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in the evening and she’s already in her beige pyjamas and her pink synthetic wool slippers, as always. Why does she resent me so much? thinks Flaco. Why won’t she just let people live in peace? His mother’s eyes make him uncomfortable. He runs a hand through his hair.
    â€œYou’re so disrespectful,” she goes on. “You know I don’t like it when you look at me with that sarcastic smile. You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
    She turns her eyes away and fixes them on the TV screen, her lips pursed. Les Héritiers du rêve or something else along those lines. Sometimes, he feels like shaking her, but he ends up asking himself, what good would it do? He won’t change her. At other times, he’s overcome by a pressing desire to show her his world.
Why does he always postpone these urges until later? He’s sure about just one thing, in the end: he only has one life to live and he’s not going to miss out on it. No one is going to hold him back, not even his parents.
    He turns around and walks back to his bedroom with careful steps. After he turns on the lights, he opens the top dresser drawer, takes out a black headband and leather gloves with the fingertips cut off, and he puts them on. He looks up to examine himself in the mirror. He wants only one thing: for people to respect him. He lets out a long breath that fogs up the mirror, but after a few seconds his face reappears. Why can’t he ever talk to her when she’s right there? For the first time in his life things are getting serious with a girl, and his mother doesn’t even know it! But she would hardly even listen to him, she has enough problems of her own, she’s not going to start getting mixed up in other people’s business, no, really, what’s Flaco thinking?
    He shuts off the light and feels his way to the front door.
    â€œI’ll be back in an hour!” he shouts. “No later, okay?”
    â€œPlease, Flaco. The least you could do is not take me for a fool. I know perfectly well that last night you came in at two in the morning. And drunk, too . . .”
    He opens the door a bit, makes his way out, grips the knob, then slams it loudly behind him: anyway, he can’t do anything with her! He makes his way along the corridor, with its eternal stink of spices, and then he goes down the stairs: sometimes, he wonders if all parents are like that – forcing their children to feel guilty. The truth is, he can’t stand them anymore. At the end of the school year, when he finishes high school, he’ll find some two-room apartment or something, looking out on a park and, most of all, in some other neighbourhood, maybe Notre-Dame-de-Grâce. He sighs: it really is time to move on. Plus, his older friends have told him, since he’ll only see his parents when he wants to, his relationship with them will certainly get better. And, for about a year or so, he’s been telling Paulina, his love,
and a few close friends, that he wants to become a writer, but he hasn’t done much to make it happen. On his own, he’ll have peace and quiet and then he’ll see if he’s got what it takes.
    It’s a cool night on Rue Linton. He sees them from a distance, about a dozen of them at least, under the usual streetlight, across from Lalo’s building. They’ve been drinking, it’s obvious: music rings out: “We’ll hang out in the clouds, then we’ll come down, have a hangover. . . . ” And they double over laughing. He tries to pick her out: it’s strange, he can’t find her, but all her girlfriends are there. He crosses the median and whistles as he raises his arm: heads turn towards him, hola , Flaco, where were you?, we were waiting for you, compadre . He shakes hands with the guys, hi, everybody, and kisses the girls on each cheek, did anyone happen to see Paulina? They elbow each other, and cluck like chickens,