Lola Offline

by Nicola Doherty

  ‘Oh, I get it.’

  ‘Let’s see?’ He unrolled one of the posters I’d made. ‘This is fantastic, Lola. It looks even better printed out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, pleased. ‘It was hard to explain “come as the meaning of your name” but I think we managed it.’

  ‘Even the Sun King couldn’t ask for more,’ Tariq said. ‘Though we won’t be importing four hundred orange trees in tubs for our costume party. Here, I’ll give you a hand.’

  I passed him the Blu-Tak. ‘How do you know so much about the Sun King?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘I’m doing my extended essay on him. Did you know his brother – Monsieur – went to war in full make-up, including false eyelashes?’

  ‘No!’ I laughed. ‘Monsieur is a strange name. Couldn’t they come up with anything better?’

  ‘That’s what the King’s brother was always called. The King’s sister was Madame.’

  ‘Is that why that street near us is called Monsieur le Prince?’

  ‘Yes! That’s him.’ He beamed. ‘I wish someone would call me that. Wouldn’t that be the coolest nickname ever? Aside from Sun King, obviously.’

  I laughed. I still couldn’t get over how Tariq could get away with this kind of thing – could stroll around chatting about the Sun King, and still be one of the most popular boys in the school instead of its greatest nerd. Truly they did things differently in Paris.

  ‘That reminds me,’ he was saying. ‘Have you officially joined Film Club yet? Full disclosure: I’m social secretary and we need more members.’

  ‘Tariq, how many clubs are you in?’

  ‘Honestly, I’ve cut back. Just Speech and Debate, Film Club, Model UN – oh, and the fencing team.’

  ‘The fencing team! That’s very Sun King, isn’t it?’ I paused, picturing Tariq in a wig and breeches. He would look pretty good, actually.

  We’d finished the posters now, and we were drifting towards the Mezzanine – an area that was used for small assemblies or for meetings with teachers. Once again, walking around with Tariq was a constant stream of back-slaps and high-fives. It must be exhausting being him. He helped me put up more posters and then we sat down together.

  ‘Have you heard about the other candidate for Student Pres?’ he asked. ‘It’s Hunter.’

  ‘Hunter? Fletcher’s boyfriend?’ I was surprised. ‘Why is he running instead of her? She’s Grade Rep, after all.’

  Tariq lifted his shoulders. ‘It’s her decision,’ he said diplomatically. ‘I suppose he wants to run and she doesn’t. Can I tell you my policies?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to get rid of plastic water bottles in the school,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked out that we go through about 10,000 bottles a year. And it takes 7 litres of water to make one plastic water bottle, so think of the waste.’

  ‘That’s unbelievable!’

  ‘Yeah. We have water fountains but people don’t use them enough. And also … I want to extend the school counselling service to weekends. People aren’t always able to call during the week.’

  ‘That sounds good but how would you make the teachers work weekends?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said triumphantly. ‘My mum knows someone who teaches psychology in the American University here. Their students would be happy to talk to students and get experience.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said, impressed.

  ‘You think so?’ he said. ‘Thanks. I’d actually like to do more stuff for the boarding community but that would look bad, I think – because I’m a boarder.’ I noticed that his knee was joggling frantically; he was obviously nervous. He grinned suddenly. ‘So my plan is to get elected first – and then sneakily do stuff for boarders.’

  ‘Well, you’re already thinking like a politician,’ I said.

  We moved on to other topics, and I showed him my picture of Lenny’s wall.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, recoiling. ‘That is a horror show. Does he have psychological problems? Is he a Goth?’

  ‘No, he’s a git,’ I said, and we both giggled.

  I hadn’t spoken to Tariq since my conversation with Kiyoshi. Now that I thought about it, his theory about Tariq being gay made sense.

  It would explain his quick recovery from his break-up, and the fact that he was so friendly and unselfconscious with me. Plus – stereotypes aside – there was the excellent dress sense and the interest in French royal history. And he’d made brownies for the last Film Club meeting.

  So why wasn’t he out? Maybe it was his family – or maybe he was scared that if he came out, it would damage his chances of being elected as Student President, or whatever. Poor Tariq. Why was the world so awful?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Theory of Knowledge was one of my favourite classes, but also one of the hardest. It was a mixture of philosophy, reasoning and logic. Sometimes the starting-point was a question on the board; last week’s was ‘How do we know we are human?’ Which was quite a lot to deal with on a Tuesday morning.

  Ms Curtis, the teacher, was a lean, sallow American woman who had already won me over by using a video of Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes, to illustrate the difference between deductive and inductive reasoning.

  Today the question on the whiteboard was ‘Is internet censorship good for society?’ We spent a while discussing photos of violence and of crimes, before we got onto privacy.

  ‘Can you ever remove photos of yourself from the internet?’ Priya asked faux-casually.

  We hadn’t seen her much since she’d started dating her new boyfriend. Using inductive reasoning, I decided Priya was probably worried about photographs of her ending up online. I hoped not, but Tyger seemed exactly the kind of guy who would do that.

  ‘In theory, yes – if they’ve been stolen, and if you have the resources to take legal action. But in practice, it’s almost impossible.’

  We discussed the hacking of celebrity photos, and the difference between a photo that was stolen and one that was just being used without consent.

  ‘Wasn’t there a case in Spain – a man who wanted to remove himself from the internet?’ someone asked.

  ‘Yes!’ said Ms Curtis. ‘He had been in debt and although he had paid it, the details of his debt kept coming up when he was googled. He was successful. Now Google allows individuals to request to remove things about themselves from search engines.’

  What? How had nobody told me about this?

  ‘Yes, Vee?’

  Vee, two desks away from me, was looking as though she wanted to explode. ‘But that’s censorship,’ she said. ‘What about murderers, and rapists?’

  ‘What about them?’ Ms Curtis said, to encourage her. ‘How is that different?’

  ‘Because we need to know!’

  ‘So it’s in the public interest? Good point.’ She wrote, ‘Public interest,’ on the board. ‘Yes. But what if it’s a crime that wasn’t violent, and happened a long time ago? What if you shoplifted when you were seventeen and it kept coming up when you were job-hunting in your twenties? Is that good for society?’

  Everyone was quiet. I half-looked around the class discreetly. Tariq wasn’t saying anything, but he was doodling in his notebook and I could tell he was listening carefully.

  Vee frowned, thinking it out. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘Because if you start removing results for some people – where does it end? What if some people get their results cleaned up and some don’t – how is that fair?’

  Other people started talking all at once.

  ‘Obviously each case is going to be different and has to be decided on its own merit,’ Ms Curtis said. ‘Let’s go back to the original example – the man who paid his debt, but the story kept coming up. Who thinks he should not have the right to delete search results about this?’

  Vee’s hand shot straight up, as did about half the room’s. I noticed that Tariq looked to see what everyone else was doing before raising his hand. Reluctantly, I raised my own hand, so as not
to look suspicious.

  ‘And who thinks that he should have the right to delete it?’

  I was disappointed to see that only a quarter of the room put their hand up. I was especially disappointed in Tariq – not because of the way he’d voted, but the way he took the temperature of the room before doing so. It was true that he was a bit of a people-pleaser. But as I knew myself, nobody was perfect.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The next few weeks were the happiest I’d had in months.

  The candles were coming out on the chestnut trees and tourists were also coming out in droves, making me feel smug that I lived here and was a real Parisian. I didn’t even mind when Lenny texted me endless pictures from his school trip. Of course, he was going to Naples and Amalfi with Holly. It looked more like a celebrity honeymoon than a school trip.

  Easter was early that year. I decided that, instead of going home for the break, I would stay in Jean Monnet.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ Mum asked me for the tenth time. ‘We haven’t see you in so long.’

  ‘Six weeks,’ I corrected her. ‘That’s nothing, Mum. There are people here who haven’t seen their parents in six months.’

  I knew that it would be much easier to get to grips with all my work if I stayed in school. Plus, it had taken me this long to settle in to Jean Monnet; I didn’t want to go back and then have to settle in all over again.

  But there was another reason. For the first time in months, I was actually feeling OK about myself. I wasn’t a horrible person; I was doing worthwhile things. I was still drowning in work, but I felt like I was actually learning things and not just cramming for exams. I loved being on the committee. I had friends. Even if half of my friends had nothing to say to the other half, I still had people to hang out with, who I liked and who liked me. And if I went home, I was scared that all of that would fall apart.

  Vee was completely fine with me now that she knew my secret – or thought she did. She and Kiyoshi were in denial about study, so most afternoons we would hire Vélib bikes and cycle along the Canal Saint Martin, or go and browse in the flea markets in Clignancourt. We also went to see a film in the Pagoda, a cinema that was built to look like a miniature Chinese pavilion. Vee knew so many interesting nooks and crannies, I realised I was seeing a side of Paris that I never would have seen as a tourist.

  She also helped me refresh my wardrobe with several cool new things – vintage Levi’s with rips in the knee, culottes, and a black sweater with studs. They definitely made me look more like a Lola than like my old self.

  ‘Are you sure I can carry them off?’ I asked Vee.

  ‘Definitely!’ she said. ‘Especially with your hair. It is so cool. Have you ever thought about doing a nose ring?’

  ‘I’m not totally sure about that,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of my hair, too.’ The roots were showing more and more, and it was making me look really pale. But it still seemed a little risky to go back to my original brown.

  We also talked endlessly about Kiyoshi’s crush on Marco Agnelli. Marco had invited him to like his private Instagram, and their Snapchat streaks were out of this world, apparently. And yet they never spoke in real life. It all sounded very confusing.

  ‘It’s like I’m his Tamagotchi,’ Kiyoshi complained.

  I went out a few times with Tariq and Fletcher, who were stuck here over the holidays too. The ostensible reason was to do party planning, but we generally didn’t do much of that. Our usual haunt was the Place de la Contrescarpe in the Latin Quarter, a beautiful, lively cobbled square with trees and a fountain, ringed with cafés with red awnings. It was off the rue Mouffetard, which was full of bars and crepe stalls that were thronged at all hours – another busy, bustling student street that I loved.

  ‘Why aren’t there places like this in London?’ I said with a sigh one evening towards the end of the holidays.

  ‘What about that famous South Bank?’ said Tariq. ‘That’s pretty good.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ said Fletcher, who was sitting with us. ‘That’s in Four Weddings and a Funeral.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said. I had a sudden memory of last summer, when they put giant deckchairs outside the National Theatre, and Nisha and Ellie and I sat out there all day listening to music and filming ourselves and being silly. To drive the thought away, I said quickly, ‘But the South Bank is always so crowded. Paris is much prettier.’

  ‘See, that’s the difference between the French and the English,’ said Tariq. ‘The French think France is the best country in the world. The English think England is the worst.’

  ‘I don’t think that,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Oh, and the Americans,’ Tariq added, looking teasingly at Fletcher. ‘They think America’s the best country in the world. That’s why they get so confused in France.’

  I looked at Fletcher, wondering how she would react to that one.

  ‘No we don’t,’ she said, looking indignant. After a beat, she added, ‘We think we’re the only country in the world.’

  We all laughed at that and I thought how Fletcher could occasionally surprise me by having a bit more of an edge than I’d expected.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Tariq said, hearing an alert.

  ‘Oh, it’s my Inspalert,’ said Fletcher. ‘It sends me inspirational messages.’ She looked faintly embarrassed. ‘This one says: Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’

  Looking around the square, with its trees lit up by fairy lights and its splashing fountain, I thought; this is the first day of the rest of my life. My plan had worked. I was in a different place, I was hanging out with different people. I even looked different, with my hair and my new clothes. Not even Vee had found me out. I really did it. I had left Delilah behind and I was Lola now.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘Hey babe!’ a voice said above us.

  It was Fletcher’s boyfriend, Hunter, and the other identikit couple. I knew they were called Riley and August, but I honestly didn’t know which was which.

  I also knew that Hunter was the other person running for president of the Student Council. I would have expected him and Tariq to be a little icy with each other but apparently not.

  ‘You ready for next week, man?’ he said to Tariq. Next week were the hustings when the two candidates would announce their policies.

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ said Tariq, grinning. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Bring it,’ said Hunter.

  It was not like that with me and Nisha, when I was made Junior Prefect and she wasn’t. Maybe that rivalry was easier for boys. It seemed almost expected of them, whereas girls were expected to get along.

  ‘You guys want to join us?’ Fletcher asked Hunter.

  ‘No, I’m pretty beat. Let’s head home, babe,’ he replied.

  Fletcher got up and started putting on her jacket.

  ‘Let me give you something for the hot chocolate,’ she said to Tariq. ‘Oh, wait. I need to get cash. I’ll find a machine.’

  ‘Fletcher!’ Tariq said. ‘It’s fine. I can buy you a hot chocolate.’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘I can’t let you pay for me. Wait. I bet I have it somewhere.’ She started rootling through the bottom of her bag. I looked at her boyfriend.

  ‘Sorry, babe – I got nothing,’ he said serenely.

  ‘Fletcher,’ Tariq said sternly. ‘I’m going to get really quite annoyed at you, if you don’t let me buy you one measly hot chocolate. Come on. You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, come on Fletcher,’ I added. ‘It’s much easier if we just pay.’

  ‘No! I can’t let you pay for me!’

  After a lot more wrangling, she finally agreed as long as she could get Tariq back next time. It was so awfully awkward, I was relieved when they eventually left. Fletcher was one of those people who could never, ever let you do her a favour. I’d seen her leave class and go back to her room to get a pen, rather than borrow one. She meant it as a ni
ce thing, of course, but it was actually maddening.

  Once they were gone, I turned to Tariq. ‘Is it really bad that I can’t remember which is Riley and which is August?’

  ‘You’re a monster. Riley’s the girl,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘Hunter is …’ I trailed off. Did I know Tariq well enough to bitch about someone with him? Would he even be willing to do that or was he too diplomatic?

  ‘He’s pretty selfish,’ he said, frankly. ‘Fletcher’s too good for him. But it always seems to work out that way, doesn’t it?’

  I nodded, relieved that Tariq was human enough to be mean about someone on occasion.

  It had started to rain – hitting off the fountain in big splashes and running in rivulets down the windows of the café. The red and yellow lights of the cafés opposite us became distorted in the raindrops. I knew Tariq would have an umbrella; he always did.

  ‘I know everyone complains about rain,’ I said. ‘But I secretly quite like it.’

  ‘This isn’t proper rain,’ he said. ‘You should come to Lahore in the monsoon season. It’s like nothing else you’ve ever seen. It’s sheets and sheets of water, descending from the sky, like it’s going to obliterate the earth. But afterwards … all the dust is gone, everything is green and fresh and you can see each individual drop sparkling on each leaf, and there’s this smell of freshness and green and life … I really miss it. Lawrence Gardens in the monsoon – that’s one of the top places on earth.’

  ‘What’s Lawrence Gardens?’

  ‘It’s also called Bagh-e-Jinnah – it’s named after the founder of Pakistan. It’s the most beautiful park – you can walk for miles and miles, under these enormous trees. We lived near there when I was a kid.’

  ‘Did you used to cycle there?’

  ‘No – we had a driver.’ Seeing my face, he said, almost embarrassed, ‘It’s not that unusual back home.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll go back to live there?’ I asked. ‘Oh, sorry, you said. After university.’