Free The Girl Who Was Saturday Night by Heather O'Neill Page B

year, two years, three years …
    Adam reached over me to the back seat and grabbed a bullhorn from off the seat. I couldn’t even imagine where they had got it. But Nicolas and Adam were the type of boys that made friends easily and they were both thieves, so just about anything could appear in the back of the car or out of their pockets.
    “Time to disseminate some knowledge,” Adam said matter-of-factly.
    We opened the sunroof. Adam stood on the seat with his bullhorn.
    “Your teacher cannot search your locker without a warrant. Your teachers are part of a systematized, codified attempt to lower your self-esteem.”
    I was amazed that he could get these statements out without cracking up. We would never have been able to do that in a million years. Nicolas used to start laughing while ordering a loaf of pumpernickel bread because the woman who worked there had a picture of the pope on her kerchief.
    “You are sheep. Your brains are being fattened for the slaughter! They are teaching you lies! Lies!”
    The children all started gathering at the fence like fish trapped in a net. Their buttons were in the wrong holes and the backs of their skirts were tucked into their underwear. Children their age were in awe of teenagers. We inhabited a brief period of time during which we mocked all authority and we could get away with anything. We were screaming and yelling as we gave birth to a new generation. They hung on to the gates, staring up at us, utterly transfixed. I stood up, stepping onto Nicolas’s bent leg like it was a footstool.
    “My dick, Nouschka! My dick!” he yelled.
    Adam handed me the bullhorn.
    “Only prisoners are forced to line up,” I cried. “You have been imprisoned without due process of a trial. You have committed no crime.”
    “Do not fear your hallway monitor,” Adam yelled. “He doesn’t actually exist. Just like the boogeyman. If you stop believing in him, he will disappear.”
    The children started screaming and yelling. Finally, finally there was some chaos in their lives. We had showed up like summertime. Their applause sounded like a forest fire.
    “You are not alone in your struggle. All over the city, children are rising up to plan a revolt. Arm yourself. You have a constitutional right to bear arms.”
    Nicolas stood up and squeezed in next to Adam. He took the bullhorn from him and held it to his own mouth.
    “Bring us the principal! I want Mr. Edery!” Nicolas yelled.
    The principal was obviously on holiday, but the summer camp monitors came running toward us. They looked terrified, as if we were rabid dogs. They were waving their arms around in the air. One was blowing his whistle like it had some sort of supernatural power. An overweight counsellor with greying hair came outside the schoolyard and lumbered toward us as if he had just attached his legs.
    Adam and Nicolas dropped back into their seats. We jolted back and forth a bit while Nicolas screamed hysterically, trying to figure out the stick shift, and then we sped away. Adam put his arm around me. It made me happy and I was in love with him. Or I was having such a good time that I mistook this good time for love. When you’re nineteen, almost every day is a day of wine and roses.
    “Do you think they called the police?” I asked.
    “Who gives a shit?” Nicolas said. “I have dirt on all those teachers. At least eight of them molested me.”
    “No, they did not!” I screamed in laughter.
    The sun was going down. The pink clouds in the sky were delicates soaking in the sink. We were parked on Boulevard Saint-Laurent, crammed in the front seat, eating Vietnamese takeout, romantic poets having a rest after a good day of making asses out of ourselves.
    Adam turned on the radio. It was the same interview from the morning. They played the news on a loop unless something new happened during the day, and apparently nothing had.
    “I can’t believe it!” Nicolas exclaimed.
    The interview came to an end. They put on