Fool
Her name is Lefou, and she is nobody. AU
My first fanfic in two years – suddenly got inspired while in the shower today. Please let me know what you think, if it's worth continuing!
It's dark outside, and we're in the pub, as usual. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I'm following my father's footsteps as the town drunkard, being a regular here. But then I push that thought aside as I dig my elbow deep into Benard's ribcage when his sixth drink is dumped all over my lap. I only get an hour or two off from taking care of my sisters, and I can spend it however I like.
And – well, Gaston's here, so I'm here. It's how it's always been.
"Hey, moron," I say loudly, grabbing Benard's coat to mop up the spill, "I don't remember asking you to buy me a drink."
"Like I'd waste a drink on a thing like you," Benard snorts, lunging for his coat back. "And hands off my stuff, wench."
I shove it back into his chest forcefully that he teeters a bit, gripping the edge of the table for balance. "Here. Your coat's filthy."
His fingers clamp over the very spot I'd been using to dry my skirt, and his features slowly work its way into a scowl. "You got it wet!"
"Maybe the alcohol cleaned it up a bit."
"Fuck off, Lefou," Benard says brashly. "Isn't it hard enough for me that I've dropped my drink? I don't need your shit."
I roll my eyes and get up, making sure to catch my foot on his stool when I leave. With a bit more kick in my next step, the stool stumbles and he tumbles, swearing all the way down. Grinning, I catch up to Gaston, who's apparently been held up at the bar chatting up some blonde whores as he's apt to nowadays. And – like that – my improved mood from knocking over Benard evaporates.
With a groan, I shove my way in between what's-her-face and something-or-other, punching Gaston lightly in the arm. What's-her-face might've harrumphed a bit at me with her whiny high-pitched voice, but I don't much notice. "Hey, you. I'm headed out for the night."
Gaston looks up, surprised, with one eyebrow arched. Eyebrows I would have thought had been tweezed to achieve its strong shape had I not known him long enough to know he's just naturally that perfect. "You haven't even had a drink yet."
"Yeah, well, my drink never found its way to the back corner," I say, staring pointedly and the drink in his hand that was meant for me, "so wanker over there decided to treat me." I pull out the skirt in front of me, the dark patch of beer clearly visible even in the dim lighting.
He has the decency to look sheepish, with that quarter smile that sends what's-her-face and something-or-other sighing dreamily. And for some reason, this pisses me off even more. Scowling, I turn around to leave before Gaston has a chance to reply. "Enjoy your night," I shoot at him over my shoulder, perhaps a bit more callously than I meant – but I don't take it back and I certainly don't apologize, with the door to the pub swinging closed behind me. And, I think as something churns inside my belly, he probably will enjoy his night. Out of everyone in this congested little town, he's definitely the one who'll enjoy the rest of his life.
Definitely not me – not plain, dull, mulish me. I'm not slick like Gaston, nor quick as Gaston. I'm nothing like Gaston, down to the swell cleft in his chin. And even if he weren't such a perfect, intimidating specimen – he's still to inherit his father's pub, which by default would make him universally liked.
As I rip my braid from its tie, I think about what my father will leave me. All he's ever given me is a humiliating name.
"Lefou?"
I wait a second for the hardened lines on my face to melt before I turn around. "Shouldn't you be in bed, Giselle?" The girl doesn't answer and doesn't move. When she was younger, she used to crawl in my lap on nights she couldn't fall asleep. Something tugs at my heart when I realize that she's too old to fit on my beer-soaked lap anymore. Sighing, I ask, "Is Francine asleep?"
"Yes," Giselle says.
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn't. "Come on, Giselle, you didn't wait up for me for nothing." Still, when reluctance keeps her lips shut tight, I give in and pull up a chair. "Come here and let me brush your hair," I say gently, and she obediently sits on the floor in front of me and I work my way through her tangles. Out of us three girls, Giselle has always had the finest hair, with whispers of our mother's golden brown in our otherwise dark tresses. "Is it a boy?" I ask, searching for the source of her problems.
"No," she says. "Well – maybe. Sort of." She hesitates a moment longer before she asks timidly, "Lefou, am I stupid?"
She gasps a little as my fingers snag on a knot in her hair and I tug a bit too hard. "Stupid?" I echo, surprised. Of all things I thought she might say, I was not expecting this. "Of course not!"
"It's just that – well, I don't get very good marks in school, and – well…" She trails off, and I close my eyes. She doesn't finish her thought, but I can finish it for her: playground teasing, pointed fingers, cruel laughter. With every subpar mark I had ever received back in school, I had been laughed at and taunted – up until Gaston punched a boy for asking me if I was trying to live up to my namesake.
"Giselle, there are different kinds of smart," I tell her. "Some smarts you learn out of a book, and some smarts you can't. You and me, Giselle, we have a different kind of smart. We have that kind of smart you can't learn by sitting shut up all day just reading. We have that kind of smart that you don't learn in a classroom."
"You're just saying that," Giselle mumbles, her arms hugging her knees.
"No, Giselle, I'm honest. Think about it. I know how to earn a centime. I know where to look for work, what people to talk to, and how to work the odd job. I know how to do it fast enough to get home and cook for you and Francine. That's living smarts, and that's not something any book's going to teach you. I dropped out of school, Giselle, but that doesn't make me dumb. It just means that I don't have a use for book smarts." I slide off the stool and sit on the floor beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "And you – you're people smart. You're the sweetest girl on the street. You know how to talk to people, how to charm a smile out of anyone. And if you think a book can teach you how to do that, well – it can't. So don't let bad marks get you down. It doesn't mean anything. And any asshole that tells you differently, they have me to answer to."
She smiles and I win a giggle out of her when I tap her on the nose. "Now get going to bed, little girl," I tell her, the corner of my lips tugged into a sort-of grin. "It's late, and Maman won't like you being up so late."
Giselle purses her lips at me because we both know Maman won't ever find out about Giselle being up late, and she doesn't like it when I disrespect her. I do it anyways, because if there's one person more useless than Papa, it's Maman.
"Good night, Lefou," she says. "Don't stay up too late, either."
I wave back in reply, waiting for her to disappear behind the door before I strip off my skirt and pile it with the dirty clothes. I make note to remind Maman about the laundry in the morning, cursing Benard for another soiled skirt.
When I check to make sure that Giselle's asleep, I think briefly to Gaston and wish that it had been a good night. But really – it was just a night like any other.