Less than a week later, on a dreary Monday morning, freezing my arse off in my leather jacket, I spot Tony and Lucie huddled together and smoking a cigarette against the gates of Colette International.

Tony assaults me before I can reach into his pack of cigarettes. “You’re late!”

“Am I?”

Lucie chortles and smoke comes out of her nose.

“Why are you always so late?” Tony’s voice sounds uncharacteristically whiny.

I peer at his long face from behind my sunglasses and gesture at my baggy pants and worn-out sweater. “This doesn’t happen by accident, you know.” I expect him to laugh, but he just stares at me, wild-eyed. Lucie, on the other hand, plants a Marlboro-flavoured kiss on my lips.

“What’s up with you?” I ask Tony.

Lucie sighs. “Tony hates school.”

“Rockstars don’t go to school,” he growls.

“Hear, hear, my friend.” I couldn’t agree more. It took all my motivation and then some to drag myself out of bed this morning.

Lucie ruffles through her backpack. It’s shaped like a cute little polar bear with beady eyes. “Give me a cigarette, my love. I seem to be out.”

It might be nothing, but I know better than to find Lucie’s backpacks cute. They are usually an indicator of her mood. A cute little polar bear sounds innocent, right? Wrong! It usually means it’s winter, it’s cold, and I better not test her patience too much. But the polar bear is also wearing a pink ribbon, which means I can be a bit of a dick today and she won’t give me too much of a hard time.

But today it’s not the empty black eyes of the stuffed backpack that worry me; instead, its the book inside that catches my eye. A bland book with a boring guy on the cover.

My stomach sinks. Last week was just a blur of movies, video games, late lunches and joints, so many joints with Tony and Lucie, our favourite bands playing in the background.

“Shit.”

Watching my face drain of colour is entertaining enough for Tony, who drops the surly act. “What did you do this time?”

“It’s what I didn’t do. I forgot to read the book.” Part of me wants to blame them for keeping me away from my student responsibilities, but even I have limits, you know. I put my head in my hands. “So, you know, The Picture of Dorian Gray? I may have forgotten to read it.”

Tony erupts into laughter. “You’re so fucked! Paquin will read it on your face, and you’ll be interrogated for sure.”

“You think?”

Lucie nods in agreement. Paquin is this old bat with bleached hair who teaches English Literature with an outrageous French accent. Every time she catches me cringing, she interrogates me.

“How’s my poker face?” I ask, feigning the confidence of a student who’s read all the books.

Tony stares intently into my face. “Damn you, it’s good.”

“Beautiful,” Lucie agrees.

“With his luck, she’ll forget he even exists.” Tony flicks the butt of his cigarette away. “Lou always gets what he wants.”

That’s not true, and I don’t like the look on his face as he says this. But before I can ask Tony what he means, Lucie glues her body to mine.

“Let’s use the last two minutes before class to make out in our usual spot.”

“Tempting,” I reply. “Truly. But I have to use the toilet first.”

Tony shakes his head. “You live ten minutes away, and you couldn’t go on your way out?”

I throw him a look over my shoulder as I walk away. “I was late, remember?”

Colette International is a relatively new building nestled between two old ones on an even older street, Rue des Écoles. A modest white building stands behind the black front gate. Inside, everything is painted white with a touch of electric blue, from the tiles in the bathroom to the doors, to the legs of the tables and chairs, and even the handles of the cupboards. Someone probably made a deal for cheap white and blue paint, and here we are. It’s the same in the boys’ toilets. Sparkling white tiles and a splash of blue on the stall doors. This is where I decide to hide, in the last stall on the left. I do not do my business in front of other people.

I wonder if I have time to do a quick joint before class. It’s probably a terrible idea anyway. Paquin will see my blue eyes turned red and she’ll have me whipped in front of everybody.

When I come out of my stall, some bloke is standing in front of my favourite sink, the closest one to the good soap dispenser and the good hand-dryer, the one I call The Champion. I don’t mind other people using it, but this guy isn’t doing anything, he’s just standing there with his head down.

I walk over to the next sink just as the bell rings, announcing the beginning of class and my future humiliation at the hands of Madame Paquin. Looking into the mirror, I see it: defeat written plain on my face, and on the very first day of term no less. Hiding in the bathroom instead of making out with my hot girlfriend. Well, I’m going to get destroyed, but I don’t have to look bad while she tears me a new one. C’est la vie.

I shove a stick of gum into my mouth and rearrange my hair, humming to myself a Good Charlotte song. Sorry, what’s that? My gum is begging me to pop a nice fat bubble and I get to it, still humming…

Feeling a sort of paternal pride for this bubble which is coming out so beautifully, and which promises to make a nice loud pop, I don’t immediately notice what’s happening, but eventually it hits me. The bloke next to me hasn’t moved. And worse, he’s staring at me.

What’s up? Did I give him the impression that I like to congregate with strangers in the toilets? I think not. I slide my sunglasses down a notch to give him a withering look. You know, the kind of look you’d toss any stranger who’s hogging the good soap dispenser and not moving it along. And then, a pair of bright green eyes stare straight back at me from under an organised mess of shiny dark curls.

“Hello.”

Like the gun they use at the Olympics, my bubble pops, startling me into action. I frantically start pumping the nearest soap dispenser. I will not get caught in a socially awkward situation on the first day of term.

Of course, the dispenser’s empty. I knew that already, since this chatty guy is standing next to the only one that properly works, and he’s not moving. Why is he not moving? And why won’t this soap dispenser take pity on me? I have a feeling this guy’s watching me struggle like an idiot with a smile on his face.

Eventually, the saddest squirt of soap lands in the palm of my hand.

“Do you…” he starts, moving aside to reveal The Champion.

I grunt more than speak back. “I’m fine.” I finish my business in the blink of an eye, and by that, I mean wiping my hands on my jeans, grabbing my stuff with shaky hands, and tearing out of the bathroom without a look back. How rude are people, really?