Free Bye Bye Blondie by Virginie Despentes Page B

cigarettes?”
    Her eagerness could not have been more obvious if she had rubbed her hands together. She suggested, “I’ve got a little stuff and some papers—spliff?”
    He agreed and raised his hands in the air, arms up straight. Gloria said, “You look a bit like a cat.”
    â€œI was doing a boxer who’s won the fight, but okay, too bad.”
    â€œOh really? Sorry, but you did look like a cat.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be a castrating kind of girl would you?”
    â€œMe? You must be joking? Well-known for it.”
    She’d hidden in a pot of Nivea a little ball of dope that a friend had brought her, a boy she hardly knew but who had decided to take an interest in her case. He came to see her by car, brought her some rag dolls with funny faces, the Cabbage Patch Kids, and he hid little pieces of shit in their pockets. “That’s really kind of you,” she had said with enthusiasm, wondering whether this guy was really cool, had nothing better to do, felt concerned, or just wanted to sleep with her. In which case it wasn’t worth going to all the trouble. She liked the dolls anyway, they made her room look more cozy.
    Her stay in a psychiatric hospital had become something weird, cool, all-or-nothing, as viewed by her friends, girls or boys. The ones who came to see her were not at all the ones she would have expected. Her best mates, the boys (and the one girl) for whom she would have gone to hell and back before she had been locked up, had never called or written. It was her school friends who had really been faithful. They would often phone, tell her funny stories, some sent newspapers or cassettes.
    She pretended to be a girl who was neither surprised nor wounded, nothing that could make her mother say, “See I told you so.” She was determined to be Miss Josephine Cool, but actually it was weird that her wildest friends had dropped her so brutally. When one of them had gone to prison, she had written to him, even sent him some money. She’d learned as well that there were plenty of jerks out there who thought it quite normal that she was in here. “Yeah, Gloria, well shedropped too much acid, she’s fucked-up.” As if anything at all could justify her being locked up here with horrible and incompetent slimeballs who didn’t even have the slightest idea how to put someone back on her feet. After all, you had to be soft in the head to expect a person without even a garden to walk and sit in to make a complete recovery of mental balance, if all you provided was a lousy canteen meal, an hour in the TV lounge, and a few sedatives.
    When she’d found out that several people she knew had found the decision understandable, she’d had to stifle tears of rage, burying her head in the pillow. Please God, don’t let anyone come into my room just now . Die, rather than admit how she felt. Hard to believe that these kids, who listen to punk music morning to night, could just accept it if one of their gang gets locked up. You had to suppose that it gave them street cred or something, she’d find out when she got out. Some of them, tucked in at night by their mamas, never having taken a risk in their lives, were now pleased about what was happening to her, because that made it all more serious: hey, we’re punks, it’s dangerous.
    Eric had already discovered a secluded place where you could smoke in peace and quiet, cigarettes or even a joint. Gloria was amazed that he had found it so quickly.
    It was an empty courtyard, entirely surrounded by buildings, and reached by corridors she didn’t know about. There was a small bench in the middle, deep in the snow that was still covering everything. It must be a special place for people who wanted to smoke in summer. It was bitterly cold. Gloria stamped her feet against the bench. She rolled up, gritting her teeth, stuffing the joint as much as possible with frozen fingers. She