Page 11 of Crown of Steel

“Dad…”

The air leaves my mouth in a narrow whoosh and my heart throbs frantically inside my ribcage in an attempt to beat the hurt. The memories. There are too many of them, too many moments lost somewhere in time, like fluttering fragments I wish I could obliterate. And yet I want them to stay. Closearound my frame, clutching me from this prevailing sensation of loss.

Because I am lost.

My secret.

When I open my eyes again, I take a closer look at the room. A real look. A single bed with a bedside table, a closet to put my clothes. The tiny fridge I specifically asked for. Seems like my mother was listening after all. Although…when I open it and inspect its contents—a pile of cereal bars and energy drinks—I know who’s behind this.

Merci Amadou.

There’s also a desk and chair. I make my way toward the wooden furniture where my fingertips seek the smoothness of the material. It’s not as serene as steel, but it fits my environment. The window is closed, but the curtains are drawn, revealing the breathtaking forest of Monterrey.

I remember the last time I was in that forest…

Large oak trees fill the horizon with their glorious autumn palette of yellow, with red and some streaks of brown. Not quite the same view we used to have back home, where other apartment blocks painted the sky. France’s hidden poverty really isn’t that hidden—it can easily be found in thecitésthat frame about every single outskirt of our cities.

But then, what’s poverty to an outsider’s view, is reality to us. It’s our life, our neighbors, our shops and businesses, our crime.

I gingerly place my backpack onto my desk chair, then slowly zip it open to take my new Apple laptop out. It feels too shiny around my palms, too expensive in my calloused fingers.

Mom insisted that I’d be equipped with good study materials. And now I’m here, in Saint-Laurent Boarding College for boys. And Dad is locked up in some pissy prison close to Toulouse.

I place the computer on my desk, together with the book Itook with me when I moved—Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. He has always been my tiny regal friend when I’d sit by myself, protected by steel. I used to read the chapters out loud, overthinking the questions the little prince asks. About life, and people. About choices.

As always, the thought brings a smile to my lips, and I stare out of the window toward the twilight view of the forest, while I let my mind slumber. Only to startle when there’s a soft knock on my door.

“Régis?”

My hand flies to my pounding heart, and I need a moment to compose myself. Jesus, get a grip. It’s only Dominique, his voice hesitant when he calls out my name again. “It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Did you want to have some lunch with me and my friends?”

I’ll need to eat. Apart from acroissantand a cup of coffee, I haven’t had any other food today. The thought invites a rumbling sound through my stomach.

I—I don’t want to come out, is my first thought. Not yet. Let me stay here just a little more. But there are no iron bars here, no touch to soothe me from reality, it’s just me, and my bedroom, and theothersout there.

And so there’s nothing else to do but to put back on my inscrutable mask and head for the door. I swing it open and give Gaël’s boyfriend a forced smile. “With you and your friends?” One sweep through the room proves my thoughts—the others have left. They’re probably already in the canteen. “Or you and your friend, your boyfriend and my stepbrothers?” I try to keep my voice void of the sneer I feel, but judging by the way he snorts, I can tell I didn’t really succeed.

“I get it, Régis, I do. Which is why I thought you’d appreciate being introduced to some cool guys. My friends. You’ve already met Maxime when you were here last time, and I’m sure you’re going to love Jo. He’s a bit of a jock, but that’s not his fault.” Hegrins. I don’t think he even notices the way he puts the emphasis on the wordmy, as if to make it clear to himself and the world that he still has his own life. I can’t blame him. If I’d have such an all-consuming partner, I’d also feel the need to assert my autonomy. “We also play chess and go for hikes during the weekend. Pretty please? Come join us?” He bats his lashes playfully, and laughter bubbles up from my chest.

“Alright then. Thanks for asking me,” I add on a practically inaudible mumble then make a show of locking my door with my key. But when we make our way through the narrow corridor and toward the double spiral staircases, Dominique muses, “You’re welcome, Régis.”

3

RÉGIS

This place is… enormous. Grand, luxurious, mystical…fuckingimpressive. With its endless, narrow corridors wrapped in carpets and framed by mysterious paintings, its faint light and those unique, double spiral staircases that lead us down into the centre of the web that is called Monterrey Castle.

“You coming?” Dominique asks. He’s already downstairs where groups of guys are leisurely hanging around, ambling around as they move through the large reception, generating a gentle buzz with the occasional chortle. It’s…nice?

Such a treacherous thought. I know by heart which subjects I’m taking, plus the extra ones I’ve picked, have prepared conversations in my mind in case someone wants to work on a project with me. For months I have done nothing but prepare myself mentally for this change. I prepared for every worst case scenario, convinced myself of how much I’d hate it here. Imagine that.

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m fine. Sure, I’d love to work with you. Thank you so much for asking me!”

Never once did I consider this place could be fuckingnice. Where students chatter and share, where they enjoy being. I grind my molars, staving off the pleasantness of the scene before me and digging my heels in about this place. It’s not nice. It’s weird and fucking creepy. It’s a trick.

Atrick.

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