block.

“Let’s say we were out looking for new football boots,” I proposed.
“Looking for boots or for boobs?”
“Cédric!” I nearly lashed out at my best friend. “It’s not funny.”

My best friend sobered up. “Sorry, bro,” Cédric said semi-contritely. “I love how you get all worked up for this girl. But are we really going to look for new football boots too? I’m not really good at lying, you know that.”
“Well… we can go look for cleats while waiting. So that it won’t be a total lie.”
“Yeah right, suuuure.”

My phone beeped again. Danielle had replied.


“Perfect,” I muttered as I read the message.
“Perfect what?” Cédric asked.
“We’ll be meeting at Chambly. 7 PM on Friday.”
“Near the shoe store?” Cédric commented as he pushed the ‘up’ button for the elevator. “Way to make the ruse more believable.”
“She suggested it, not me.” The elevator opened and we went in. I pressed the button for our floor. “So, you game for it?”
Cédric smiled. “Sure bro.”
“I’ll pay for your dinner,” I offered.
“No need for that,” Cédric told me. “But thanks anyway.”
“I think it’s only proper.”
“Bro, you need it to buy your shoes,” Cédric said. “I can pay for my food.”
“Thanks bro. I’ll tell her that I’m coming with someone else.”

Friday

Straight from school, Cédric and I rode the Saintes Métro to Chambly station, over which the large, sprawling Les Halles des Étrangères shopping mall was built. It was here that Cédric and I looked for the LeFort store. We arrived an hour before our appointment time, plenty of time to look for new kicks.

The LeFort store there was huge, containing vast arrays of merchandise for every sport. We went to the section for football, and immediately a salesguy went over to us. It was obvious that we were there for football stuff: Cédric and I were both wearing football shirts – despite us not talking about having a similar getup that day.

“You are really wearing that on your date?” Cédric chided me earlier that day as we met up after class at Luzerne metro station.

I was wearing my favourite shirt: a customised red #7 Saintonge national football team shirt with 2019 World Cup patches, with my name printed on the back. It was a gift from the Doulchard family last Christmas; and it was some sort of aspirational thing, since I play as a right winger.

“It’s not a date,” I said somewhat gruffly. “And if that’s the case, you’re underdressed too.”

Cédric was sporting a black-and-gray Stade de Saintes away shirt. “Nah, I’m just the third wheel,” he said. “I mean, I don’t have to be there. You, on the other hand, look like you’re going to a sports bar than a candlelight dinner,” he teased me.

“It’s not a candlelight dinner,” I said in an annoyed tone.
Cédric lightly punched my upper arm. “You are so serious when it comes to this girl, bro.”

I put my arm around Cédric’s shoulder. “You know what, Cédric, if you weren’t my best friend – ” I playfully brought him closer to me and gave him a couteaux* in the head like we used to do to each other as children – “I would’ve punched you in the face.”

“Hey!” Cédric protested jokingly. “Just because you’re now bigger than me, you do that to me!”

Back when we were children, it was the opposite. Cédric was bigger than me, so I got more couteaux from him than the other way around. Sometimes it led to us fighting, but after all of those petty childish quarrels we’d be friends again.

I let go of Cédric. “You’re so intent on setting me up and insisting it’s a date, that’s why,” I said, laughing.
“Me, setting you up?” Cédric chortled. “No, Kyle, you are setting yourself up.” He fixed his hair that I disturbed with my couteaux. “Since I’m your best friend, I fully support you. In your so-called ‘shoe-hunting’ tonight.”

At the store, Cédric and I were looking at the different shoes. I fancied the LeFort Mercuriel Vapeur multi-ground football boots with speed cleats. “We have sizes for that,” the salesguy proclaimed proudly, after observing me look at the shoe fondly.
“What is your biggest size?” I asked.
“49.”
“That’s your size,” Cédric told me.
“Do you want to look at it?” The salesguy offered.

I hesitated a bit. The price of the shoe was eye-watering – 500 livres – equivalent to five Sundays of work at Burger-On. I would need at least a month to save up for the shoe – but my major games were coming.

“Yes, please,” Cédric answered for me.

The salesguy went to fetch the shoes.

“You know I don’t intend to buy anything, right?” I whispered to my friend. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Well, you must know what are you going to save up for, right?” Cédric retorted. “Also, if your money is not enough, I can always lend you some of my savings.”
I had no doubt my friend would do that for me, but… “aren’t you also looking to buy new boots for yourself too?” I asked Cédric.
“Yes I am,” Cédric replied, “but your boots need replacing more than mine.”

After a few minutes, the salesguy came back with the football boots. “Try it on,” he said, smiling, as he removed the shoes from the box and took out all the paper stuffed inside the shoe. Cédric encouraged me to try it.

I walked around in the football boots. The size 49 fit my big feet snugly. The shoes were lightweight, good for a forward. The shoes were soft, comfortable, and with a padded touch. I liked the bounce. The shoes were perfect for me. Too bad I didn’t have 500 livres with me.

“How do you like it?” The salesguy asked.
“I like it very much,” I answered.

Then came the awkward part. Wriggling out of the shoe and the store due to the fact that I was not buying anything.

“And…?” The salesguy asked, probably expecting me to buy it.
“It was nice, thank you,” I said quickly as I sat down to remove the shoe. “I hope to come back for it.”

The salesguy then realised that I was just probably trying out the shoe.

“No worries,” the salesguy smiled. “This size is not that in demand, so you can come back when you can.” He took a card from a cardholder located atop one of the shelves filled with Stade de Saintes merchandise. “Here’s our store’s number,” he told me as he gave me the card. “You can call us before coming so we can reserve the merch for you. When you come back, ask for me – my name is Ardouin.”
“Thanks, Ardouin.” I returned the shoes to him.

As I was lacing my own shoes, somebody greeted us. “Hi Kyle.”

I looked up to see who it was. Danielle Briault and her mother. Her mother was dressed up for church; Danielle was wearing her school uniform – she was, after all, a catholique schoolgirl from École de Sainte Scolastique.

I stood up to greet the mother and daughter. “Good evening, Danielle, Tata Charlotte.” I then introduced my best friend. “This is Cédric, my best friend.”

“Nice to meet you, Cédric,” Danielle’s mother said knowingly. She clearly expected Cédric to be there. No doubt Danielle told her I’d be coming with my best friend. “I shall leave you here for now. Have fun at dinner.”

Tata Charlotte was leaving Danielle with us? I was astonished. I thought she was going to be with us for the dinner. I never thought a presumably conservative mother like Tata Charlotte would leave her daughter alone, with boys that were of the same age as her daughter.

“Danielle, see you at 9:30 at the parking lot,” she told her daughter. Before she left, she then cast a glance at me. “Kyle, take care of Danielle for me.”
“Yes, Tata Charlotte.”

I looked at Cédric, who was also astounded. He had also fully expected Danielle’s mother to be the chaperone for the dinner. Suddenly this was looking more and more like a date.

And f*ck I’m underdressed.

“Why do you guys look surprised?” Danielle asked both of us. I sat down again to tie my other shoe. “My mother believes that she should be able to trust my friends, that’s why she wanted to meet you Kyle.”

So that was what last Sunday was for. An interview as to whether I could be a trustworthy friend for her. I shouldn’t have given much more meaning to it then. I felt less underdressed then.

“She liked you, Kyle,” Danielle added, blushing slightly as I stood up and our eyes momentarily locked in a gaze.

Cédric cleared his throat. “So, shall we go?” Looking at both of us, he said, “Or, maybe, shall I go?”

“Cédric, we have just met,” Danielle said. “Come with us.”

---

* Couteaux: Santonian word for a soft knuckle blow, usually to the head. Usually made by parents to errant children or by children to each other is they want to annoy each other.

We settled down for dinner at Bontà Antofagosta, the chain of casual-dining Predicean-style restaurants by the Predicean TV chef Gino D’Ocampo. It was mid-ranged in price, certainly more expensive than food at Burger-On, but less pricey than the fancy restaurants in downtown Saintes. It was at a budget I can take without looking too cheap for the date… but granted, it wasn’t really my choice – Danielle chose it.

Over plates of guanciale tortellini, chicken marinara, and pizza, the conversation revolved around my friendship with Cédric.

“I was an only child,” I told Danielle, who sat across the table from both Cédric and me.
“And I’m the only son,” Cédric said in between bites of pizza. “We’re neighbours, we’re of the same age, it’s natural we’d be playmates. My mother used to babysit Kyle.”
“Yes, I’m a frequent visitor at Cédric’s place.”

“I see you two also are into football,” Danielle observed.

“Ain’t we obvious?” Cédric said with a grin as he chewed pizza. “I actually tried to dissuade Kyle from wearing a football shirt on his daaOUCH! “ Cédric’s last word was cut off as I stomped on his foot and glared at him. Cédric wasn’t going to make the obvious date obvious.

“… this day,” Cédric amended his statement. I sighed and went back to sticking my fork into the tortellini.

“Kyle is actually a good footballer,” Cédric continued proudly, hyping me up like how a salesman would tout his wares. “We learned football on the streets, we played together, but I’ll admit, he’s better than me.”

“Oh really?” Danielle murmured as she reached for her drink.

“He’s the striker, and I’m just a midfield guy,” Cédric added. “Everybody loves a striker!”

Danielle chuckled coyly before taking a sip of her drink. I silently put some tortellini in my mouth.

“Kyle just, like, won the last game for us!”
“I heard of that,” Danielle smiled. “Good job Kyle.”

I felt my cheeks blush a bit. Damn Cédric. Inviting my best friend was now starting to look like a bad idea.

“Er… thank you,” I said softly.
Cédric put his arm over my shoulders. “That’s my best friend! Although I’m wondering why with his great football skills” – he then positioned his hand below my chin as if I was the product he was selling – “this handsome Viking face, and nice-guy attitude, he still isn’t the chick magneOUCH!”

I stomped on Cédric’s foot again to make him stop.

“… chicken marinara. Kyle still hasn't tried the chicken marinara,” Cédric said quickly, going back to his food. “Tasty, oui?”

But Danielle took the cue. “You don’t have a girlfriend?” Her inquisitive tone was hard to read.

“I’m too young for that,” I answered, which earned what seemed to be an approving look from Danielle. “And besides, I was an outcast at school.”
“Oh,” Danielle mumbled. “You hadn’t told me that,” she said in a sympathetic tone.
“Mostly because of his name,” Cédric began. “Bullies taunted Kyle as the ‘sausage boy’. Sometimes he was called ‘syndie kid’, ‘filthy thaunic’, and ‘heathen trash’ because he was Prydanian.”

“It was good that Cédric was there to help me in school," I said.
“Yeah, we beat ‘em bullies!” Cédric said happily. “Last Wednesday, Kyle even helped a guy who was being bullied. That’s how gallant and brave my best friend is.”

Here goes Cédric again. If he continues some more, he won’t be able to play football again.

“You should’ve seen how he stopped the bully,” Cédric continued. “Kyle’s ninja moves can take down anyOUCH!”
“I did what people should’ve done anyway,” I said simply. “Helping other people who need help.”

Danielle nodded knowingly.

“Actually, Cédric helped me a lot,” I related, partially in remorse to stomping Cédric’s foot thrice, “Thanks to him, my school life had improved. He’s the one who told me to try out for the football team. He was in there before I was. Being in the team changed how people look at me.”
“And they started to appreciate my best friend for the wonderful person that he really is,” Cédric said, and then took another bite of his pizza.

“Kyle is wonderful,” Danielle agreed. Her comment sent colour up my cheeks again. She chuckled as she saw my embarrassment at her attempt at flattery. “You two are like brothers who support each other, even if you’re not related by blood.”

“Yeah, what good is a striker if I don’t have a good midfielder?” I commented as I elbowed Cédric, who was in the process of shoving pizza into his mouth. The pizza slice fell from his hands and onto the table. “Hey, my pizza!” Cédric exclaimed, “I’m gonna faceslap you with this pizza Kyle!”

We all laughed. We moved on to other topics, including Danielle’s other friends. “I don’t have that many guy friends,” she admitted. “I go to an all-girls school, remember?”

“How many guy friends do you have?” Cédric asked.
“Aside from you two?” Danielle said, mentally counting how many. “Probably less than a dozen.”
“Why, your conservative parents don’t like you going near boys?” Cédric asked as he cleaned up the plate of tortellini.
“Nope, because if that’s the case we won’t be eating dinner now,” she answered. “They’re okay with me being friends with boys, but only with the ones they trust. They say – and I agree – that some boys only want to be friends because they want to hit you up,” she said with a tone of disapproval. “Those horny boys are a no-no.”

“And Kyle is not a horny boy?” Cédric asked jokily.

I looked angrily my so-called best friend. F*ck you Cédric. We’re going to a have a reckoning on the way home.

“I don’t think he is,” Danielle said earnestly. “Is he?”

Cédric waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Nah, Kyle is not a horny boy. He’s a good boy. He’s an angel.”

“I’m sorry about my best friend,” I told Danielle. “He sometimes says weird things.”
“What weird things did I say?” Cédric protested, and then turned to Danielle again. “I would highly recommend to you my best friend Kyle.” I mulled stomping on Cédric’s foot again. “He’s the bestest best friend I’ve ever had,” Cédric continued. “You won’t regret being friends with him.”

Danielle just gave out her soft, dainty laugh. Damn Cédric was trying to hawk me to her like I’m a piece of goddamn sausage.

After a few more of Cédric’s antics, Danielle’s phone lit up with a message from her mother. It was almost time to go. We asked for the bill, which came in the typical black check presenter. Both Danielle and I reached for it at the same time and were both trying to take it.

“I’ll pay,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. Truth to be told, I dreaded how much was in there, considering how much food Cédric ate.
“It’s okay, Kyle, I’ll pay for the dinner,” Danielle said, tugging the check presenter towards herself. I refused to let go. I wouldn’t want to look so cheapskate and poor at my first dinner with Danielle. If in the future, I had to look back to this day because someone asked ‘who paid for the food on your first date?’, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if it was the girl who paid for the meal?

“No,” I insisted, “I’m the guy and – ”
“Kyle,” Danielle glared at me, “CHIVALRY. IS. DEAD.”

I was dumbstruck at the sight of a conservative girl like Danielle using an ostensibly feminist phrase, so much so that my grip on the check weakened and she was able to yank it out of my hands. She started looking at how much the food was.

I started to open my mouth, but she spoke first. “Nuh-uh, Kyle, no protests.” She wagged her finger. “You aren’t paying for anything. I invited you guys to dinner. I chose the place. I chose the food. I must pay for it.” She then took some red livre bills from her wallet and put it inside the check presenter. As she handed it to the server, she added, “And besides, Kyle, you need the money more than I do.”

Was she… rubbing my poverty in? I looked down a bit and stared at the used table napkin in front of me. Maybe I was reaching high too much. Maybe I should know my place.

Danielle might have noticed the change in my facial expression. “Oh no, Kyle, I didn’t mean it that way,” she said apologetically.

I looked up at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out across the table to hold my hand.

Her apologies seemed sincere enough, but I think I can use it to win again. “Okay,” I smiled a bit, “Apology accepted, on one condition.”
“What?”
“That I pay for the dinner.”

Danielle sighed. “You’re so persistent, Kyle,” she told me as she let go of my hand. She paused for a bit, perhaps thinking for what to say next. And then she grinned, as if she had a bright idea of what to say next. “Okay, Kyle, if you want, you can pay for the dinner,” she smiled sweetly at me, “but I would like to contribute money for you to buy your football boots.”

“What?” I was perplexed.

“Weren’t you trying out the shoes earlier at LeFort? I want you to win the next game, so I’ll help you buy your new shoes.”

A barrage of one-word questions came out of my mouth. “Why? How? What?”

“Well, I’m your friend, that’s that,” Danielle told me. “I want to help you. How? Just think of me paying the dinner for you as my contribution to your new shoes.”

There was really no point arguing. She let me get away on a technicality… and admittedly, I really did need the money to buy my boots.

“Thank you very much.” I thanked her profusely. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Don’t think about it,” she said pleasantly. “I want you to win. Win the game for me.”
“Will do, mademoiselle,” I gave her a mock salute.


On the way home, Cédric finally tried to open a conversation after giving him the silent treatment while on the train. As we got off at Luzerne station to walk to the bus stop, he asked me, “Bro, are you okay?”

I inhaled deeply. “What the f*ck was that for, bro?” I asked Cédric, trying to control the loudness of my voice as we were in a public place. “Why did you have to embarrass me in front of Danielle?”

Cédric held up both his hands and slowly brought them down in a familiar gesture. “Calm down, Kyle… calm down.” He tried to soothe my anger. “I’m not embarrassing you. I was trying to… you know, pitch you to her.”

“What do you think am I, a sausage you are trying to hawk?”
“Uh, Kyle…”
“What am I, a horny boy now?”
“Jeez Kyle, calm down.” Cédric looked around. Some of the people near the bus stop were also looking at us. Maybe all they heard was “sausage” and “horny boy” and thought it was something else.

Cédric ushered me to the back of the bus stop where there weren’t much people. “You’re making a scandal,” he told me. He then put an arm over my shoulder and said, “Look bro, I apologise if you didn’t like what I did earlier. I was… you know, trying to make things work between you and Danielle?”
“I can make things work between us,” I told Cédric angrily. “I don’t need you.”
“And yet you asked me to come as your cover story,” Cédric retorted.

Cédric did have a point. If it weren’t for him, we couldn’t have gone to dinner. And I can’t go out easily with her without Cédric covering my ass. If he only stopped constantly shipping me and Danielle. If only he was less annoying. But I conceded that I might have been too harsh on my best friend.

“I’m sorry, bro,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
Cédric smiled back. “It’s okay bro. I understand. I’m sorry too if I was very meddlesome in your dinner earlier.”
“Yes, you have to be less annoying next time,” I told Cédric. And then both of us laughed.

Like our petty fights when we were children, give it a few minutes and soon Cédric and I would be back to being friends again.

“I really wish you well on Danielle,” Cédric told me. “She seems pleasant. A perfect girl for you.”
“Really, you think so?”
Cédric nodded. “You deserve to have a nice girlfriend.”

“That’s not on my mind yet, bro. And it feels like… forbidden.” My mind wandered to the field of forbidden love. “Like what Santonians call it… an Oclusian tortellini*?”
Cédric laughed. “No, that’s not what an Oclusian tortellini means. It’s more like a forbidden love complicated with the dimensions of power or superiority over the other partner,” he explained. He then eyed me curiously. “Your thing with Danielle, you’re calling it… love? You want to be her boyfriend now?”

“Aren’t we too young to think of that yet?” I countered, trying to cover up the fact that I essentially admitted to my best friend that I love Danielle. I shifted the topic to him. “Especially after your mum told you not to be too horny?”

Cédric chuckled. “Hey, I’m not horny.”
“But what happened to the Oclusi girl?”
“Oh no, she was the horny one,” Cédric explained.
“Didn’t work out?”
“Apparently the Oclusi has the hots for teachers,” Cédric said. “So I got dumped. She’s now with a teacher in the lycée she’s studying in. Now that’s a real Oclusian tortellini.”
“Awww…” I patted Cédric on his head. “Poor you.”
“I don’t want to let that happen to you Kyle,” Cédric declared. “You bro, deserve better.”

---

OOC Notes
* Oclusian tortellini (Santonian: tortellini oclusé): a Santonian idiom referring to a forbidden, scandalous love affair such as between a teacher and an underaged student, a married boss and his secretary, a priest and a parishioner.

At the centre of my vision, an outstretched, motionless, right arm lay palm side up, resting on a wooden plank. It was an odd scene, surely. I could not clearly see what was on the periphery. All I can see was the arm and the plank lying flat on the dry, dusty ground.

Several people came near the limb, their sandals and feet kicking up the dust. One of the people bent down, gripped the arm using both of his hands, and pushed it down onto the plank. Who it was, I didn’t know; I couldn’t see the face. It was like those news segments on TV where they conceal people’s identities by blurring them and their faces.

Another faceless person knelt beside the hand, holding something. That something gleamed slightly in the sunlight. Something metallic, maybe? The faceless person the positioned that something atop the base of the hand.

I did not realise what that something was until the faceless person brought out another tool: a crude hammer with a metal head and a wooden handle.

That something was a nail.

The faceless person swung the hammer and hit the nail on the head, driving the nail into the hand. I felt a sudden excruciating current of pain as the nail was rammed in. That arm was mine.

I screamed with every hammer blow as torrents of pain overwhelmed me and my arm. “Stop, please stop!” The faceless people never heeded my words, my yelps, my pleading. It was incessant… with strike after strike, with blow after blow, waves of pain inundated me and my body. They only stopped when the nail was fully driven into my hand…


“F*CK!” was the first word I said as I woke up. I rarely start my mornings with a cuss word, but it was another really bad dream.

I kicked my blanket off me and sat up. My shirt was soaked in sweat, so was my blanket and my sheets. It was as if I took a bath in my bed. “F*ck it,” I muttered, wondering why I was having nightmares lately. For a moment, I just sat on my bed in my darkened room, trying to elucidate the dream. It was probably useless to think about it though.

I looked out the window; it was still dark outside. My bedside clock read 4:57 AM.

With my soaked sheets, I would have to chuck them in the laundry now before my mum discovers it. Which meant I had to get up now.

I went off my bed and walked towards the door, with the light switch nearby. I fumbled for the light switch, uncharacteristically having difficulty feeling for it with my right hand. Finally I heard a click. The lights went on. And then I saw everything.


“WHAT THE F*CK!?” I yelled as I saw the horrors in front of me. Trickles of red ran down the wall from the light switch. I looked at my hand, still holding on to the switch. Streams of blood ran from the back of my hand, up my right arm.

I muttered another expletive as I ran out of my room to the bathroom next door. After quickly opening the lights to the bathroom, I put my bleeding hand under running water at the sink. The water mixed with the blood, colouring the water with a macabre pinkish hue. I took the soap and cleaned the bleeding area and the streams of blood it let out.

There was about a half-centimetre circular wound at the back of my hand, almost at the wrist. I vigorously soaped it and put it under running water until the bleeding stopped. And then I noticed – the water was running through my hand!

I turned my hand over and saw a corresponding wound at the palmar side of my hand, at the base where the hand and the wrist meet. The wound was located right at the first crease of the wrist, where the two fleshy bulges of the palm converge. There was also caked blood in the area, which I washed off with soap and water.

So the dream… wasn’t a dream after all? Did I have a corresponding injury while I was asleep? Sometimes things like that happen. Like when I dreamed of falling off a cliff when I was little, and then I woke up because I fell off the bed. Maybe something like that?

As I took out the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet and dressed my peculiar wound, I tried to think for the possible causes of my injury. The first thing that struck me was despite the size and goriness of the wounds, it didn’t feel painful at all. It was more of the shock and the ickiness that came with such ugly wounds. Well, in the dream, the hand was painful… but it wasn’t anymore when I dripped iodine on the wounds. I wiggled my hand and wrist a bit and felt nothing wrong with it. I could still grip the bottle of iodine as I wrapped my wrist in bandage. I could still flex and extend my wrist. I could still make a fist.

If the water went through my hand, maybe I impaled my hand on something? And given that there seemed to be nothing stuck inside the wound – no nails or whatever – it must be something inside my room.

After returning the first aid kit and cleaning up the traces of blood in the bathroom, I went back to my bedroom. It looked like a murder scene. Red drips on the wall near the light switch. Blood stains on my sheets, my blanket, my pillow. Blood spatters on the floor between my bed and the door, some smeared, possibly by me walking over them.

As I pulled my blanket and sheets off my mattress, I tried to search for any sharp instrument that might be the culprit. There weren’t any. As I wiped the floor and the wall, there wasn’t any indication of where I might have injured my hand during my sleep.

My mind continued to be preoccupied with thinking about it as I loaded my stained sheets into the washing machine. Do I have to go to the doctor for this wound? My mother would probably go crazy with worry – first the football injury, now this wound. And then she would probably search for reasons and ask questions I didn’t have the answers for. She’d probably think I was cutting myself, which would give her unending anxiety about me. She needn’t fret about me.

So I decided to keep it a secret. I’d observe the wound for a few days to see what happens, after all, my hand felt fine anyway.

The calendar hanging on the wall caught my attention. It was Sunday. I was supposed to be working in a few hours. I doubted Uncle Tim would let me work with such a big wound in my hand. But I needed the money. All the more that I need to hide my injury then.

As my sheets were tumbling inside the washing machine to erase the traces of blood, I searched my room for something suitable to hide my wound. Maybe some mittens? It would look out of place – it wasn’t winter. Maybe those wrist brace/guard/band things that some athletes wear? I didn’t have those. If those were cheap, I can buy them later after work. I made a mental note to bring my savings later so I can buy them. But for now, what would be suitable?

I remembered that I had a pair of soccer gloves. Because they assigned me as a goalkeeper before they made me a striker. Maybe that would work. I’d wear a football shirt to work then so it wouldn’t look so out of place. Then I’d volunteer to work in the kitchen so I had to wear plastic food handler’s gloves. It sounded like a plan.

The entire plan worked perfectly. At work, only the nosy Christelle asked, which I answered with a convincing “I kicked soccer balls for a while earlier.” She probably didn’t know those were goalkeeper’s gloves.

I spent two hours after work combing the stores nearby Douleurs for a suitable thing to cover my wound. There weren’t any. I finally gave in to the urge to go to the LeFort store in Chambly again. I would just have to avoid the football section and Ardouin – I still didn’t have 500 livres with me.

I looked at the various wrist bands and wrist guards near the tennis section. Most of them merely cover the wrist. I needed one that covers the base of the hand too, since that’s where my wound was.

I was about to leave the tennis section when I saw a freestanding shelf with a big ‘SOLDES! Jusqu’a 50% de reduction!!’ Oooh a sale. My eyes were drawn to the goods for sale. There were the usual wrist guards which was firmer and wrist bands the cover only the wrist… not what I was looking for. And then I saw, at the lowest shelf, the perfect product for me!

It was an extended soft wrist guard with a terrycloth exterior. Aside from covering the wrist, the wrist guard also covers the bottom half of the palm, with a special hole for the thumb. Just what I needed.

“That’s two for the price of one,” the salesguy said as I picked up one from the bottom shelf.
“Two for one?” I asked. “I thought it was 50% off?”
“Oh, the products on here – “ he pointed to the top two shelves – “are 50% off. That one” – he pointed to what I was holding – “is buy one, get one. Essentially 50% off too, but you have to buy two to get the discount.”
“Hmmmm,” I mumbled a bit, wondering what kind of marketing ploy I was falling into. “How much is this?”

The salesguy took another pair from the shelf. “45 livres.”

I gulped. It wasn’t that pricey as I expected, but it wasn’t cheap either. I brought my entire savings of 345 livres, plus that day’s earnings of 105 livres. If I buy these 45 livre pair of wrist guards, that meant I would have 405 livres left. I’d just need one more day of work at Burger-On for me to be able to buy my football boots.

“I advise you to take advantage of this promo now,” the salesguy tried to persuade me, not knowing I had already made up my mind. If this was another marketing ploy, I would be dissuaded from buying. “This sale is only up today.” He bent down to pick more pairs of wrist guards. “See, you can even choose colours. Which of these do you want?” He then bandied the merchandise. “We have black, blue, green, red, orange, grey, brown, and navy.”

I looked at the rainbow of wrist guards he was showing me. Black seems to be safe choice. That way, if my wound bleeds, it wouldn’t be obvious.

“I’ll take the black one,” I told him.
“Good choice,” he commented as he gave me two pairs. “It’s a popular one.”

I nodded.

“Thank you!” The salesguy then directed me to the nearest cashier to pay for the wristguards.

After paying, I quickly changed my football goalkeeper’s gloves with the new wristguards in the mall’s bathroom. They fit my hand nicely. It was very comfortable and not that limiting. Now I would get less questions.

After that foray into Chambly, I headed home via train and by bus.

It was almost nine in the evening when the bus eased into the bus stop nearest the apartment complex where I lived. As I alighted from the bus, I saw someone familiar sitting on the benches at the far end of the bus stop. The faint lights of the bus stop illuminated his sad face, and he was surrounded by all these bags and luggage. It was Casper Brörby, the bullied kid from school.

“Hey Casper!” I greeted him pleasantly as I approached him. “Why all these bags?”

Casper turned to look at me. “Hi Bronco,” he said, trying to cheer up. But he never answered my question.

“What’s up?” I reworded the question. I was curious why he was sitting at the bus stop with all these bags and luggage. He couldn’t have brought it here alone, neither could he carry it into a bus alone.

“Nothing.” It was an evasive answer.

Something in the setup seemed off. I sat down beside Casper as he made space for me by taking off the bag to his left and putting it on the ground. “You look like you have a problem,” I told him sympathetically. “Or else you won’t be sitting here with all these stuff in a bus stop.”

My mind wandered into the possibilities. Maybe he left his house. Maybe he was moving houses. Maybe – I hoped I was wrong – Casper was homeless.

“We are moving,” Casper answered.
“At this late hour on a Sunday night?” I commented. “To where are you moving? Does it mean you won’t be at the lycée anymore?”

Casper sighed. Maybe he was annoyed at my questions? He just looked straight at the empty road ahead.

“Buddy, if you have a problem, you can tell me,” I offered.

Casper looked down, fixing his gaze on the bags at his feet. He began with a soft sniffle. Soon he was crying and sobbing, with tears falling on the ground.

“I’m sorry Casper,” I said as I rubbed his back. Whatever this was, it was serious. “It’s gonna be alright.” I tried to comfort him and give him hope, even though I didn’t really know what was happening.

Finally Casper spoke, his voice creaking from crying. “Thank you, Bronco.” He lifted his head to look at me. He took off his glasses to wipe the tears off his eyes with the back of his hand. “We are homeless.”

F*ck. Now this was serious. “I’m sorry to hear that…”

“We just lost our house today,” Casper said slowly. “We couldn’t pay the rent.” Another sob. “So we have to move out.”
“Where are you going? Where is your family?”
“I don’t know where we are going. Mamma says we are going to a church to sleep… I’m just waiting for my mamma and my brothers and sisters to go down with the rest of our stuff.”

My heart went out for Casper. While I had never been homeless, thanks to the ceaseless efforts of my hardworking single mother, I felt the sadness and the despair in Casper.

I put my right arm over his shoulder and brought him closer to me. “This will pass,” I told him, “Remember, when you’re down, there’s no way to go but up.”

“Thanks, Bronco... but everything’s going downhill for us.”
“Don’t worry, things are going to look up.”
“I don’t know how that’s happening,” Casper said dejectedly. And then he started telling the story.

“My brother is now away in National Service. He sends us his entire salary and allowance, but that’s not enough... My mother is unemployed, because she is taking care of my younger sister who is disabled and my younger sister who has leukaemia.” Casper paused. “I may have to start working too.”

The beginning of the story made me want to help Casper. “Do you want to work?”

“I want to, but I don’t want to leave school,” Casper replied. “I want to study and achieve my dreams.”

I nodded. “I do work, actually, every Sunday,” I told him. “In fact, I just came off work.” And then I had an idea. “If you want, I can ask my boss if he could hire an extra hand… if you’re interested.”

Casper’s face brightened up a bit. “That’d be great, Bronco.”
“I’ll get back to you when I get an answer.”

I mentally made a note to ask Uncle Tim if he can hire another person. My mind drifted to another question. “Where is your father?”

Casper’s expression changed back to being downcast. “My father is dead.”

His answer made even more sympathetic to him. I also did not have a father. His situation was tugging at my heartstrings – he didn’t have a father, they are poor – so many similarities that I could easily see myself in Casper’s shoes.

“My father was killed by Syndicalists in the Harrying of Hadden. My younger sister Gudrún was shot in the back… she can’t walk anymore. My mother and my other brother and my four younger siblings were able to escape. We arrived here two years ago.”

Despite having been here for only two years, Casper’s Santonian was good. He was probably very smart. He would have a good future ahead of him, if he would stay in school. I sincerely hoped he would be able to achieve his dreams.

“And then my other younger sister Sanna got leukaemia last year… my mother lost her job because she was frequently absent. She had to take care of Gudrún, she had to take care of Sanna, she had to go to the hospital frequently for their treatment and therapy... my brother Lukas sends us all the money he earns while in National Service, but it wasn’t enough for the seven of us… especially with my two sisters who are ill.

“We were not able to pay the rent for more than a year now. Our landlord told us to pay at least half of the amount by tomorrow so that we won’t be evicted… My mother pawned every valuable and spare possessions that we have, but we were four hundred livres short.

“That’s why we packed up our bags and left.”

I thought for a bit. I was told that Saintonge has a good social safety net, even for refugees. I was not sure whether they have accessed that. I remembered that my mother also mentioned something about the Prydanian Society, a group that helps Prydanians in need.

“Have you reached out to the Prydanian Society? Or to the social services?”

Casper wagged his head. “No, we hadn’t,” he admitted. “My mother says that if anybody learns what was happening to us, the social services will take me and my siblings away and put us in foster homes… we would be separated. I wouldn’t want to lose my siblings –”

Someone called out at him from behind, interrupting his story. “CASPER!” The voice was partly vexed and partly anxious, which also made me fear for Casper a little bit.

We stood up turned to who it was. It was a middle-aged woman, carrying a cheap tote bag, pushing a wheelchair with a sad-looking teenaged girl sitting on it. Another teenaged girl was pushing another wheelchair with a bald child. Two young boys were walking behind, carrying bags that were too large for their size. This must be Casper’s family, going to the bus stop, bringing their last few possessions with them.

Casper immediately went over to them and took the bags from the young boys.

“Casper, ég sagði þér það, ekki tala við ókunnuga,” she said in a concerned tone, like what my mother uses to warn me of hot stoves or priests. She then added, “sérstaklega santonska!“

I could not understand what she said, but the santonska bit caught my ear. Santonska. Santonians.

Casper turned to face her mother as he put the bags top the luggages. “Mamma, Bronco er ekki santonskur. Hann er prydanskur.”

Prydanskur. Prydanian. But that was all I could understand.

Casper’s mother gave out a sigh of comfort. She pushed the wheelchair to the shelter of the bus stop. She was making sure the teenaged girl on the wheelchair was not cold when she asked Casper, “Hver en hann?”

“Oh, Mamma, þetta er Bronco, skólafélagi minn,” Casper said as he gestured towards me. Casper then turned to me and introduced his family. “Bronco, this is my mum Líndís,” he told me in Santonian. I was right. This was his family. Casper then pointed to the older teenager sitting at the wheelchair. “This is my sister Gudrún.” He pointed to the bald child. “This is my sister Sanna… her hair fell out because of chemotherapy. My sister Britta is pushing her wheelchair.” Casper then coaxed the two youngest boys towards him. “And these are my brothers Axel and Gunnar.”

I waved at Casper’s siblings, especially the younger ones. Axel and Gunnar waved their hands at me too. “Nice to meet you all,” I said pleasantly.

Casper’s mother approached me. “Ég er móðir Caspers,“ she told me, and then asked, “Og þú ert?”

Oh no, she was speaking to me in Prydanian. I didn’t understand Prydanian. It sounded like she might have said that she was Casper’s mother, but her question just flew over my head.

“Fyrirgefðu, madame… but I don’t speak Prydanian,” I told her sheepishly. One of the few Prydanian words I knew was ‘Fyrirgefðu’ – ‘I’m sorry’ – because I had to use that on my mother every time naughty me needed to apologise.

Casper’s mother smiled at me and said in her heavily accented and somewhat broken Santonian, “I was asking your name.”

“Ah, madame, my name is Kyle-Colbjörn Bronconnier… hence Bronco. Nice to meet you, madame.”
“You half-Prydanian?”
“No madame, my biological parents are both Prydanian. My birth name was Kyle-Colbjörn Skottsberg. I was adopted by my Santonian stepfather.”

She nodded knowingly. “I think you were here for long.”

“Yes madame, I was born here… that’s why I can’t speak Prydanian.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m happy Casper has friends… thank you.”

She then turned to her children. “Förum á næsta strætóskýli,” she then directed her children to get bags and luggages to carry. Casper put two bags atop the luggages so he can pull one in each hand. Even the girls sitting on the wheelchairs put a bag on their lap; two small bags were slung on each handle of the wheelchairs. “Strætó okkar stoppar ekki hér,” she told her children.

“Where are you going?” I asked Casper.
“This is not our bus stop. We’re walking the next stop over.”
“Do you need help in getting there?”
“We’re fine, Bronco,” Casper answered. “You had been of so much help to me. I don’t want to bother you. Anyway we’ll be carrying all these stuff to wherever we’re going… and besides, your mother might be looking for you now.”

“Oh yeah,” I mumbled, reflexively checking my mobile phone. There was a message from my mother. I knew what it likely contained.

“Goodbye Bronco,” Casper told me sadly.
“Will I still see you at school tomorrow?”
“I don’t know… I hope I still do.”
“So do I,” I said as I gave him a brotherly hug before he followed his family walking to the next bus stop about seven hundred metres down the road.

Despite my mum likely looking for me at the moment, I felt unable to move myself from the spot I was standing on. I watched dolefully as Casper and his family walked down the road, with their few possessions in tow, with their future uncertain. I felt an urge to do something. To help.

Casper’s story came back in my head. My mother pawned every valuable and spare possessions that we have, but we were four hundred livres short.

Four hundred livres.

I took out my wallet and counted my money. Four hundred and five livres. It would be enough to save their house. So that they might not be homeless.

I was saving that money to buy myself new football boots. It was worth four Sundays of work at Burger-On. And it was worth Casper and his family’s home. In my mind, there was no question as to what was important. My football boots were still usable. I could earn that money again. But if Casper and his family loses their home…

I ran down the sidewalk to catch up with Casper and his family. “Casper!” I called out to him.

Casper stopped walking and turned around. “Bronco?”

When I reached Casper, I took his hand, put my four hundred livres in his hand and closed it. “Here, take this.”

“What’s this?” Casper looked down at what I put in his hands. His eyes lit up in a mix of joy and surprise. “Bronco…”

“Four hundred livres. That’s what you need to keep your house, right?”

Casper nodded, with tears again welling up in his eyes. This time those were tears of joy. “Oh, Bronco, I don’t know how I can repay you…”
“Don’t think about it now,” I told him. “But do reach out to the people I told you to contact because they can help you even more.”

Casper’s mother had by then approached us to see what was happening. She noticed the fistful of livres in Casper’s hand. “Where did this come from?”

Casper tipped his head in my direction.

She then looked at me, also teary-eyed, realising what I did. “Colbjörn… you don’t have to do this. This is a lot of money,” her words were tinged with worry. Maybe she thought this wasn’t my money.

“Don’t worry madame, this is my money,” I told her respectfully. “My savings. I figured you need it to keep your house.”

Tears started falling down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome, madame…”
“We’ll repay you when we can,” she told me.

I nodded. “As I told Casper, don’t think too much about it, madame. My mother told me to help others without expecting anything in return,” I said earnestly.

“Your mother raised you well,” Casper’s mother commented as she hugged me. “Guð blessi þig, sonur minn.”

Wednesday

It being a Wednesday, I went home late because of football practice. My mother messaged me that she had prepared dinner and would be waiting for me at home. It was a good coincidence. Normally, Cédric and I would go out and eat dinner on the way home; but since I was almost broke, I could not afford to eat out.

I haven’t told anybody about me being broke. Not even Cédric. But he noticed something else.

“Hey Kyle,” he asked as we went off our bus stop, “you’ve been wearing that wrist guard for days now. What happened to your hand?”

“Oh this?” I gestured towards my right hand. “Got wrist pain last weekend,” I lied. “Bought these wrist guards to prevent it from coming back.”

Cédric nodded. “Fancy stuff,” he commented as he saw the logo on the wrist guard. “I see they’re LeFort wrist guards. Must be pricey.”
“Oh no, these are cheap,” I countered. “I got them two for the price of one in Chambly.”
“You went to Chambly?” Cédric asked rhetorically. “Did you buy the shoes too?”
“No, I didn’t. I don’t have the money anymore,” I said without thinking.

“You don’t have the money... anymore?” Cédric emphasised the last word. Damn Cédric. He could pick up the subtlest hint in any statement and turn it into a major discovery. “What did you do with your money? I’m sure the wrist guards don’t cost four hundred livres.”

I sighed. I debated whether I would tell him the story about what happened to my savings. I didn’t want to look as if I was overly self-promoting, trying to appear like the hero. But Cédric was persistent.

The story wasn’t harmful though; but before telling Cédric, I made him promise not to tell anybody else. As we walked from the bus stop to the apartment complex where we lived, I told the entire story as to how I found Casper and his struggling family at the bus stop that Sunday night.

“So you gave your savings to Casper’s family to they won’t be homeless?” Cédric summarised the story I just told him. “You amaze me, bro.”

“I just did what I thought I should do.”
“I’m not sure if I would’ve done the same thing, to be honest,” Cédric admitted as he pushed the elevator button for our floor. “My father is going to chew me out if I did such a thing.”

My thoughts suddenly shifted to my mother. I was not sure how she’d react. “Just don’t tell my mother about it.”

“Okay,” Cédric agreed as we entered the elevator. “But how are you going to buy your cleats now?”
“I can still work for it.”
“But our next game is this Saturday.”
“Catheux plays on a soft-ground field, so I can use my SG boots.”

Coach Landreau announced earlier that day that for the Round of 16 in the Saintes high school football championship, our school would be facing the 11th arrondissement’s Lycée de Catheux on Saturday.

“But what about the next game?” Cédric inquired.
“I’ll think of it if we win against Catheux.”
“Are you saying we aren’t going to win?” Cédric chided me facetiously. “You bad Kyle.”
“No, I’m not saying that,” I said defensively. “What I’m saying is that buying new football boots would be less of a priority if I don’t need them anymore.”
“I’d argue that you still need them,” Cédric told me as we stepped out of the elevator.
“It’s okay, I can still save for it,” I told him. “It’ll take me one month or so.”

I fished out my keys from my bag while Cédric knocked on their door. “See you tomorrow, bro,” Cédric told me as I inserted the key to our door.
“You too bro.”


After showering and changing my clothes, I joined my mother at our small dinner table. We never saw the need for a large dinner table. In the few times that me and my mother would eat dinner together, the four-seater dinner table was more than enough for us.

The aroma of something familiar and something new wafted from the kitchen to the dining table. It made my stomach grumble. It smelled like it was going to be a good dinner.

“Oh, Kyle, you’re here,” my mother gave me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Let me just bring over the food to the table.”
“I’ll help.”
“No, just sit there because this is a surprise.”

This was making me somewhat suspicious. Was there an occasion?

My mother brought a covered plate to the dining table. “I’m sure you will like this.” She then uncovered the plate, revealing crisped slices of deep-fried pork belly on potatoes.

“Ooh steiktsvínakjöt!” It was one of the few Prydanian words I was able to pronounce properly.
“Your favourite,” my mother remarked.
“What’s the occasion?” Steiktsvínakjöt, or crispy pork belly with potatoes, was an artery-clogging Prydanian dish associated with special occasions. Hence it was only served during special occasions.

My mother just smiled. “Nothing.”
“But you usually serve this if there is an occasion,” I said as I sat down on the dining chair. I tried to fish for an answer. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t her birthday.

My mother put her hand over my left arm. “Kyle, us having dinner together is an occasion,” she said tenderly. “We’ve been very busy the past few days that we haven’t spent much time together.”

I looked up at my mother.

“After what happened two weeks ago,” she began, “I realised every moment I have you is precious… I love you Kyle.”

My mother was being sentimental again. My gut reaction was the usual teenager’s aversion to such stuff; I was too old for my mother to be all too mushy over me. But my mother sometimes had these moments. Then again, after considering what she had been through her life and that I am her only family left, I understood why and put up with it.

“Love you too mum.”

She then smiled excitedly. “Oh, I also have another dish for you to taste.” She then went to the kitchen to retrieve a covered casserole pot from the small oven that we have. I pushed the steiktsvínakjöt to the side so she can lay down the casserole pot on the table.

“I made a new dish,” my mother said proudly. “I hope you like it!”

She then uncovered the pot, and the pleasant smell of herbs and tomatoes filled our small apartment.

“Hmmmm, what is this?” I asked.
“Ossobuco alla colorinese*,” my mother told me excitedly. “I learned this recipe from watching Gino D’Ocampo. Slow-cooked veal.”
“Looks tasty,” I said sincerely. I was not just saying that to please my mother. The dish looked delish.
“Let’s eat!!”

The taste was as good as the smell. The meat, almost falling off the bone, was soft, tender, and subtly flavourful, contrasting with the prominent saltiness and crunch of the steiktsvínakjöt.

“Do you like it?” my mother asked expectantly, clearly interested in what I would say.
“It’s good, mum,” I told her between chews. “You should cook more. You are a good cook.”
My mother gave me a teasing smirk. “Aw, you’re just saying that.”
“But it’s true, mum,” I said genuinely.
She smiled. “I’ll take it.” She pointed to the dishes. “Eat some more, I know you’re hungry after football practice.”

As I piled more ossobuco on my plate, my mum asked me about my games. “Your next game, when is it?”

“This Saturday, 4 PM.”
My mother frowned. “Oh,” she mumbled.

I knew what that meant. She wouldn’t be able to come. She worked on Saturday afternoons. This was the same expression that she had when I told her about the game with Montbrillais. And when I was injured, she had to leave work early to rush to the hospital.

“We’d be up against Catheux from the 11th arrondissement, and we’re playing there.”
“Kyle, I’m sorry…”
“You won’t be able to come?” I completed the sentence for her. “It’s okay,” I told her comfortingly, trying to signify to her that it wasn’t a big deal… but I would be lying if I didn’t say I was sad and disappointed. That was during my first games; I saw that that my teammate’s families were all there to support them, while I had none. The Doulchards made up for my mother’s absence.

But I learned to let go of it. It shouldn’t be something I focused on. My focus should be on the game. I knew that even if she wasn’t physically there, my mother supports me all the way.

“Kyle… I hope you don’t think…” She reached out to hold my left hand.
“Don’t worry about it, mum,” I assured her. “I understand.”
“Thank you.”

As she went back to her eating, she then raised another question. “What happened to your hand, Kyle?”
I stopped my chewing. She finally noticed my wrist guard. I had to put up a plausible, convincing explanation. Maybe I’ll use the lie I told Cédric for more consistency.

“Oh this?” I even held up my right hand to show her it was ‘fine’. “I got some wrist pain last weekend. I got these wrist guards so that it won’t return again.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, somewhat disapprovingly. “You’ve been playing too much AE2015 that’s why your wrist hurts.”

I grinned sheepishly. It was a good thing my mother quickly jumped to conclusions about my hand.

“Play less AE2015. Or else you won’t be able to play football,” she advised.
“Mum, we don’t use our hands in football, so it’s okay.”
“Even if,” she countered. “I don’t want you to get sick, Kyle.”
“Yes mum.”

My mother’s mobile phone on the kitchen counter rang.

“I’ll just go see who it is.” She retrieved her mobile phone from the counter and then returned to her seat at the dinner table. She was smiling as she read the messages. I became curious as to what was it about.

“What is it about, mum?”
My mother looked up from her mobile phone. “Remember Gottskálk Skogholt?”

The name seemed familiar.

“You know, the one who you called ‘Uncle Gottskálk’? You used to play with his children in the Prydanian Society. What are their names…” She looked down on her phone. “Ástvin, Dagmar, and Gustav?”

It had been a long time since I’ve been to the Prydanian Society. I knew that my mother was a part of it since I was a child. The Prydanian Society was this civic organisation for Prydanians and people of Prydanian descent in Saintonge. The Prydanian Society helped her after the death of my stepfather. Afterwards, she became an active member in that group… until she left about seven years ago because of personal disagreements with some people there. So it was a long time since I’ve seen the Skogholt children since my mother stopped being active there.

“I can barely remember them,” I admitted to my mother. And then I eyed her suspiciously. “I thought you have left the Prydanian Society.”

Even though my mother left the group because of personal differences, my impression of the Prydanian Society was still positive, that was why I recommended that Casper approach them. My mother did not try to demonise the group after she left. Her issues were with a few people there, not with the entire Prydanian Society.

“Oh, I’m back,” she said, beaming. “Katrín, Siv, Marlaug, Jóhanna… I’m okay now with them. They invited me back to the Prydanian Society.”
“That’s good, I guess,” I commented. “Since when?”
“Two weeks ago. Siv Rösjorde heard about what happened to you and wanted to express her sympathy,” she related. “She contacted me out of the blue, and offered the Society’s help. They seemed sincere… and from there we patched up our differences.” She sipped some water. “You know, forgive and forget… that’s how it should be. Respect each other and our differences.”

I’m happy for my mother. Even though she had joined some other civic organisations after she left the Prydanian Society, I knew that she was happiest in the group with her compatriots.

“So what’s with Gottskálk?” I asked.
“Oh, the Prydanian Society will be holding a send-off dinner for Gottskálk and his family,” my mother said. “They will be emigrating back to Prydania. The Prydanian government had given them their farm back and is compensating them for their losses.”

“They’re going back?” I said in a somewhat surprised tone. After hearing the stories about my mother’s old country, my perception was that living in Saintonge was so much better than in Prydania. I wanted to know why someone would want to go back.

“Yes, except Ástvin,” my mother clarified. “Ástvin is doing his National Service and is on track to be a Santonian citizen. He wanted to stay in Saintonge.”

I nodded. “So the Prydanians gave them their farm back, plus lots of money to start over again?”

“Yes, it’s part of the compensation programme that the new Prydanian government instituted,” my mother said. “Anyone who lost property or loved ones in the Civil War could be compensated.”

“I see,” I muttered. I wondered how much compensation we would be getting. It would be of great help to our finances. “How about us mum, do you think we should go back? They might give us money - ” I bit my lip in realisation that the question might bring back bad memories.

My mother paused eating. The corners of her mouth went down to a slight frown. “There’s nothing there… for me to go back to…” she said, with melancholy creeping into her voice. “All of my relatives… they’re dead.”

Oh no. My single careless question sent her to the waterworks again. Her eyes were starting to glisten with tears. I put down my knife and fork. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I stood up and gave her a quick hug.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” she said, sniffling. “I still have you, Colbjörn.” She wiped the nascent tears from her eyes. “The money would be great though, but the documentation they were asking for is too much.”

“Go back to eating, my dear,” she told me. I returned to my chair, but her story was appetite-suppressing.

“I came to Saintonge with nothing but the clothes on my back… and you in my tummy,” she related. “There’s nothing there for me in Prydania. And besides, you won’t fit in there,” she chuckled, trying to inject some cheer into an otherwise sad topic, “you can’t even speak Prydanian!”

I pouted at her in fake annoyance at using me as the butt of her banter.

“Haha, you make that Colbjörn face,” my mother giggled. “But you are not a Prydanian boy, you are a Santonian boy.”

She was indeed speaking the truth. I couldn’t speak, understand, read, or write Prydanian properly.

“So it’s best for us to stay in here,” she said. “For you, Kyle. I think your future is better here than back in the old country.” She stuck her fork into another piece of the steiktsvínakjöt. “Who knows, you might become a football star here!”

Though it was a long shot, but then, considering that a footballer of Prydanian refugee background made it to the Santonian national team for this year’s Odinspyl, it was not impossible. I could only dream. Maybe one day, I will make my mother proud.

---

*Ossobuco alla colorinese = Eras version of ossobuco alla milanese. Of course, it’s Predicean.

Later, after brushing my teeth and washing my face, I paced quickly from the bathroom to my bedroom so that my mother would not see my bare right hand. As I turned the knob on my bedroom door, I heard her call my name.

I quickly hid my right forearm and hand under my towel, as if I was just simply carrying the towel.

Apparently, she wasn’t paying attention to me when she called me. “Kyle,” she asked as she walked towards me, her eyes fixed on her mobile phone, “do you know any Casper Brörby?”

“Yes mum, he’s my schoolmate.”

My mother glanced temporarily at me as she scrolled down her phone and read the message from one of her Beeper group chats. “The Prydanian Society wants to hold a fundraiser for Líndís Brörby and her family in two weeks’ time. If anyone has ideas, feel free to suggest them in an impromptu meeting after the send-off dinner for the Skogholts this Sunday.”

So Casper did indeed approach the Prydanian Society for help. And my advice worked.

“Listen, Kyle,” my mother said as she scrolled up, “their story is so sad... Líndís is a single mother.” From the look of her face I knew she, as a single mother herself, instantly sympathised with Casper’s mother. “She has seven children: one is away in National Service and is helping them, one is disabled because of injuries sustained in the civil war, one has leukemia. They nearly lost their home last weekend. Casper, the second of the six children, approached the Prydanian Society last Monday to seek for help on his family’s plight.”

None of the story was new to me. Still, I feigned interest. “So what fundraiser is the Society thinking of?”

“We don’t know yet…” My mother’s words trailed off as her phone beeped again. She swiped and scrolled down. Another new message on Beeper. Her eyes widened as she read the message.

“Kyle,” her tone changed. “I got this message from Siv.”
“Yes mum?”

My heart beat faster. My gut feeling was that she knew already what I did. I looked away at her, avoiding any of her possible stares.

My mother read the newly arrived message. “The Brörby home was saved by a schoolmate of Casper’s who gave them four hundred livres last Sunday night to complete their outstanding rent payment. Said schoolmate was a Prydanian named ‘Kyle Bronco’… Ulrica is this your son???”

She walked slowly and deliberately towards me. This was it. She had now learned of what I did. I hoped to the dear nonexistent heaven that she won’t get mad.

“Colbjörn, did you give four hundred livres to Casper’s family last Sunday?”

There was no point in hiding it.

“Yes mum,” I answered softly, but still avoiding eye contact with her. “I… uh… gave them my savings so they won’t be homeless – ”

My words were cut off when my mother pulled me closer to her… and hugged me tight. I was expecting her to slap me or berate me; instead she gave me a long, loving, motherly embrace. I reciprocated the embrace and hugged her too. That was when I noticed her sniffling.

“Mum… you’re not angry at me?”

She broke off the embrace and looked at me. She wiped the tears off her eyes with her hands. “Why would I be angry?” She then grasped both of my upper arms lovingly. “I’m so proud of you, Colbjörn. Even though we’re just like this… we’re poor, we have little money… you still found it in you to help other people who are needier.” Tears started to stream down her face. “Your heart was in the right place… you’re just like your father.”

“Mum, please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying because I am sad,” she said, trying to smile. “I am crying because I am glad that you are my son. I am glad that you are growing up well even though I…” She suppressed a sob. “... wasn’t there for you every time. I am glad that despite everything you – we – have been through, you are going to be a good young man.”

“Aw, mum,” I muttered. “It’s only a… thing that I did.”

“And that thing shows your character,” she lightly and playfully pinched my cheek like she did when I was a child. “I love you Colbjörn.” She then gave me another hug.

“Love you too mum.”
“I hope you don’t change from being this kind and sweet Colbjörn that I know.”
“Yes mum.”

She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll let you sleep now, I know you’re tired from football practice.”
“Thanks mum, good night.”
“Good night, Colbjörn.”

Saturday

The team from the Lycée de Catheux was the representative of the eleventh arrondissement of Saintes. It had bested the other teams from the other lycées in that district, but its shortcomings were becoming obvious.

The eleventh arrondissement covers the poorer northeastern suburbs of Saintes. And when the city cut funding to sports programs, the schools in the poorer districts suffered. Schools in the wealthier parts of the city were able to fundraise to continue their sports programmes or even outright pay for it. I heard that the schools in the 21st or 22nd arrondissement were able to retain their full-time coaches.

We in the thirteenth were not so fortunate like in the wealthier parts. Before I entered the Lycée de Luzerne, Uncle Tim was the full-time football coach. The school had programmes for other sports too. But the reduction in funding meant that Uncle Tim had to be let go. It was a good thing he had Burger-On to fall back on, and he found a job at Stade de Saintes football club. Uncle Tim still occasionally coaches us though.

Luzerne still went ahead with their football team, but it was now Coach Landreau who handled it. Coach Landreau was actually a physical education teacher in Luzerne. He took on the unpaid job of coaching the football club as extra workload, because he told us “I won’t stand for good talent going to waste.” The lack of funding not only took away the full-time coach, but funds for equipment and uniforms too. We bought our own personal equipment, but at least the school still had some of the footballs and nets we could use.

But they in the eleventh, along with the tenth, really make us in the thirteenth look lucky by comparison. Catheux did not have a dedicated coach – their physical education teachers take turns coaching them. I heard they bring their own footballs. Their football field was just a vacant grass lot with makeshift stands, goal, and net.

And that was where we were playing now. My teammates got down and dirty – literally – with Catheux. The game was clean, the grass was not. The lack of support for Catheux’ team was showing. At halftime, we were leading 5-0.

We congratulated our teammates for a good game during the break. While we were happy, some felt the same way as I did. “Poor Catheux,” Charles muttered. “I see why their team is like that. They got no support.”

“I feel lucky that at least we have something,” Archambault added.

Coach Landreau was confident of victory that he let us some game time. Almost the entire team was replaced and we, the younger and more junior players, were sent on the field.

Only a few minutes into the latter half of the game, Thibault scored for us. Ten minutes later, it was my turn. Cedric made a pass from the centre, which I slammed into the net. One more point.

Some might call what we did humiliating. We heard of a similar game down south of Saintonge, wherein the referee had to stop the game at the 75^th minute after the winning team utterly crushed the opponent with a lopsided 11-0 score. Despite the losing team having no complaints about it, some of the observers said that running up the score was seen as not consistent with good sportsmanship. Being on the losing end of a dogpile takes away one’s dignity, they said.

For me, as long as I did my best and played cleanly, that’s dignified. I told my teammates not to intentionally trip or hurt the opposing players. But the scoring opportunities, I pointed out for my teammates. Without Jérôme on the field, I assisted my teammates in organising the play. I thought it ended off well for us: we won the game 9-0.

I was surprised by Jérôme’s comment to me at the end, when we returned to our benches. “Nice captaining Bronco!”

I was struck by the comment. What I did wasn’t a conscious decision to usurp being captain. Since Jérôme, our captain, and Charles, or vice-captain, was not playing, somebody had to coordinate the play. I shot Jérôme an inquisitive look.

“You did great!” Jérôme slung an arm over my shoulder. “You can fill my role someday!”
“Thank you,” I told him.

As we were returning to the makeshift tent that served as our locker room, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see who it was. “Kyle! Great game!”

I blushed at seeing who it was. Danielle and Aurélien were approaching me. “Congratulations!”

“Looks like le Bronco has fans now,” Jérôme chuckled, and then continued heading for the tent.

I walked towards them to meet them halfway so that my other teammates would not notice them. I didn’t know they would be watching my game. Or that I’d have fans, as Jérôme called them.

“I didn’t know you’d be watching my game,” I whispered as we met. I would’ve given Danielle and Aurélien a friendly hug but I was too sweaty and dirty.

“Aurélien wanted to watch it when we learned you’ll be playing,” Danielle said. “Congratulations for a great game!”

“Yes, good game!” Aurélien remarked. “Are you the captain of your team?”

“Thanks.” Aurélien wanted to watch me, or was Danielle just using her brother as an excuse? “No, I’m not the captain,” I answered Aurélien’s question. And now I want Aurélien to answer mine.

“Aurélien, you said you wanted to watch my game? Why? Did your sister force you to watch it?”

“Kyle, I won’t do that!” Danielle protested facetiously.

“I wanted to see my favourite amateur player in action.” Aurélien said earnestly. The way Aurélien said it, it didn’t look scripted. Maybe he did want to watch my game.

“You’re flattering me, Aurélien,” I told him.

Aurélien and his sister laughed.

“I’ll message you later, Kyle,” Danielle told me. “Mum and dad are here to fetch us already. And you need to clean up.” Her comment made me even more self-conscious. “See you!” She waved goodbye at me.

“See you too,” I replied as I watched them go. I was still not fully convinced as to why they went all the way to Catheux to watch my game. Did I really have fans?

Sunday

Having games the previous day was not an excuse for me not to work at Burger-On. But today was even more special: Uncle Tim allowed Casper Brörby to work at the food truck.

I relayed Casper’s story to Uncle Tim the day after I saw the Brörbys at the bus stop. Uncle Tim was sufficiently moved by his plight that he hired Casper at the food truck on a provisional basis. Uncle Tim said that my request came at an opportune time: he was looking to buy another food truck so there’ll be another branch of Burger-On at Saint-Alban-sur-Orge, also in the 13^th arrondissement. He needed to train people in preparation for setting up the other food truck.

With Casper being a trainee, Uncle Tim had him attached to my work that day flipping burgers. “Kyle, Casper is your recommendation, so you train him,” Uncle Tim told me.

I taught Casper how to prepare the ingredients, cook burger patties, assemble Santonian burgers, and all the work at the kitchen. He seemed unsure at first. He made some booboos. He burnt a burger patty. He misassembled one Santonian burger, mistaking Coulommiers cheese for Brie. And he added mustard when the customer did not want it. Good thing I caught many of those mistakes before the food got to the customer. But it meant some orders had a longer wait.

Casper was very apologetic. “My apologies, Kyle, I’ll do better next time.” After burning one side of a burger patty, Casper was shaking with embarrassment. “I’m sorry Kyle, I’m letting you down.”

I took over and started cooking a fresh burger patty. “It’s alright, Casper, this is normal. We all make mistakes.” I would’ve hugged him if my hands weren’t busy simultaneously flipping several sizzling burgers. “I’ve burnt more patties than you when I started,” I chuckled as I lifted a patty off the griddle and onto a rack. “Remember, it’s only a mistake if you don’t learn from it!”

Casper grinned. “You are right, Kyle.” He started looking at the assembly list and started to make a burger. “Thank you for believing in me.”

“I believe in giving people opportunities,” I told Casper. “Uncle Tim thinks so too.” I set the partially-burnt burger patty to one side. “Also, mistakes here are delicious – we eat them for lunch, for free!”

Casper had made considerable improvement throughout the day. During the evening dinner rush, he made less mistakes and was more confident in his work. Based on the number of burgers Casper and I cooked that day, we made a killing that Sunday.

Uncle Tim had let Carl distribute the pay that day. Carl was the twentysomething Hessunlander-Santonian who drives the food truck and who had worked for Uncle Tim for the longest. Uncle Tim couldn’t be with us when we closed up shop, so he entrusted Carl to close the food truck.

Casper’s eyes lit up when he saw the contents of the pay packet. Despite being a trainee, he got the same amount of pay than we did. “Thank you, this will be very helpful!”

“Trainees get the same pay?” Tom commented, his voice hinting some sort of displeasure.

“Why not?” Christelle retorted. “He worked the same hours.”

It was then time to divvy up the contents of the tip jar among the staff who worked that day. “Three hundred and sixty-five livres,” Christelle announced after counting the money, including the coins. “Taking out the five livres, we divide three hundred and sixty among the nine of us… we get forty livres each.”

“Wait, wait,” Tom protested, “we are including the trainee in the division?”

Most of us were taken aback by Tom’s comment. But nobody dared to challenge him – yet. He was, after all, the son of our employer.

“Divide it by eight,” Tom commanded. “We get forty-five livres each.”

For a few moments nobody spoke. Casper looked at me, clearly uncomfortable that there seems to be an argument as to whether he should be included in the share from the tip jar.

“I think that’s unfair,” Jason remarked. “We all worked here for a day and I think – ”

Tom did not let Jason finish. “Didn’t you notice that our tip box had less money right now because of our poorer service?” Tom’s voice was hinting at indignation. Tom scanned the faces of everyone, who were all shocked at his outburst. “Let me divide it now,” Tom yanked the tip jar from Christelle’s hands and began to count.

“Tom, what the f*ck is wrong with you??” Jason cursed at Tom.
“Nothing is wrong with me, I just want fair share for proper work,” Tom shouted back.

“Really, Thomas?” Christelle was indignant too. “The difference if we divide it by nine or by eight is five livres. F*ck, Tom, FIVE LIVRES. It’s just five livres! What is five livres to you?”

Tom looked angrily at Christelle as he took forty-five livres in banknotes from the tip jar. “Kyle brought over his friend to work, but he made a lot of mistakes, and so some people were dissatisfied with our service. Why should we give him some? Am I right?” Tom then shot an accusatory look at me. “Why don’t Kyle split his share with his friend instead?”

I felt queasy with the question. I had to keep my anger down. Christelle and Jason had a point. But could I fight with the son of my employer?

Everyone was waiting for me to answer. I just stared at Tom.

“Hmph,” Tom huffed as he counted bundles of forty-five livres from the tip jar and distributed it to six other people, who all tentatively accepted theirs. Jason almost did not receive his. “You don’t want the money, Jason?” Tom told him. “I can give it to the trainee, since that’s what you wanted anyway.”

All that was left in the tip jar were the abundant coins and a five-livre banknote. “Here, Kyle, take this,” Tom shoved the tip jar to me. “Share it with your friend if you want.” After I took the tip jar, Tom left the food truck in a hissy fit.

I looked at Casper. He was close to tears after Tom’s outburst. Tom clearly showed that Casper was not wanted; Tom was blaming me for bringing Casper with me. “Kyle… I’m sorry if I caused you trouble…”

“Casper, it’s okay.” I said that to comfort Casper. But “it’s ok” only applied to me, since I was an employee – I will still have work next week. Casper, though, was just a trainee. The owner’s son did not like him. Casper might not get to work here next Sunday. Maybe he should get as much money as possible today.

I handed Casper the tip jar. “Take these too.”
“Kyle…? How about you?”
“You need it more than I do.”
“Kyle… thank you.” Casper’s eyes started to water. “Thank you for being nice to me…”

“Kyle,” Christelle began, “give Casper just five livres.”

Wait, did I hear that correctly? Christelle, who was in favour of an equal split, just wanted to give Casper five livres?

I turned to Christelle. “What are you saying?”

“Just give Casper five livres,” Christelle told me as he handed Casper an orange banknote. “We split the remainder of the tip jar between the eight of us.”

I must’ve looked confused because Carl nodded in my direction as he handed Casper five livres too. “Let Tom take his forty-five,” Carl said. “We’ll chip in five livres each so that Casper will get his forty.”

“We know you need the money too, Kyle,” Jason told me as he gave five livres to Casper. All seven of them then pitched in to complete Casper’s forty livre share.

“Thanks guys,” I told them.
“Thank you too,” Casper said to me and my co-workers. “I… appreciate your help for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Carl grinned as he put an arm around Casper’s shoulder, “here in Saintonge we help each other out. Just don’t mind the few pr*cks around.”

Saturday

The next Saturday was also another day of weekend football practice. The upcoming games are becoming more and more crucial, and so Coach Landreau had scheduled more practice days. I had blanket permission from my mum that I would come home late on practice days. She would not suspect.

Cédric was also in the secret. He would be the one my mum would most likely ask for my whereabouts. This time, Cédric told me that he would not accompany me. “Kyle, I won’t be your third wheel anymore.”

I was the last member of the team who left the gym; I let everybody else have their turn first. I took time to soap and shower myself. I had to smell clean and good. I had to look tidy and presentable. I dressed myself in some nice clothes that I found in my closet. I wore a blue-and-purple long-sleeved plaid button-down shirt over a printed yellow T-shirt, and khaki trousers. I folded the sleeves up to by elbows as I looked at myself in the mirror. I was never this conscious of how I appeared. But today I was.

Maybe because now, it was really a date? As I combed and styled my blond hair, my mind went back to how we set up that day’s meet-up. Danielle messaged me Monday evening, and we’ve been communicating back-and-forth ever since. We’d greet each other in the morning, ask how our day had been in the evening, and talk about stuff. And now she asked me if we could meet Saturday afternoon.

As I stepped out of the turnstiles at Grande-Synthe métro station, I heard Danielle call my name. I turned towards the direction of her voice. She was standing a few metres away from the ticketing machines, waving her arms at me, beckoning me to come.

Right there and then, I realised… I haven’t brought anything. I had no gift. What kind of a date was I? And I didn’t even have time to buy from a nearby store or something. I dragged my feet as I walked towards her, mentally dreading the embarrassment I would have face.

I was sure I looked so flustered because when I neared her, Danielle asked, “Kyle, why are you so red?” She giggled and then gave me a friendly hug. “Nice to see you again!”

I tried to smile. “Nice to see you too, Danielle.” As we let go of each other, I looked down and avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry… I haven’t brought anything…”

There was a pause. And then she chuckled. “Kyle, is that the reason why you looked so embarrassed?”

“Uh… yes.” I still avoided looking at her, mentally cursing myself for not having the best foot forward on my date.

“Don’t worry about it,” Danielle said comfortingly as she entwined her right hand with my left hand. “Bringing yourself is enough for me.” She then started to lead me out of the station. “Come, Kyle, let’s go get some things in our car first before we go out the waterfront.”


And like our previous date, it was Danielle who brought all the good stuff. I was really feeling embarrassed as she asked me to help bring the stuff from the car to the beach. It was a beach date, and in Plage de Grande-Synthe of all places, one of the more upscale beaches in Saintes.

“Have you been here?” she asked me as we selected a spot on the golden beach. She spread the large beach towel on the sand and put her handbag, a tote bag, and two paper bags to the side. She gestured me to lay down beside the beach towel the picnic basket, my gym bag, the beach umbrella, and two tote bags I was carrying. The tote bag seemed heavy. I peered inside as I lay it down. It looked like a cooler; maybe it has drinks inside?

“No, I haven’t been here,” I said as laid down the stuff on the sand. I felt even more self-conscious. I was a poor kid, lounging at wealthy beach.

She reached out to get the beach umbrella and her hands inadvertently touched mine. Our eyes met each other’s… and we laughed. The awkwardness, it seems, was no longer there. “Kyle, you have pretty eyes,” she remarked.

“Thank you,” I mumbled at her compliment, and then proceeded to change topic. “What do you want me to do for this umbrella?”

“Open it so we’ll have shade,” she answered, turning to the picnic things.

As I opened the umbrella and stuck the end into the sand, I tried to start a conversation. “So do your parents know you’re here?”

“Kyle,” she explained as she brought out snacks for both of us, “you know I won’t go out without my parents’ permission.” She took out the cooler from the tote bag, revealing the drinks inside. “They’re out here somewhere, on a date too.”

‘On a date too.’ Was she implying that we were on a date? But I thought we were just friends? Maybe she was feeling the same as I did. This was not officially a date, but it felt like one – hence my self-consciousness regarding not being able to bring a gift for her.

She probably caught me daydreaming and overthinking what was happening that day. “Kyle, are you ok?”

I snapped out of my thoughts. “Oh. Yeah. I’m alright.”

We sat together on the beach towel, under the shade of the umbrella. It was still midafternoon, and I was getting hot. I unbuttoned my shirt to cool off. I didn’t think it was a big deal since I was wearing a T-shirt underneath but…

“Kyle, what are you doing!?” Danielle asked with a mix of amusement and faux-indignation, pulling her sunglasses down to spy me removing my plaid shirt.

“I’m hot…”

She gave out her dainty laugh. “You are indeed hot.” She reached out for the ice-filled cooler and handed a light pink can of soda to me. “You are thirsty too.”

I spied the unfamiliar drink. “What’s this?” I asked as I read the name on the can. “Toki’s… Kola?”

She shrugged at the name. “I thought you might like it. I bought it at a Prydanian shop earlier today – they said it’s the most popular brand of soda in Prydania.”

“Kirsuber… vanillu?” I struggled to read the name of the flavour. “Vanillu?” I lifted the tab and the familiar fizzy sound came out. I smiled as I picked up the whiff of something pleasant.

Danielle shrugged. “You don’t know about that soda?”

“Mademoiselle, my genes might’ve been Prydanian, but I was born here,” I gently corrected her. “I’m Santonian through and through.” I took a sip of the drink. My eyebrows went up surprised by the rush of flavour in my mouth. I was not expecting that. There was some sort of strong fruit, a sharp tart, and a shot of sweetness. “Man, what was that!?”

Danielle just laughed. “You don’t like Prydanian things?”

“No, it’s… it’s just that… I wasn’t expecting that.” I looked at the can again. Aside the ‘Kirsuber vanillu’ was an icon showing a scoop of white ice cream with a cherry on top. Cherry-vanilla ice cream? That explained the taste.

“Kyle, your face,” Danielle teased me.
“What about my face?”
“Your face when you drank that thing,” she giggled. “You’re so cute.”

Did she just say that I was cute? I think I may had blushed a bit at the suggestion. “Are you going to make me drink other weird stuff?”

“Haha, no, Kyle. If you don’t want that Toki’s thing, I have other drinks in the cooler – feel free to get some.”
“Thank you.” I rummaged through the cooler and found an orange Vin mariane. Just like what a true Santonian would drink.

We spent the afternoon lounging, gazing at the sea, talking about our dreams for the future, about ourselves and the new things in our lives. The conversation then revolved around Casper’s experiences. Though I didn’t mention Casper’s name, I related to her about them becoming almost homeless and what happened last Sunday at Burger-On. I left out details as to how I helped – I didn’t want to sound self-aggrandising.

“I heard of that,” Danielle told me. “That’s so nice of you, Kyle.”
I was puzzled. “Nice of me for what?”
“Helping others.” She then turned towards me. “I heard you gave away your entire savings so they won’t be homeless.”

I was astonished. I never told her that. “How did you know about that?”

“So it’s true,” she concluded. “Can I give you a hug?”

I nodded, still in shock as to how she knew.

“You deserve a pat in the back for what you did,” she told me as she did just that while hugging me. “Kyle, you’re a great person.”

As she ended the hug, I posed the question. “Who told you what I did?”

“Word gets around,” Danielle answered coyly. “We might not think about it much, but the good deeds we do… make an impact. A good guy like you deserves good things. You did a lot of good things for everyone. That’s why mum and dad and I thought that we do something good for you too…” She then reached out for one of the paper bags she had carried from the car. The paper bag contained a large gift-wrapped box. She handed me the box.

“What is this?” I muttered as I accepted the box.
“It’s a gift from me and my family,” Danielle answered.
“But it’s not my birthday.”
“It was not your friend’s birthday too, yet you helped them and gave them everything you got. Please accept this little gift from us.”
“Thank you,” I said as I read the card. To Kyle: We have heard so much about you and we thought you deserve this gift. We hope you continue to be the same nice kind Kyle that everybody knows. Love, the Briault Family.

“Open it,” Danielle instructed me, with excitement filling her eyes. She was excited about my reaction.

I saved the card and started to tear open the gift wrapping. My heart skipped a beat as I pulled away the wrapping at the top of the box. It was a LeFort box.

“I hope you enjoy it.”Her smile was up to her ears.

I opened the box. “Oh wow!” I gushed in delight at seeing the contents of the box. It was a black-and-silver LeFort Mercuriel Vapeur multi-ground football boots with speed cleats. I took out one shoe to look at the size. Size 49. It was my size!

I was so happy that I set aside the box and hugged Danielle tightly out of sheer joy. “Thank you! I’ve always wanted to buy this!”

She gave me another pat in the back. “Kyle, you deserve it.”

I broke off the hug and then suddenly felt awkward. “I’m sorry if I hugged you without asking – ”

Danielle laughed it off. “Don’t sweat it. You were clearly excited.” She held both of my hands. “Kyle, I’m happy to see you happy… We knew you were saving up for it. We knew you would like it and would need it for your next games, so we thought – why not just we buy it for you?”
“Thank you…”

Another question, though, popped in my head. “How did you know I was saving up for this?”

“Didn’t we saw you at the LeFort store in Chambly trying that shoe out?” Danielle grinned.
“Oh yeah… right.” My mind was so filled with delight and gratitude that I did not probe the comment further. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, Kyle.” She gave me one of her sweetest smiles I ever saw. “You go win games for me, my champ!”