Page 23 of Your Echo
“Not yet,” she answers.
“Maman,” I grumble, as she pretends to be very interested in the last few bites of her protein bar.
“Ouais, ouais,I know.” She waves a hand at me. “It’s just that you almost have to pay a plumber tobreathein your bathroom, never mind actually fix anything, and I’m waiting for my cheque to come in so—”
I dig my fingers into the scratchy fabric of the couch. “You know I can help you out, right? I’m working double the hours I usually do at the studio, and I still pick up a shift every now and then atl’épicerie. All I do with my spare time is dance and go to the AMM. I have more money than I know what to do with. Iwantto help you.”
“Stéphanie, you help me more than enough just by coming over here. In fact, as much as I love your visits, I think you come here too much. It’s a long way to Pointe-Aux-Trembles, and you’re so busy—”
“Assez!” I interrupt, instantly regretting the disrespect in my tone but forging ahead anyway. “Enough,Maman. You know there’s nothing I would rather be doing.”
After all the hell I put her through in my teenage years, I’m making up for lost time. We’ve finally reached a point where being in the same room doesn’t make us want to cry or scream at each other, and I’m not ruining a perfectly good afternoon fighting over a plumbing issue. I’ll find a plumber myself later if I have to.
“Well, I’m happy to hear that,”Mamananswers, letting the subject drop. “How areles petitesthese days?”
She’s always asking me about my ‘little ones,’ waiting for the next funny story about a ballet class gone wrong. As usual, there’s a lot to tell her about.
“That one six year-old, Brianna, brought candy to class again. I don’t know where she hides it, or if her parents even care that she’s doing it, but somehow she snuck a handful of M&Ms into the studio. She got chocolate all over the bar. When I told her off, she just asked if I wanted some.”
Mamanlaughs at my exasperation, and then asks about her favourite student, Caroline. She’s heard enough stories about the studio that she actually has a favourite student of mine.
“Caroline’s still doing that thing where she starts spinning and doesn’t know how to stop. She ran into the wall yesterday.”
“Was she all right?”Mamangasps.
“Oh, she was fine. That girl isnotcoordinated, but she’s a tough one. I’ll give her that.”
“And those parents?” asksMaman. “The ones who were giving you trouble?”
Now I dig my nails into the cushion so hard I can feel the slats in the couch underneath.
“They talked to the manager,” I answer through gritted teeth. “They said they were ‘concerned their daughter isn’t getting the help she needs because of the language barrier.’ The manager told me she knows it’s all bullshit, but she might have to transfer the girl out of my class just to keep them happy.”
“That’s crazy!”Mamanexclaims. “You speak great English.”
I don’t speak great English; I speak fuckingperfectEnglish, with a perfect Anglophone accent. Three years of applying myself in language classes totally eliminated my Québécoisdrawl and makeshift English grammar. I can pronounce the ‘h’ and ‘s’ sounds without a single stutter. I know my verb tenses better than any native speaker I’ve ever met. The only time anyone finds out I’mnota native speaker is when I want them to.
Or when they learn my full name. ‘Stéphanie Cloutier-Hébert’ is a dead giveaway, and one the kind of parents who care about that sort of thing don’t overlook.
“It never used to be a problem until that girl from the studio won ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ and we started getting lots of rich kids,” I rant. “Now we have all these students from English private schools whose parents try to pretend they don’t live in a place where theofficial language is French. It’s like they think all Francophones do is walk around in raccoon hats, drinking moonshine and yelling about separatism—”
“Stéphanie,”Mamanwarns, but I’m too worked up to stop.
“They don’t think I have a brain! They don’t care that I can help their kid nail a triple pirouette in an hour. They all see ‘Cloutier-Hébert’ on the studio’s website and—”
“Stéphanie.”Mamanpauses to see if I’ll actually stop to listen, and when I just sit there panting, she continues. “I agree that those parents sound like even bigger connardsthan Madame Brossard, but they are only one set of parents. That’s the first time anyone at the studio has actually—”
“But they’re thinking it!” I exclaim. “Even if they don’t say anything, I know they’re thinking it.”
Mamansighs. “I’m just saying, maybe you’re a little too hard onles anglophones.”
“If I am, it’s because you weren’t hard enough on them.”
The air goes still, the way it does after an explosion, and we both tense up like we’re waiting for another bomb to go off.
I hate myself for bringing it up, hate myself with the clawing kind of self-loathing that’s scratched at my insides way too many times before, but the fuse was lit the second I saw inside her empty fridge, and it just kept on burning the longer I sat inside this bare and tatty condo.
She could have had better. She might nothave had better, I know, especially considering the state we lived in even before her fall, but shecouldhave had better.Wecould have had better, and that’s what’s always made me so angry. The people who caused her accident took so much away from her, and they never had to give anything back.
