Mimi

Mimi

Fourth floor

When I get back to the apartment I just want to go to my room and pull the covers over my head, crawl deep down into the darkness with Monsieur Gus the penguin and sleep for days. I’m exhausted by the drinks upstairs, the effort it all took. But when I try to open the front door I find my way blocked with crates of beer, bottles of spirits and MC Solaar blaring out of the speakers.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” I call. “What’s going on?”

Camille appears in a pair of men’s boxers and lace camisole, dirty blond hair piled up on top of her head in an unraveling bun. A lit spliff dangles from one hand. “Our Halloween party?” she says, grinning. “It’s tonight.”

“Party?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. Remember? Nine thirty, down in the cave, for the spooky atmosphere—then maybe bring a few people up here for an afterparty. You said before that your papa would probably be away this week.”

Putain. I totally forgot. Did I really agree to this? If I did it feels like a lifetime ago. I can’t have people here, I can’t cope—

“We can’t have a party,” I tell her. I try to sound firm, assertive. But my voice comes out small and shrill.

Camille looks at me. Then she laughs. “Ha! You’re joking, of course.” She strides over and ruffles my hair, plants a kiss on my cheek, wafting weed and Miss Dior. “But why the long face, ma petite chou?” Then she stands back and looks at me properly. “Wait. Es-tu sérieuse? What the fuck, Mimi? You think I can just cancel it now, at what, eight thirty?” She’s staring now, looking at me properly—as though for the first time. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on?”

“Rien,” I say. Nothing. “It’s fine. I was only joking. I’m—uh—really looking forward to it, actually.” But I’m crossing my fingers behind me like I did as a little kid, hiding a lie. Camille is looking closely at me now; I can’t hold her gaze.

“I just didn’t sleep well last night,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other. “Look, I . . . I have to go and get ready.” I can feel my hands trembling. I clench them into fists. I want to stop this conversation right now. “I need to get my costume together.”

This distracts her, thank God. “Did I tell you I’m going as one of the villagers from Midsommar?” She asks. “I found this amazing vintage peasant dress from a stall at Les Puces market . . . and I’m going to throw a load of fake blood over it too—it’ll be super cool, non?”

“Yeah,” I say, hoarsely. “Super cool.”

I rush into my room and close the door behind me, then lean against it and breathe out. The indigo walls envelop me like a dark cocoon. I look up at the ceiling, where when I was small I stuck a load of glow-in-the-dark stars and try to remember the kid who used to stare at them before she fell asleep. Then I glance at my Cindy poster on the opposite wall and I know it is only my imagination but suddenly she looks different: her eyes wild and frightened.

I’ve always loved this time of year, Halloween especially. The chance to wallow in darkness after all the tedious cheerfulness and heat of the summer. But I’ve never been into parties, even at the best of times. I’m tempted to try and hide up here. I glance at the shadowy space under the bed. Maybe I could climb under there like I did as a child—when Papa was angry, say—and just wait for it all to be over . . .

But there’s no point. It will only make Camille more suspicious, more persistent. I know I don’t have any other option except to go out there and show my face and get so drunk I can’t remember my own name. With a stubby old eyeliner I try to draw a black spiderweb on my cheek so Camille won’t say I’ve made no effort but my hands are shaking so much I can’t hold the pencil steady. So I smudge it under my eyes instead, down my cheeks, like I’ve been crying black tears, rivers of soot.

When I next look in the mirror I take a step back. It’s kind of spooky: now I look how I feel on the inside.