Outcasts | Joseph Descamps

Chapter 2

The morning sun beamed down in the courtyard as Mr. Bellanger wrapped up his speech. Our homeroom teacher, Mme. Giraud, started to call each student of our class. 

"Applebaum Daniel, Belkasem Ahmed, Descamps Joseph..." she started.

The boy from the bench with the round glasses came forward after his name was called. He stood tall, wearing a white button up and a beige jacket decorated with a green collar. He had sharp features and purple circles hollowing his under eyes. The rest of the class was then called and we made our way into the school.

The halls of Voltaire were archaic and dusty, each crack growing with its age. The paint was faded and chipped, revealing its previous layers. The bricks were witness to each generation of students that walked the halls and now one finally with girls. I walked alongside Michèle and Simone till we reached our homeroom with Mme. Giraud. The three of us paused as we noticed the tables each sat two, knowing one of us was going to have to sit alone.

"It's okay, you guys can sit together, I'll sit at this table behind," I insisted.

The classroom quickly filled and a girl with golden blonde hair and a Hollywood face scurried in last. My table stayed empty, but she swiftly shuffled to the closest available seat at the front.

Madame Giraud turned around, taken aback. "Young lady, what is your name?"

The blonde girl stood from her seat with straight posture and a tall stature despite her height. "Annick Sabiani," she said sternly.

"And where do you think you are Ms. Sabiani ,that you think it's okay to sit beside a boy? Take your things. No, not you. You," Giraud said demandingly, pointing to the timid boy seated next to her.

"But I can't see from there!" he pleaded.

"Go to the back, now."

The boy walked to the back of class in defeat. Joseph Descamps sat in the second last row, with a devilish smirk on his face. He quickly stuck out his foot, tripping the already humiliated boy. Laughter fell over the room until Mme. Giraud silenced the class.

The next lesson of the day was Latin. Our teacher looked grouchy, he had bushy eyebrows and wore square glasses that magnified his eyes. It was safe to say he seemed prepared to make our lives miserable. Simone and Michèle had already found their table and the only empty spot in the classroom was next to Annick.

"Hi, I'm Élodie," I said quietly as I sat down.

"Annick," she replied, ever so slightly smiling.

"I'm sorry for how Mme. Giraud called you out before, she's needs to realize it's not the 20's anymore," I chuckled.

"Oh, thank you " Annick replied dully.

I didn't expect every attempt at friendship
to work out, but maybe she was just having a bad day I thought. Monsieur Douillard wrote out a sentence in Latin on the chalkboard, then asked the class its meaning. Annick's hand shot up beside me. Her eyes stayed on Mr. Douillard. But like most of the teachers here, it seemed he was too stubborn to choose the only girl that had her hand up. Eventually, a boy at the back raised his hand.

The voice said "I believe the girl has her hand raised."

The class chuckled and I crooked my head to see Descamps basking in the attention he had just got. His eyes met with mine but I quickly turned my head to listen to Annick.

"The Roman's welcome Horatio with cries of joy and congratulations and they escort him to his house," she said confidently.

"The Romans cheer Horacio," he corrected. "Can you please conjugate the verb ovare," he asked.