Free All the Way by Marie Darrieussecq Page A

water runs between her breasts, their ridiculous shape. Her skirt drags and sticks to her thighs, and her pubis is outlined in an upside-down Y—this insistent presence, both empty and full, hungry and glutted—is she the only one to be so obsessed by it?
    The adult world seems to worry about it a lot, and the whole school always has, but what connection is there between this raging loneliness that makes her stretch her legs restlessly in the cold water, and the piss ’n’ shit of buttocks and unzipping pants and whore-faggot-fuck-prick , as if guys’ underpants were opened by their mouth.
    It’s a ritual; her father brings back samples for her, a jar of Air Inter jam and a red, white and blue paper napkin, and this time a present in a little packet: a key ring. An Eiffel Tower that twinkles.
    â€˜There’s something I need to tell you.’
    Everything will be explained. The past, the present and the future. Their gestures, their words, everything that’s incomprehensible. Just thinking about it makes her want to cry. (Solange is very sensitive.)
    â€˜There’s this disease,’ her father says to her. And he stops as if to tell himself what he’s going to say. He’s in his uniform, he smells like he always does, the smell of the air. And it’s as if suddenly he’s making it up, that he’s making up the disease. ‘It’s a disease that kills people who begin with H. Homosexuals, Haïtians, Haemophiliacs and Heroin addicts.’
    She doesn’t know half of the words. Homosexual she knows, that means faggot. For girls you say dyke, but there aren’t any here (except the hairdresser with cropped hair and the little chain around her ankle).
    â€˜The truth is that this disease is transmitted by fucking. And everyone fucks. Do you understand? So: fucking is forbidden.’
    She’s frightened he’s going to start yelling. And forbid her, yelling at her.
    â€˜Do you hear me?’
    Yes.
    He lights a cigarette. He is very handsome. Very tall, his uniform trimmed with a badge in the shape of wings. Very short hair, grey at the temples, and a determined chin (says her mother).
    â€˜You believe me?’
    Well, yeah.
    â€˜Don’t be an idiot. Sharpen your critical faculties a bit. You really think I can forbid you from fucking? Only your mother believes stuff like that. Everyone fucks. I fuck, you fuck, we fuck.’
    From his pocket he takes out a square, sealed packet, through which a round shape is visible. ‘You know what this is, right?’ He hands it to her. ‘The first bastard who tells you this is useless, you send him over to me and I’ll smash his head in. You make him put this on. You make him, do you hear me? If you catch this disease, it’s death in two years. I’ve seen open graves. It’s a bloodbath. You can only see them from the plane. And we have orders to close the blinds on the window seats. Do you know what that means? You go to the pharmacy, and she’ll give you some. On my behalf. As many as you want.’
    He takes the square packet out of her hand and tears the wrapping. He changes his mind and returns it to her. It smells powerfully of rubber.
    â€˜You practise on a banana. And you make him, do you understand? It’s forbidden to die. Understood?’
    I went out with a fireman , she announces to Rose and Concepción.
    She’s not sure about saying that she slept with him. That would be too much of a lie. Okay, it’s not written on your forehead. But she thinks it’s obvious—with Rose it is. Deflowered . Like a bush that has been stripped of its flowers. There’s a sort of reserve about Rose now. Perhaps she always had it. It’s almost a matter of principle, with certain girls. If she had to draw up a list of them, it would include: Rose, Concepción, and perhaps Delphine, the girl from the chateau. Not Nathalie because she’s a bit slutty.
    For