Love, Hate and Other Filters(37)

“I have no idea why you felt this strange compulsion to tell me this, but whatever, you did. Now can you get out of the way? I have to get to class.”

“You can’t go with him,” Amber says. “Final word.”

Violet’s eyes blaze. “Leave Maya out of your psychodrama, freaks.”

We watch them turn and walk away, vanishing around the corner.

Other students turn back to their lockers, and the hall fills again with post-vacation catch-up chatter.

I quickly scan the hall—no sign of either Phil or Lisa, thankfully.

Violet and I look at each other, eyes wide. I mouth the words, Oh, my God.

She gives me this huge grin and a classic eye twinkle. She leans in and whispers, “It’s so on.”



“Bonjour. ?a va?” Madame DuPont greets us at the door. Her lilting accent never fails to capture the music of the language.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Violet and I reply. My own accent is always a little too chirpily American.

The rest of the students file in and take their seats. Madame DuPont walks to the front of the class. “Cette semaine, j’ai une petite surprise pour vous: nous allons regarder un film,” she says, taking a DVD off her desk and popping it in the player. Turning back to the class, she smiles and continues, “Et il y aura un test jeudi.” The class groans. “Je vous presente: Paris, Je T’aime.”

I check to make sure my phone is turned off. I hate when people forget to turn their phones off during the movies. Nothing pulls you out of your suspension of disbelief faster than a stupid ringtone.

I’ve missed a text. From Phil. Actually, three of them.

Phil: I’m sorry about Amber and Kelsey.

Phil: I should’ve told you.

Phil: Can we talk?

Is it possible to be happy and angry at the same time about the same thing?

I tap Violet on the shoulder and show her my screen, but before I can say anything, the teacher gives me the stink eye. “Mademoiselle Aziz, s’il vous pla?t,” she says in a clipped tone as she motions for me to put my phone away. Phil will have to wait. Good.

Madame DuPont turns off the lights. The movie begins. The soft bluish glow of the television soothes me. I’ve already seen the movie—it’s an anthology, a little collection of vignettes about life in Paris, each taking place in a different quarter of the city. My favorite is the one set in the Fourteenth Arrondissement.

It’s a short film that follows a middle-aged postal worker on her first trip to Paris. But the conceit of the film is that it feels like a documentary, even though it isn’t. It makes the character’s story so much more poignant. She narrates the whole piece like it’s an essay for a French class. And what I really love about it is the mood. She just feels so alone, like she’s lived her whole life in “quiet desperation” as Thoreau would say, instead of sucking the marrow out of life. And it should be super depressing. It is, kind of. But there’s this little moment, where she feels joy and sadness at the same time, and what she realizes is that you can find life even when you think it eludes you—

“Lockdown.”

It’s the principal’s voice, barking over the intercom.

“All students are to remain in their classes. Teachers, begin lockdown procedures. This is not a drill. The all clear will sound when lockdown is over.”

Madame DuPont rises from her desk. She hurries to lock the classroom door so it can’t be opened from the outside. We all straighten up from our comfortable movie-watching positions, looking around the room wild-eyed. I am among the “we,” but I am also just me, detached. Everyone speaks at once. Or some of us. I am silent.

Madame DuPont doesn’t immediately shush us. She runs her hand over her face, trying to conceal her worry as she stands at the door looking out the slim glass window. I sneak a peek around her. A couple security guards rush through the hallways, walkie-talkies in hand.

Madame DuPont turns off the DVD. The lights stay off.

“What’s going on?” someone shouts.

“You know as much as I do.” She switches to English, her voice calm and commanding. “You heard the principal. Now I need all of you to move your desks to the left. It’s going to be close quarters for a while. I want to make sure that no one can see you from the window in the door.”

Metal desk legs screech against the floor, students bump into one another, backpacks fall with the thud of heavy textbooks. Madame DuPont cuts copy paper in half lengthwise and proceeds to paper over the skinny glass window in the door. She leaves a small flap untaped so she can check out the window if necessary.

“Why are you doing that?” Brian yells from the back row. He’s usually quiet in class, especially lately. I don’t turn to look. To be honest, I’ve been completely avoiding looking in his direction since that weirdness at the bookstore.

“So no one can see in to shoot us, duh,” Jessica yells at him from the front row.

“Ssshh,” Madame DuPont says. “There’s not going to be any shooting. It’s a precaution. Now we’re going to stay in here until we get the all clear. No one leaves and no one comes in, understand?”

We all nod.

“We don’t have the facts, so let’s not speculate. The best thing for us to do is stay calm. I’m going to turn the movie back on, and you’ll have more information as soon as I do—when the principal announces it.”