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“Hi, I’m here to pick up Gavroche?”
“And you are?” The secretary is in her mid-to-late fifties, bottle blonde, and with smile lines etched around her mouth. She’s not smiling now, though; instead, she’s raking her eyes from the top of his messy, sweaty hair, past his T-shirt with a motor grease stain on the hem, across his faded-white jeans, and down to the tips of his run-down work boots, and looks disapproving.
“Gael Feuilly. I should be on the approved list?” (Not that he understands an ‘approved list’ for twelve-year-olds; when he’d been twelve, he’d been taking the city bus to his tiny house in downtown Boston because his parents only had the one car and it had been at his dad’s job.)
“And what is your relationship to Mr. Thénardier?” She mangles the last name, though, so her attempt at righteousness does not come off as well as she’d clearly hoped.
“Eponine Thénardier,” he replies, with emphasis on his perfect pronunciation of the latter word, “is his sister, and she’s asked me to pick him up because she’s at work.”
The secretary looks a little chastened, but not enough to warm her up. Instead, her lips thin a bit and she says, “The principal would like to speak to you first. Obviously, she would prefer to speak to his legal guardian, but...” she sniffs, leaving no doubt as to the end of the sentence.
He pointedly ignores it, thanks her politely, and moves past her towards the open door behind the desk.
He pulls it farther open with more force than is perhaps necessary.
“Miss Thénardier?” The woman at the desk (Jane Conroy, from her nameplate) doesn’t look away from her computer, where she’s typing furiously.
“Gael Feuilly, actually,” he says shortly. “Where’s Gavroche?”
“He’s outside,” she replies. “I felt it was better to discuss this alone, first.” She gestures to a chair. “Please, sit.”
He does, determinedly telling himself that how she’s leaned on her elbows is purely coincidental and the fact that she’s licking her lips is unrelated. Hurriedly, he asks, “aren’t you a little young for a principal?”
“What? Oh,” she laughs. “I’m just the sixth-grade level principal. Since this is a first offense, we haven’t passed it all the way up. Usually, it wouldn’t have reached me, but Gavroche has had some trouble adjusting. To answer your question”--and no, she did not just bat her eyelashes at him-- “I’m twenty-five. And to turn it on its head, aren’t you a little young to be responsible for a twelve-year-old?”
“I’m twenty-three,” he respons. “I’m...a family friend.”
“Ah. Well, then.” She straightens, but not enough. “Gavroche was caught in an altercation with an older student and drew blood. When questioned, he admitted to starting the fight.”
“What happened to start it?” Feuilly knows there must be something--Gavroche is nothing if not street-savvy, and street rats that pick fights don’t last long; he knows that from experience.
“Apparently, the older child was making lewd comments about an eighth-grade girl,” says the principal, “which are the extenuating circumstances preventing suspension. However,” she continues, looking stern for the first time since he’s crossed the threshold, “our school has a zero-tolerance policy on fighting, Mr. Feuilly. Gavroche needs to know that, as well as his sister.” With that, her sternness vanishes again, and the vaguely coquettish look is back. “Do you have any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” he says stiffly.
“Well, if you do, here’s my number.” She’s apparently given up on the pretense of subtlety, and he’s forced into an awkward blink to avoid an eyeful. He tucks the card into his back pocket, nonetheless, as he stands.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell my girlfriend,” he says with emphasis, “everything you’ve said.” Her smile drops. “And I’ll talk to Gavroche.”
“See that you do,” she responds, blush rising. He feels a little bit bad--she hadn’t known--but mostly relieved.
He walks back out to the main office and past the snotty secretary to see a clearly unrepentant Gavroche, grinning to himself and kicking his heels in front of the desk.
“C’mon,” he mutters, still tense and frustrated, and he hears the kid bounce to his feet and set off after him.
“Hey, Feuilly. Where’s ‘Ponine?”
“At work,” replies Feuilly terseley, “which is where I was until I got her call asking me to pick you up because you’d gotten yourself in trouble. She’s worried sick, Gavroche.”
“It’s not a big deal--”
Feuilly whirls, the tension he’s felt all afternoon finally snapping. “It is to me, Gav. And your sister. I had to leave work, which is what supports my brothers and sisters, to come get you, because you can’t control yourself in middle school.”
Gavroche’s eyebrows draw together, and he hunches defensively. It’s then that Feuilly realizes that one of his fists is clenched, and remembers that Gavroche probably expects, instinctually, a specific ending to this sort of “talk”.
With an effort, he gentles his tone. “Look, G. I’m not saying that kid wasn’t a dick--”
“He was,” mutters the kid rebelliously.
“--But it doesn’t matter. You cannot cause trouble like this, Gavroche. It follows you, and it makes your sister--and the social worker--think you can’t be controlled. This isn’t the first time, Gavroche. It has to be the last. Because if you’re uncontrollable, you know what comes next.”
The kid’s shoulders are relaxing a little, and Feuily feels the tight knot in his stomach unclench slightly.
Then Gavroche’s eyes meet his with fire in them, and Feuilly half-wishes he’d stayed cowed.
“What do you care? It’s not like you’re my dad,” he says fiercely, and Feuilly feels like he’s been punched.
Gavroche regrets it as soon as it’s said, and Feuilly sees that. Still, the words hang in the air, ugly and festering, stinging every insecurity that Feuilly’s ever had.
Because Gavroche is absolutely right. He shouldn’t have even been able to pick the kid up today; he’s not blood, and it had only been the principal’s attraction that had let that slide. Gavroche may not expect much from family, but he expects even less from everyone else.
Even if Feuilly was Gavroche’s father--or had any sort of legal relation to him at all--it’s not like he’s got the greatest model to follow. John Feuilly had worked hard to support his wife and children, but he’d done that at the expense of any actual time with them. Feuilly’s early memories of his father are a rough hand shoving his hair back over his forehead, a heavy step on the stairs, and Springsteen blaring from a radio in the garage. As he’d grown, the elder Feuilly had taught him how to survive--to work on cars, to box, to take care of his family--but had never “fathered” him. Spending time with his father had felt more like boot camp than quality time. John Feuilly had been a provider, not a father--to the point that when he died two weeks after his eldest son’s graduation, that son had not been able to shed tears.
Instead, he’d bucked up, clenched his jaw, and told his mother to transfer his paltry college fund to the general coffers. He’d worked the auto shop in their Boston neighborhood till Bahorel had called him from Amherst, offering a space in his apartment.
Moving had been the first selfish thing Feuilly had done in two years.
He’d impressed another supervisor enough to get a raise, had moved to the small city with no friends save Bahorel--and sent his paycheck, minus rent, home. With his younger brothers’ part-time jobs, he’s had to send less in the past year. He’s put the extra towards eventual college for them, because Feuilly knows how to provide. It’s his father’s legacy.
But for all the practical knowledge in the world, one thing John Feuilly had not taught his son was how to raise a child.
Keeping his voice rock-steady, Feuilly speaks, holding Gavroche’s ashamed but direct gaze. One of the things he admires about the little scamp is that he gives no quarter and expects none.
“You’re right, I’m not. But I love Eponine, and she loves you, so...I’m going to do right by you, Gavroche, whether you like it or not.” He pauses, decides to bare his soul a little. “And I care about you, kid. So I won’t let you make the mistakes I did.”
The kid’s eyebrows shoot up, and Feuilly grins wryly. “Because I made a bunch.”
They’ve reached Bessie now, and Gavroche pulls open the passenger-side door just so to avoid its sticking with the ease of long practice, then slides onto the bench seat.
Feuilly follows suit, then goes to start the truck, but is halted by Gavroche pulling away his keys.
“What are these?” The boy has singled out two key chains, one made of plastic beads interspersed with a sparkly pink GF, the second a solid metal plate, stamped with the initials USMC. There’s a ridged hole at the bottom, the perfect shape to slide and catch the top of a bottle of beer.
“They’re from my family,” Feuilly says stiffly. “This one...” he fingers the cheap green-and-blue plastic beads, “my sister made at summer camp. The other was my dad’s. “ His hands are shaking a little, so he reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the console. When he reaches towards his back pocket for his lighter, it isn’t there.
He shoots a look across the cab, and sure enough, Gavroche is holding it up, with an odd grin that’s somewhere in the middle of triumphant, relieved, and sheepish on his face.
“I told you not to do that,” Feuilly growls, and lights up. Gavroche grins wider, a true sunny smile that belongs on a middle schooler, not the razor grin he’d had in the hallway.
“I figured I couldn’t get in any more trouble.” His voice is impish, and Feuilly breaths an internal sigh of relief as he starts Bessie with a roar.
This isn’t over, he knows. He’s just said a lot more than just words. He’s told Gavroche that he sees him as more of an adult than a child--but expects more of him to act like one. Hopefully, that’s all the boy will need. (Feuilly doubts it.)
More importantly, he’s told Gavroche that he’s in for the long haul, not just with Eponine but with the little family they’ve had in all but name.
All of this has been true, if he’s being honest, for a long time, but he’s never confirmed it to anyone, much less Gavroche, much less in the implicit language that exists between men. But now that he’s told Gavroche, he’s confirmed it to himself.
That thought doesn’t scare him nearly as much as it ought to.
He shifts into park as they pull up to the Corinthe, where Eponine is texting fiercely. She looks up, face worried, as Feuilly swings down from the high cab.
“Everything’s under control,” he assures her.
“Oh, thank God.” She launches herself into his arms, and he claims a quick kiss before she’s yelling over his shoulder. “Gavroche Thénardier, I could kill you right now!” She pulls back, frowning. “I’m sorry to make you go get him--”
“It’s no problem, really.” It’s only a white lie, certainly worth the brilliant smile and deeper kiss that she bestows.
“Thank you,” she murmurs against his mouth, and he doesn’t bother with a response except to lace his fingers together at the small of her back. She tastes like coffee, and he’s pretty sure he tastes like ash. Neither of them care.
“Get a room, you guys!”
She pulls away as he swivels his head, and they both glare.
“Watch yourself, mister.”
“You’re on thin ice already,” he finishes.
Settling back into Bessie’s vinyl seats, Gavroche mutters.
“Parents.”