I can’t say it was a peaceful ride. Everyone around us shouted and laughed at high decibels, including the eighteen-year-old counselor who was trying to keep them under control. Only a few kids stared out the window. I thought they must be memorizing the route, in case they’d soon have to make their escape. Nonetheless, at least on the bus, the kids didn’t mess with any of us. They seemed to be concentrating on acting rowdy and socializing with their friends. There were three long weeks ahead for them to get to know — and to bully — the new kids. During the entire ride I was praying for my bunkmate to be one of the prudent and quiet girls. But when we finally arrived at the campsite, it was announced that we would sleep in groups of twenty in teepees: impressively large tents that were already set up and waiting for us in the middle of nowhere.
“When you know which tent you’re in, you can put your sleeping mat and things in whatever spot you like,” announced the counselor, who then started reading a list of everyone’s names and the tent numbers they were assigned to. My brother and I weren’t in the same tent. Things were getting worse by the minute. But he didn’t seem the least bit fazed by our imminent separation. I was, however, with Rachida and Besma. I found them eagerly marking off their territory a few feet from where I had put my things. They weren’t particularly hostile toward me, nor did they seem to be holding any grudges. Accustomed as they were to fighting in the street, it’s likely the event occupied a very different place in their memories than it did in mine. I smiled at them to be cautious and test the waters, and to my relief they both happily returned the gesture.
“We’re neighbors here too!” the older girl said.
It was a calm afternoon. When it got dark, at around ten at night, the counselors started a bonfire and we all sat around it for a few hours. I watched all the boys interacting and tried to fight off my apprehension and mistrust. I wondered if one of them might be suitable for a first kiss. Was it possible that I could grow to like someone? We would find out by the end of camp.
The kids all gradually went into their tents to curl up on their inflatable mattresses. Only a few of us silently stayed until the end. I remember that when I finally went back to my spot, I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. I did not, however, wake the same way. Before opening my eyes I heard a short someone yelling in his underpants nearby.
“I’m so horny, you feel me? And I’m looking to screw a meuf even if I have to rape her!”
I heard laughter around me. Maybe because I was one of the only girls still lying down by that time, the boy moved in my direction, making suggestive movements with his pelvis. Others started to shout:
“Z’yas va, Pierre! Give it to her!”
It wasn’t a decision. It was more like my body started acting by itself without consulting my brain: I leapt out of bed and started kicking my attacker until he was down. I only stopped when I saw his nose was bleeding. I had no idea who the boy was or what kind of a reputation he had among the others. I didn’t find out until later that he was feared in our neighborhood for his brutality. Taking him down turned me into a force to be reckoned with and, at the same time, given that no one knew me, someone not to be trusted. At breakfast, kids from my tent and a neighboring tent came over to offer their friendship and share their respect.
“Honestly, we never would have guessed. Girls with glasses are usually such wusses.”
“It was good you defended yourself. Next time break his nose for me.”
When I didn’t think anyone else was coming over, my brother came to ask if what he’d heard was true. Unlike him, not one of the counselors came to corroborate the story. They preferred to pretend nothing had happened and to go ahead with their plans.
This was followed by several uneventful days, at least where I was concerned. An altercation would suddenly break out in the middle of the constant ruckus of our voices. Whenever there was a fight, or the threat of one, a small circle of spectators would form. But things would almost immediately go back to being normal — tense but cheerful — for the group. With time, my brother learned all the names of the forty kids at camp. He took part in almost every athletic activity, such as mountain climbing and the occasional kayaking competition. I, on the other hand, carried on without adapting. Whenever invited to do something physical, I said I had a headache. I lied to the counselor and said I had my period and preferred to remain lying down for as long as possible. I’d brought three fairly long novels with me and hoped to finish them before going back to Aix. Truthfully, I was bored. A few miles from the campsite there was a pay phone, which was the destination of the impromptu walks I made several times a day. I’d call my mother, usually without reaching her, and when I finally did I would relate to her in a very dramatic voice everything repulsive about the place, including my fight in the tent with the maniac. When I was finished, she would always ask, “But you’re OK, right?”
What I wanted to happen never did: to hear her say that she was coming to get me as soon as she could.
Bastille Day arrived. Before that, the camp kids had organized a few nights of dancing and cigarettes (unlike booze, smokes were allowed), during which I avoided company of any kind, despite knowing the main objective for these social gatherings was to end up going out with someone. But this time was different; it was a joint party with the camp and town, which promised more activities, greater freedom, and new people. The dance started at seven p.m., when the heat was still suffocatingly intense, and went on until after midnight. I spent more time on the dance floor than I had at any other party, dancing with anyone who asked. Two of my dance partners suggested that we get out of there and get something to drink. One of them was French and a high school student, the other was a bit older and also more handsome, a Ceuta-born Tunisian who had come to the town to work at laying bricks. I was pleasantly surprised to see them fight over me. I went with the bricklayer. We sat in the bar that was farthest from the center of town. It had a dark terrace and open tables, and there I let him kiss me until there wasn’t the smallest trace of inexperience left on my lips. When the bar closed, we continued walking through the empty alleys of white cobblestone. He — whose name I don’t have the courtesy to remember — was admirably decent. He never tried to force me to do something I didn’t want to do. Several times he invited me to the room he was renting, but I preferred the streets and their half-lit corners. I let him touch my breasts, but my shirt stayed on. We stayed together in the street until very late. The many hours gave him enough time to tell me about his life, his parents, his childhood in Spain. Even though he spoke Spanish perfectly, French was the language we used. Then at dawn he walked me back to camp.