You Changed My Life (5 page)

A lot of us tried it out on the slab afterward. It didn't run very smoothly. Honestly, it wasn't worth the money.

The die was cast. I couldn't change now. At twelve, there wasn't
the slightest chance of me suddenly becoming the model citizen that society was hoping for. All the other boys from the project, without exception, had taken the same road as me and weren't turning back. You'd have had to take away our freedom, everything we had, take us away from each other, maybe, and still . . . nothing would have worked. You would have had to totally reprogram us, like when you erase the hard drive on a computer and reinstall the operating system. But we aren't machines and nobody would have used the same weapon we used—strength, no laws, no limits.

Early on, we understood how things worked. In Paris, in the Villiers-le-Bel suburb, or in Saint-Troufignon-de-la-Creuse, it was the same combat: wherever we lived, we were the wild animals against the civilized people of France. We didn't even have to fight to keep our privileges because, in the eyes of the law, we were like children, no matter what we did. Here a
child is considered irresponsible by definition. We find any and every excuse for him. Overprotected, not protected enough, too spoiled, poor . . . As for me, I claim “trauma by abandonment.”

Now in seventh grade at Guillaume Apollinaire junior high in the XVth district, I had my first visit to the psychologist. The school psychologist, obviously. He wanted to meet me in person, having been alerted by a transcript already full of suspension notices and unflattering evaluations from teachers.

“Abdel, you don't live with your real parents, correct?”

“I live with my uncle and aunt. But they're my parents now.”

“They've been your parents since your real parents abandoned you, correct?”

“They didn't abandon me.”

“Abdel, when parents stop caring for their child, they abandon him, correct?”

He better stop with the “correct” . . .

“I'm telling you they didn't abandon me. They gave me to other parents, that's all.”

“That's called abandonment.”

“Not where I come from. Where I come from, it's normal.”

A sigh from the psychologist in response to my stubbornness. I soften up a bit so he'll let me go.

“Mr. Psychologist, don't worry about me. Everything's fine. I'm not traumatized.”

“But yes, Abdel, you are, you obviously are!”

“If you say so . . .”

What's for sure is that we all live recklessly, we kids from
the projects. There was never any sign strong enough to let us know we were headed down the wrong path. The parents didn't say anything because they didn't know what to say, because even if they didn't approve of our attitude, they were incapable of straightening us out. Most North African and African children experience things as they come, no matter how dangerous they might be. That's the way it is.

The lessons were only heard, not learned.

“You're heading down a dangerous road, young man!” warned the teacher, the store manager, the police officer who caught us for the third time in two weeks.

What did they all expect? That we'd cry out in fear,
Oh God, I've done a bad thing, what came over me, I'm ruining my future!
The future was a foreign concept, impossible to imagine. We didn't think about time, or plan for the things we'd do and those we'd try to avoid. We were indifferent to everything.

“Abdel Yamine, Abdel Ghany, boys, come and see. You've got a letter from Algeria.”

We didn't even bother to tell Amina that we didn't care. The letter sat on the radiator in the hallway until Belkacem found it and decided to open it. He gave us a meek summary.

“It's your mother. She asks how you are and if school is going well, if you have friends.”

I burst out laughing.

“If I have friends? Papa, what do you think about that?”

We were obliged to go to junior high, so we went occasionally. We got there late, talked loudly in class, helped ourselves to jackets, pencil cases, book bags. We did it for fun. Everything was for laughs. The fear we saw in the others' faces excited us just like a gazelle's taking off excites a lion. Chasing an easy target wasn't fun. To see them hesitate, though, to see the signs that they'd realized the danger, to listen to them try to get away, to let them think we meant well before attacking . . . we were merciless.

I got a hamster. A girl at school, where I was now in eighth grade, gave it to me (against her better judgment, but nobody else wanted it). Poor thing, she'd spent all her pocket money to buy herself a friend, and when she started to take it home, she was suddenly afraid of getting in trouble . . .

“I shouldn't have bought it. My dad has always said he doesn't want animals in the apartment . . .”

“Don't worry, I'll find him a new home.”

This little rat's funny. It nibbles on its cookie without complaining, it drinks, it sleeps, and it pees. My math notebook is soaked with it. For several days, I carry it around in my backpack. In class, it behaves better than me and when it decides to make noise, my friends cover for it: they squeak really well, too. The teacher is surprised.

“Yacine, did you get your hand stuck in the zipper of your pencil case?”

“Sorry, ma'am, it's not my hand, and it really hurts!”

Explosive laughter in the classroom. Even the little rich kids from the XVth appreciate our stunts. Everybody knows
the real source of the strange noises coming from my bag, but nobody tells. Vanessa—that girl again—is a softie and worries about the hamster. She comes to see me at recess.

“Abdel, give it to me. I'll take good care of it.”

“Honey, an animal like this costs money.”

Extorting funds didn't work out for me the first time, so I'm looking to get my revenge.

“Too bad. Keep your hamster then.”

Crap, she didn't bite, that bitch! I come up with a devilish idea: to sell her the animal—in pieces.

“Hey, Vanessa, I'm thinking of cutting off one of its paws tonight at the slab, to see if it can run afterward. Want to come see?”

Her blue eyes roll around in their sockets like my underwear does in the washing machine.

“Are you nuts? You're not really going to do that?”

“It's mine. It's my business.”

Okay. I'll buy it for ten francs. I'll bring them tomorrow. Don't hurt it, okay?

“Sounds good.”

The next day, Vanessa is holding the little round coin in the palm of her hand.

“Abdel, I'll give it to you but I want to see the hamster first.”

I open my backpack, she hands me the money.

“Okay, give it to me.”

“Oh no, Vanessa! The ten francs is just for the first paw. If you want another, that'll be ten more!”

She brings the money to my building that evening.

“Give me the hamster now. That's enough!”

“Hey sweets, my hamster has four paws . . . But I'll give you the last two for fifteen, you're getting a deal . . .”

“Abdel, you're a real bastard! Fine, give me the hamster and I'll pay you at school on Thursday.”

“Vanessa, I'm not sure I can trust you . . .”

She's crimson with anger. So am I, from laughing. I hand her the stinky little furball and watch her walk away. I never would have harmed a hair on that hamster. It died a few weeks later in its five-star cage at her house. She didn't even know how to take good care of it.

From junior high, I was transferred to a vocational school in the XIIIth district, the general mechanics branch. It's called Lycée Chennevière-Malézieux. On the first day, the associate principal gives us a history lesson, and at the same time, a nice little life lesson.

“André Chennevière and Louis Malézieux were two ardent defenders of France at the time of the German occupation during the Second World War. You are lucky to live in a prosperous and peaceful country. You'll only need to fight to shape your future. I encourage you to use the same courage as Chennevière and Malézieux in learning your trade.”

Got it. Like those two dudes, I'm going to join the Resistance. I never had any intention of getting my hands dirty. I'm fourteen, no goals to attain, just my freedom to preserve. Two more years to go and they'll have to let me go. After sixteen, school is no longer mandatory in France. But I know that even before then, they will cut us loose.

I have nothing in common with the herd they want me to
graze with. What was that story already that the French teacher told us last year? The sheep of Panurge—that's it! The guy throws one into the sea, and the rest follow. In this pathetic herd, all the students look like sheep. You have to see it. The empty stare, three vocabulary words at most, one idea per year. They've repeated once, twice, sometimes three times. They convinced someone that they were hanging on, eyeing graduation, university, and all the other bullshit. They have basic instincts: to eat and to fuck—there's no other word for it because it's the one they say to each other all day.