Its Monday and, like every Monday, I went over to Madame Burlauds. Mme Burlaud is old, shes ugly, and she stinks like RID antilice shampoo. Shes harmless, but sometimes she worries me. Today she took a whole bunch of weird pictures out of her bottom drawer. They were these huge blobs that looked like dried vomit. She asked me what they made me think about. When I told her she stared at me with her eyes all bugged out, shaking her head like those little toy dogs in the backs of cars.It was school that sent me up to see her. The teachers, in between strikes for once, figured Id better see somebody because I seemed shut down or closed off or something . . . Maybe theyre right. I dont give a shit. I go. Its covered by welfare.I guess Ive been like this since my dad left. He went a way long way away, back to Morocco to marry another woman, who must be younger and more fertile than my mom. After me, Mom couldnt have any more children. But it wasnt like she didnt try. She tried for a really long time. When I think of all the girls who get pregnant their first time, not even on purpose . . . Dad, he wanted a son. For his pride, his reputation, the family honor, and Im sure lots of other stupid reasons. But he only got one kid and it was a girl. Me. You could say I didnt exactly meet customer specifications. Trouble is, its not like at the supermarket: Theres no customer-satisfaction guarantee. So one day the Beard must have realized there was no point trying anymore with my mom and he took off. Just like that, no warning. All I remember is that I was watching an episode from the fourth season of The X-Files that Id rented from the video store on the corner. The door banged shut. From the window, I saw a gray taxi pulling away. Thats all. Its been over six months. That peasant woman he married is probably pregnant by now. And I know exactly how it will all go down: Seven days after the birth theyll hold the baptism ceremony and invite the whole village. A band of old sheiks carting their camel-hide drums will come over just for the big event. Its going to cost him a real fortune all his pension from the Renault factory. And then theyll slit the throat of a giant sheep to give the baby its first name. Itll be Mohammed. Ten to one.When Mme Burlaud asks me if I miss my dad, I say no, but she doesnt believe me. Shes pretty smart like that, for a chick. Whatever, its no big deal, my moms here. Well, shes here physically. Because in her head, shes somewhere else. Somewhere even farther away than my father.© Hachette Littratures 2004English translation © Sarah Adams 2006 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at www.harcourt.com/contact Excerpted from Kiffe Kiffe Tomorrow by Faiza Guene All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
