Page 34 of Your Echo
The tension in her posture is already loosening, and I see two spot of pink appear high up on her cheeks, almost the exact same colour as her tank top.
“Sorry. I just get...sensitive about stuff like that.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
She blinks at me. “You noticed what?”
“I noticed you get kind of...weird about French. You only speak it when you’re angry or emotional, and when you do, you look like you’ve made a mistake, like you’re mad at yourself or disappointed or something.” I shrug. “I noticed it.”
The pink on her cheeks gets darker. “God, I hope no one else has.”
“Why? Why do you feel that way?”
I don’t actually expect her to answer, but she drops her eyes to where she’s playing with the fringe on her pillow and starts to speak.
“It’s...hard to explain, especially to someone who isn’t French Canadian, but being Québécois isn’t always easy. The rest of the country looks at separatists like they’re all idiots, but a lot of the reason people want to separate isbecausethe rest of the country thinks we’re idiots.”
“So you’re a separatist?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. No, I...I see a lot of the reason behind it culturally speaking, but logistically I don’t think it’s really an option. Still, it just makes me so mad to see the way we’re looked down on. Even here, in Montréal, the rich English people all live together up in Westmount, pretending that French people don’t exist unless they need their huge houses cleaned.”
She rips a piece of fringe right off the pillow and seems to come back to herself.
“Sorry. This isn’t appropriate. You must think I’m crazy.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat and try to sound normal.
“No. I don’t think you’re crazy at all.”
As soon as she said the word ‘Westmount’ I felt like all my blood was draining out of me. She must see some trace of my reaction in my face because she stares at me for a moment but doesn’t ask any questions.
“Well this has been a really relaxing meditation class,” I try to joke.
“Yeah, so relaxing.” She sighs. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have let us get sidetracked like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “This hasn’t been relaxing, but it’s been sort of cathartic.”
Another flush of pink at the top of her cheekbones.
“I, um...” She gives an embarrassed little laugh. “I don’t know what that word means.”
I laugh too. “And I don’t know what it is in French. Um, maybe—”
I repeat ‘cathartic’ but with a French accent.
“Oh!” Her eyes light up with recognition. “Yes. Yeah, I guess it has been kind of cathartic. Just don’t tell anyone I was ranting in the meditation room. We’re not really supposed to talk at all.”
I pretend to be craning my neck to look for people in the hallway, and then I turn back to her.
“I’ll keep your secrets, Stéphanie.”
* * *
“Merde, it’s hot,”Stéphanie groans, fanning herself as I put my shoes back on in the entryway. “I just want to stick my whole face in a tub of ice cream.”
I should probably stop and ask myself why picturing her doing that feels borderline erotic, but I don’t.
“I could make that happen,” I offer. “Crème de la Crème is just around the corner. I could pay you back for all the catharsis today?”
