Lola Offline

by Nicola Doherty

He bit his nail. ‘That was my plan,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know. If I go to university in the UK – which I’d like to – I’ll have lived abroad for longer than I lived at home. To be honest with you, I feel like I’m becoming kind of deracinated. I’m even forgetting my Urdu.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t you grow up speaking Urdu?’

  ‘Of course, partly. But we’ve always spoken English at home.’

  ‘Can you teach me some?’

  ‘Sure.’ He taught me ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’. Then he said, ‘You really are a language geek, aren’t you?’

  ‘You have no idea how geeky.’ I hesitated, then admitted, ‘I invented my own language.’

  ‘Your own language? You mean, like pig Latin?’

  ‘No,’ I said, indignant. ‘It’s a proper one.’

  ‘What does it sound like?’

  ‘Well … it’s a Romance language. Which means it’s like French or Italian, but it’s also got borrowings from English. So, “I want” is Ya windeth. “Do you want” is Deja ta windeth.’

  ‘Deja ta windeth … so the verb stays the same?’

  ‘Oh yeah, no conjugation. Much easier. So “Deja ta windeth a eo?” means “Do you want to go?”’

  ‘Deja ta windeth a eo,’ he repeated. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘That’s it – that’s good! You’re picking it up.’

  ‘Deja ta windeth a eo. I like it,’ Tariq said. ‘Can you teach me more?’

  ‘OK, but I warn you, there’s very few native speakers. Just me and my little brother really.’

  ‘Does it have a name? Your language?’

  ‘It’s called, um, Lolese.’ I had to think quickly because obviously I couldn’t tell him it was Delilish.

  The rain had stopped outside. We sat there for a while, idly people-watching.

  ‘We should go soon,’ I said, lazily.

  ‘In a bit,’ he said.

  I noticed that almost all the men who went by were wearing long cotton scarves – it was a total craze among Parisian men. I was going to ask Tariq what that was all about when I realised he was wearing a long cotton scarf.

  ‘I like your trench coat, by the way,’ Tariq said. ‘Actually your whole outfit is very cute. You look like a French girl.’

  ‘Really? Thanks.’ After seeing so many of them for weeks, I had finally caved and bought one in a shop on the rue de Seine, and I absolutely loved it. It wasn’t a baggy vintage one like Vee’s; it was fitted and belted. I had also bought a little brown suede skirt – not unlike Priscilla’s – and a black polo neck, both of which I was wearing, with my old leather boots.

  Weirdly, I had noticed that I tended to dress in a much more preppy way when I was around Tariq than when I was out with Vee and Kiyoshi. I didn’t know why that was – maybe because I was worried that Vee would think I looked like a preppy clone. Or that Tariq would be embarrassed to be seen with me in my crazier outfits. Which was stupid. I should just wear what I wanted. Whatever that was.

  The waiter came by to see if we wanted another drink, and I shook my head.

  ‘It’s almost nine,’ Tariq said reluctantly. ‘We’d better go.’

  We were having such a good time I hadn’t even noticed. Ten was our absolute latest curfew, but we had to be signed in specially if it was after nine. Although, even if it had been three a.m. and we’d been steaming drunk, I was fairly sure that Tariq could have sweet-talked the staff on reception.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘I’m really hungry,’ Tariq said suddenly. ‘Do you mind if we stop for a crepe?’

  ‘No, of course. I’ve never actually had one yet.’

  Tariq stopped dead still. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘You’ve never had a CREPE? How is that even possible? What have you been doing with yourself? How long have you been in Paris?’

  ‘A while?’ I said, laughing. ‘Give me a break! I’ve been busy.’

  He clasped his hands to his head. ‘This is a disaster. We don’t even have time to take you to the best one. Never mind. We’ll try Michel’s. Hopefully the queue won’t be too bad.’

  He marched me towards a busy stall, beside a souvenir shop, where two guys were working diligently on two round, metal bases, sizzling butter onto them, then pouring the batter on and swirling it into round circles with a sort of metal trowel. It was emitting the smells that had been haunting my dreams ever since I’d come to Paris.

  ‘So that’s where that smell’s coming from!’ I said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘This gets worse and worse,’ said Tariq. ‘Do you want Nutella or jambon fromage – that’s ham and cheese?’

  ‘I know what jambon fromage means,’ I said, poking him.

  ‘Well I don’t know, Lola. I can’t assume anything, if you’ve never even had a crepe.’

  ‘It’s got to be Nutella, doesn’t it? Wait, let me give you some money.’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘I absolutely insist. This is your first crepe – let me buy it for you. It’s the least I can do after such a terrible omission.’

  He ordered in rapid French, and we waited while Michel whipped together our two crepes with Nutella.

  ‘Now,’ said Tariq. ‘I defy you to tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve ever tasted.’

  I took a bite. Insanely gooey chocolate and the soft, salty sweetness of the crepe … I nodded speechlessly.

  ‘May that be the first of many,’ said Tariq. ‘Right. I’m not going to be able to talk for a bit.’

  ‘Me either,’ I said, through a mouthful. We walked away from the stall, stuffing ourselves in companionable silence.

  ‘I thought nowhere could beat Lahore for street food, when we moved here,’ he said. ‘But I’m prepared to admit, the crepes are pretty good.’

  I took a last regretful bite. ‘That was easily one of the best things I’ve done since I arrived here. We’ll have to do it again.’

  ‘I’m free any time.’

  ‘Really? You seem pretty busy to me.’

  ‘Not really. You know Nicolas and Patrick don’t board … and Patrick is booked up with Rose now that they’re dating. So I’m often at a loose end in the evenings. Crying onto my laptop, begging someone to save me from my extended essay.’

  ‘You, at a loose end?’ I laughed. ‘Come on. You can’t go down the corridor without saying hello to four hundred people.’

  ‘Yes, well. You can have six hundred friends on Facebook and nobody to have dinner with.’

  I was quite struck by this. Maybe he did get lonely sometimes – as impossible as it seemed. And it was true that there was a difference between friends online, and friends in real life.

  Thinking about this made me remember Kiyoshi, and his problems with Marco Agnelli. I wondered if I should get a guy’s perspective on it.

  ‘Tariq,’ I said. ‘What do you think it means when a guy messages you all the time … but in real life you hardly speak?’

  He frowned. ‘It can mean anything, I suppose. He might be shy?’

  ‘He’s definitely shy.’

  ‘Well – do you like him?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not me! It’s happening to a friend.’ I laughed. ‘I know that sounds like I’m lying but it really is. Just a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t say. But what would you do, if you were my friend?’

  After a pause, he said. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d be wondering – shouldn’t he be asking you out? Or at least spending time with you – getting to know you? Properly, not just online.’ He hesitated. ‘I mean why wouldn’t he want to do that?’

  ‘That’s a good point. Thanks, Tariq,’ I said. Impulsively, I squeezed his arm. ‘You’re a great friend.’

  He smiled, though he looked a bit distracted. Maybe the arm squeeze had been too much. Oh dear. He was probably worried that I was developing a crush on him.

  ‘Have you been in touch with Priscilla lately?’

  ‘With Priscilla? Yes. Here, give me that.’ He balled up my cre
pe wrapper and put it in a recycling bin, along with his. ‘I haven’t told many people this, but … we’ve broken up.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ I added cautiously, ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s the distance really. We were talking about visiting over Easter, but it just wasn’t practical when we both have so much work to do. And our parents aren’t about to start shelling out for transatlantic flights.’

  I nodded. This was all very sensible and practical. But I couldn’t help wondering if the real reason for their break-up was more to do with Tariq liking boys. The way he wolfed down his crepe didn’t suggest he was particularly heartbroken.

  It was so sad, if that was the case. Tariq was probably one of my favourite people here, and it was such a pity he couldn’t come out, even to me. But then, I was hardly one to talk.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I missed the holidays as soon as they were over, but it was nice to walk back into the cafeteria, on that first day back, feeling like a proper student here instead of an interloper.

  I had been thinking, over the Easter holidays, about how crazy it was that I kept my friends in such different boxes. Maybe I should try and mix them up more? But I changed my mind after Vee and Tariq had a full-on argument during Theory of Knowledge. The question on the board was ‘Should we vote?’ Vee, unsurprisingly, said no, because politicians were all the same. Tariq tried to keep calm but ended up accusing her of first-world privilege and complacency. I kept my head down, but I decided that some things, like all my friends getting on, just weren’t meant to be.

  The big excitement of the first week back at school was the hustings meeting, where the two rivals for Student President would give a speech to the entire school. Vee had threatened to boycott it, but had finally agreed to come along when Kiyoshi had pointed out that there would be the opportunity to ask provocative questions.

  Tariq was up first. I would have been sick with nerves, but he looked utterly relaxed. It was odd to think that this guy – this star of the school – was the same person who had asked me for advice about laundry, and bought me a crepe and learned basic Delilish.

  ‘Thanks, everyone,’ he said, once everyone had quietened down. ‘I’m so honoured to be running for this position. Jean Monnet isn’t just a school to me – it’s my home. And you guys are my family.’

  ‘Vomit,’ said Vee, beside me.

  She looked more approving, though, when he announced his policies – the bottled water ban and the extension of counselling hours.

  ‘Those are not terrible ideas,’ she said.

  ‘Mmn,’ I said, shrinking down in my seat. One of the things you had to accept about Vee was that she had absolutely no indoor voice. I was relieved when he eventually stepped down, to enthusiastic applause.

  ‘This should be interesting,’ murmured Kiyoshi, as Hunter stepped up.

  ‘OK, guys,’ he said. ‘You’re busy people so I’ll keep this short. The first thing I have to say is: everybody be chill. I am NOT here to take away your bottled water. Your Evian and Vittel are safe with me!’

  There was quite a scattering of applause, especially from the lower years.

  ‘Second thing,’ he said. ‘Once I am president, I will personally guarantee that we have pancakes for breakfast on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Not crepes, pancakes. With bacon AND genuine maple syrup!’

  There was wild applause for this. ‘Can he actually guarantee that?’ I asked Kiyoshi, who shrugged.

  ‘If the Student Council back him up, probably. Two years ago the president introduced giant cookies. Big hit.’

  ‘Lastly,’ Hunter said, holding up a hand. ‘I was very disappointed that this year’s Entertainment Committee – led by Tariq here – decided to cancel our Venetian Masked Ball in favour of a costume party, which honestly, sounds pretty lame-o. And I know that everyone in IB One and Two was disappointed too. When I am president, I will make sure that it happens. Ladies, you SHALL go to the ball!’

  I gasped. ‘That’s appalling! That’s not what happened!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Vee. ‘The crowd loves it.’

  The whole room was applauding wildly. Up on the platform, Tariq’s face was set in a smile, but I could tell he was furious. Mr Gerardo was speaking quietly to Ms Curtis, who shook her head.

  ‘He’ll get a chance to rebut that, won’t he?’ I said. ‘In the debate?’

  ‘There is no debate,’ Kiyoshi said. ‘They just announce their policies and that’s that. And they’re not allowed to canvass either. No posters, nothing. This was their chance.’

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘But that’s not what happened! The teacher explained why it was a bad idea and we all voted on it.’

  ‘Is he really going to take away our sparkling water?’ Kiyoshi said, looking worried. ‘I know it’s bad for the environment, but I literally don’t think I can get through the IB without it.’

  And it was true that lots of younger kids were swarming madly around Hunter, who was being patted on the back by his buddies. I noticed Fletcher leave the hall alone, her face stony. I wondered how she’d felt about Hunter calling the Spring Ball, which she was helping to organise, ‘lame-o.’

  The whole thing made me realise something. I had no desire any more to stand up there, the way Tariq and Hunter just had, and battle it out to be in charge. The whole thing just seemed too stressful.

  Tariq was leaving the stage, with Patrick and Nicolas beside him. He had a lot less of a crowd around him than Hunter did. I tried to catch his eye, but obviously he was distracted.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said to him, as he went by us. ‘That was a really dick move from Hunter.’

  He flashed me a quick smile. ‘Not at all. It was all good fun.’

  ‘Do you want to—’

  I was about to ask him if he wanted to get lunch, but he was barely listening. ‘Thanks for coming!’ He patted me on the shoulder, and then he was gone, with the other two.

  I supposed that he wanted to get away and lick his wounds. But why not say so? Why be so … fake about it? That was politics for you, I suppose.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Thump. Thump. Thump. What was that?

  It was Friday night, four days after the hustings, and I was trying to do my French homework – an essay on Fair Trade, or Commerce Equitable, that would have been difficult enough in English. I was also being driven nuts by that steady thump. I went out to the corridor, but there wasn’t a sound.

  Then I heard that thump again. It was coming from Fletcher’s room.

  ‘Fletcher?’ I knocked on the door. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Come in,’ she croaked. Her voice sounded foggy, as if she had a cold.

  The room was dark, and she was lying in bed, a pile of crumpled tissues beside her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I just need—’ She sneezed, then burst into tears.

  Panicking, I said, ‘Don’t worry! Should I get Susannah?’ Susannah was the teaching assistant who was responsible for the female boarders.

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘No. I just have a bad cold. And I need a tampon,’ she said. ‘I would ask the other girls but … Mette uses those non-applicator ones and I just can’t,’ she finished, looking embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t worry! I’ve got a box. All flavours.’

  I ran next door. Luckily, I had stocked up in a paranoid fashion before coming over, although I knew rationally that they did have these things in France. Fletcher went off to the bathroom, leaving me to look around her room, which was not in a good place. Piles of tissues; cough sweets; an empty bottle of Evian and various aggressive-looking American flu remedies. I didn’t even know she was sick. There was also a chocolate bar and a John Meyer CD – these must be desperate times.

  ‘You poor thing,’ I said when she got back. ‘You must be feeling rotten. Can I get you anything else?’

  She got back into bed, looking grey and shaken. ‘No, it�
�s fine. Please tell me how much I owe you – I’ll pay you for these.’

  ‘Fletcher, seriously. It’s fine. Do you need some more water?’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m good.’ She coughed, then sneezed, and looked around for a tissue. I went out and came back with some tissues from my room, plus a bottle of water.

  ‘Where is Hunter, anyway?’ I asked. ‘Why isn’t he looking after you?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  Oh, no. This explained the chocolate and the John Meyer CD.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘Look, let me make you some tea with honey.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘OK,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Thanks.’ Then her lip trembled again. ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘It’s fine! Just don’t apologise!’

  I ran down to the vending machines and got her some more bottles of water. Then I made a cup of tea, adding some of Mette’s honey from the kitchen. Back in Fletcher’s room, I got her to agree to let me tidy a few things away – I knew the mess would be driving her crazy, as it would me. Soon her room was looking much better, as was she, after chugging down an entire litre of water.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘that’s one of the worst things about boarding, isn’t it? Being sick without your family around.’

  ‘Whereabouts is your family?’ I asked.

  I meant ‘which part of America’ but she said, ‘They’re in Kazakhstan. My parents both work for Habitat for Humanity. That’s why I’m here – so that we can meet in Europe instead of flying transatlantic all the time.’

  It was a sign of how long I’d been in Jean Monnet that this story actually sounded pretty normal. I wondered what Vee would say to that: she’d been convinced that Fletcher’s father was part of the dropping-bombs-on-villagers brigade.

  ‘What happened with Hunter?’ I asked tentatively. ‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

  She shook her head. ‘You can probably guess. I mean, the whole school heard him describe the Spring Ball – which I’ve been working on for weeks – as “lame-o”.’