Today is the last day of school holidays. I was dreading this day, but hey, you can't stop time from passing with the snap of a finger, so you have to get used to it.
This year, I'm starting my first year of high school. Luckily, my school, Saint-Côme in Paris, was a middle school-high school, so I won't have to change schools or make any new friends other than the ones I had before.
Oh, by the way! I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Maxence Lombard, but call me Max, and I'm celebrating my fifteenth birthday today.
Just so you have a bit of an idea of what I look like, I'm quite short compared to average people, and I have thick, black hair. As for my haircut, it's a bit messy, with a side part. Finally, I have slanted eyes, due to my Vietnamese origins.
For this occasion, we're going to have a tea party hosted by my grandparents at their house in the suburbs of Paris, in the small town of Bussy-Saint-Georges.
Their house looks like a typical suburban house: two stories, an orange roof with, I think, tiles. It's surrounded by a garden of roughly the same size, with two swings, a trampoline, and a duck pool—well, that's what we call it because even we don't know what it's for.
We're going there by RER, the Paris Regional Express Network of transports, with my parents and my brother, and here we are, after a rather long journey of almost an hour. Once inside the house, we're still waiting for some cousins who are probably a little late.
"Hello, kids, are you okay?"
"Yes, Grandma, but do you know what Hortense and Laurent are doing? I thought we said my birthday was at 2:00. I wouldn't want us to start after dark."
Hortense and Laurent are my aunt and uncle. Since the birth of their third child, Raphaël, who is now six months old, they've been consistently late. After all, I understand that having three children can be exhausting and challenging.
"Maxence, be patient, they shouldn't be long. They called me 10 minutes ago saying they should be here in 5 minutes."
"Well, I hope it won't be too long. As for the cake, what flavor did you get? Not chocolate, I hope!" "No, don't worry, we know why you don't like it, that's why we got you a raspberry one."
Okay, it's not my favorite, but it's still better than nothing or chocolate, because yes, I do indeed dislike chocolate. I wouldn't eat it for the world.
Someone knocks at the door. It must be Laurent, Hortense, and their three children, Evan, Jeanne, and Raphaël. Speaking of Evan, the eldest, my parents and I found it rather strange that my uncles had chosen that name.
To understand this astonishment, we have to go back a few years, 15 years to be precise, shortly before I was born. When my parents were thinking about what to name me, they initially opted for "Evan," a name I wouldn't have disliked.
However, there was a hitch: some acquaintances of my parents had just had a child, whom they named Evan, so, to avoid us having the same name, they finally decided to call me Maxence, in honor of a poet they had heard of.
I did some research and realized that it was a certain "Jean-Luc Maxence," born in 1946 in Paris, like me. He was a poet who, from what I understood, struggled with drug addiction, something that is particularly close to my heart.
I'm obviously talking about the struggle, not the drug addiction, of course.
Then we moved on to snack time. The children—I'm not counting on them—crowded their eggs while I waited my turn and, after blowing out the candles, took a slice of raspberry tart.
"So Maxence, you're going back to high school this year, aren't you?"
"Yes, Uncle, in the 10th grade."
"And what options are you planning to take this year?"
"No, they're not options, they're specializations! They're not the same thing! And besides, you don't have to choose them this year, it'll be next year, in the 10th grade."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot. It must be said that with all these educational reforms, we're getting a bit confused."
"I understand, it changes every year. In fact, we just learned a week ago that this year we'll have a TWO-WEEK internship!"
"But didn't you already have one last year?"
"Yes, a one-week one, but if it happens in the 10th grade, we'll have one that lasts a whole month. Nothing is impossible with them." "Well, you shouldn't have voted for..."
"Dad! We said no politics while we eat, especially not at Maxence's birthday party."
My grandfather is interrupted by my mother, because we'd had a heated debate around the presidential election. We resume our snack calmly, albeit with a few minor arguments and shouting matches here and there, but nothing serious.
Half an hour later, everyone goes home; for us, it's once again by taking the metro to Paris. During the journey, I reread a book we were asked to bring back to school: "La Promesse de l'aube" by Romain Gary.
When I get home, at 3 rue Montaigne in Puteaux, I pack my bag for tomorrow. I have to tell you something.
Every time I leave for school, I'm afraid of forgetting one or more things, which happens often. So, to avoid any problems, I take more things than I should. That's why instead of just taking a pencil case, a binder, and some paper, I take three binders and three notebooks.
Do you think that's stupid? I totally understand. However, I'm doing this because I figure there will inevitably be teachers asking students to write in notebooks, so I'm preparing for all eventualities.
As for my class, I hope to be in my best friend Ronald's class this year. Last year, like two years ago, we weren't put in the same class, which only allowed me to see him during the playground.
At the end of ninth grade, I asked the headmaster to put me with Ron—that's what I call Ronald most of the time. He gave me a positive response, and I hope he keeps his promise when the school year starts.
It occurs to me that I haven't yet told you about my immediate family, the ones I share my home with.
In ascending order of birth, we have my father, Van, my mother, Rose and my brother Léon.
Now it's time for me to go to bed. I can't be tired because my first day as a high school student is waiting for me.