School for Girls

Ariane Lessard, Frances Pope

Description

Deep in the forest, a remote boarding school echoes with
unspoken stories…
A spooky feminist novella . . . just in time for Halloween!
A spooky feminist novella . . .ideal for Halloween!
Deep in the forest, a remote boarding school echoes with unspoken stories…
A boarding school deep in the forest carries the echoes of its past inhabitants. Hints of a disturbing history and the unfolding events of the present are refracted by the multiple voices of the girls who now live within its walls, their suggestive and enigmatic accounts interweaving in a rich and unsettling chorus.
PRAISE FOR SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
“A choral piece with gothic undertones. With an impressive multiplicity of forms, this book tackles a wide variety of themes, underpinned by a strong feminist voice.” (Benoît Vanbeselaere, Les Libraires magazine)
“A whole troupe of poisonous young girls, neither demonized nor deified, appearing in all the fragile ferocity of adolescence.” (Laurence Perron, Lettres québécoises magazine)
“. . . dark, fraught, frightening in places. And one to read in a single sitting.” (Silvia Galipeau, La Presse newspaper)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ariane Lessard was born in 1990 in Lévis, not far from a monastery of cloistered sisters. She published her first novel, Feue, in 2018, which was a finalist for the Rendez-vous du premier roman, a first novel award. She also took part in the first residency of L’Hôtel des autrices in 2020, a feminist digital platform created in Berlin during the pandemic, in which she wrote a novel in one month. School for Girls is her first novel to be translated into English.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Frances Pope is a translator and writer from the UK. She lived in Montreal between 2015 and 2020, where she received her MA in translation studies from Concordia University. Now living in Bristol (UK), she continues to translate in the arts and non-profit sectors, as well as reviewing and writing about electronic music. Frances has two published collections of poetry, Quarters (Ekstasis Editions) and The Brazen Forecast (Cactus Press), both published in 2020.
“The young girls, and the older girls too, who are better, study at the boarding school high on the snowy mountain. When spring comes, the ground will take some time to shed its thick white carpet. The shade of the conifers that surround the school will keep the air cool, and the snow keeps covered up what is freezing, slowly, in the earth. The school stays wrapped in its blanket for nearly six months every year, on account of its northerly position. You might picture it as a dot in the middle of the forest, accessible via a gravel path along which horses and carts can travel in the summer.”

Sujets

• QC Fiction
• Women's Studies
• Feminist
• Environmental
• Relationships
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Literary fiction
• Environment
• Woman
• Relationship
• Occult
• Feminism
• Supernatural
• The Women
• Animals
• Family
• QC
• Translation
• LGBT
• Fiction
• Halloween
• Nature

Informations

• Publié par: QC Fiction
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781771862929
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Ariane Lessard
SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
Translated from the French by Frances Pope
QC fiction

Revision: Peter McCambridge Proofreading: Elizabeth West Book design: Folio infographie Cover & logo: Maison 1608 by Solisco Cover art: Getty Images Fiction editor: Peter McCambridge All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Copyright © 2020 La Mèche Originally published under the title École pour filles by La Mèche, une division du Groupe d’édition la courte échelle inc., 2020 (Montréal, Québec) Translation copyright © Frances Pope ISBN 978-1-77186-291-2 pbk; 978-1-77186-292-9 epub; 978-1-77186-293-6 pdf Legal Deposit, 4th quarter 2022 Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec Library and Archives Canada Published by QC Fiction, an imprint of Baraka Books Printed and bound in Québec Trade Distribution & Returns Canada - UTP Distribution: UTPdistribution.com United States & World - Independent Publishers Group: IPGbook.com


We acknowledge the financial support for translation and promotion of the Société de développement des entreprises culturelles (SODEC), the Government of Québec tax credit for book publishing administered by SODEC, the Government of Canada, and the Canada Council for the Arts.

life plays in the plaza with the self I never was
— Alejandra Pizarnik, “Woman with Eyes Wide Open” translated from the Spanish by Cecilia Rossi

ghostly young girls breathing cold basement air (How deep down were we when we disappeared?)
— Carole David, The Year of My Disappearance translated from the French by Donald Winkler


FALL


ARIANDRE
It isn’t the first time that Dame Dominique has cautioned me. She saw me push Annette and run to hide behind the shed. This is where Dame Dread does all the maintenance work on the main yard, repairing the fence, the paving stones that get slippery when it rains. It rained a lot in the last few weeks. The ground loses its shape without roots to hold it in place. The carpet of moss is soaked through with brown-looking water, here behind the shed. I imagine rakes, shovels, wheelbarrows, and other rusty metal tools are kept in there. I can’t be sure. Dame Dread, the caretaker, never lets us in. All I can see in the shed is rolls of sheet metal patched with rust, and the shingles that Dame Dread scrupulously repairs in the fall, ready for the coming winter. I pushed Annette because she’s a fool. She fell in the mud and her long dress got in the way so she couldn’t get up again. The way she follows me around seeking my approval, it was driving me round the bend. I’ve often glared at her, telling her with my eyes to stay away from me, but she always comes back. I don’t need a little sister, I don’t even need a friend, I’m perfectly fine on my own. Anyway, nothing she does is worth anyone’s attention. Hidden behind the shed, I look at the moss growing along the edge of the stone wall. It’s squashy and my feet sink into it. I like plants. I like how they smell, how they surround and cover. You can’t get away from them. Behind the shed is the forest. Once the snow starts to fall, I shall probably miss the woods. Everything will be different then. This is where I hide, behind the shed. Before, it was where the other Catherine used to come. I’m standing in her footsteps. Dame Dominique came and found me, shook me out of my thoughts. She put her hand on my forehead and told me to come back to class. Dame Dominique sets me straight. She knows I’m bright. In Literature, it’s my writing she likes the best—its ebb and flow, she says. That’s what you would hear if you could listen to people’s secret thoughts. All of it veined with mystery, creeping in until it’s all around you.


CORINNE
Before I came here, I lived with my parents and my brothers, away down the lane. In a farm village that smelled of manure. Fields, everywhere fields. Dirt lanes bordering them, sky over half the horizon. Blue and yellow. We’d drive down the dirt lanes on a horse and cart. Our wheels carved out tracks, and on our way back, the tracks got a little deeper. Our wheels showed the way we’d gone. You could see every trip we made, just by looking at the churned-up dirt behind us. House to village. House to forest. Then, finally, house to boarding school. After that, there were no more outings on the horse and cart. Sometimes they came to fetch me in the summer. My brothers are still carving up the land. But I have lost the freedom to come and go, the lanes. I don’t move anymore. I’m rooted here at the window. The girls at the boarding school go walking. They go into the forest, which has no door but a thousand doors. I don’t go roaming around there. I stay on familiar paths. Walk on habitable ground. I’d like to turn into a boy, go back to the hamlet, drive the horse and cart. I’d like to go back to the village on the horse and cart and turn into a boy. If I had that, dangling between my legs, would my father let me come home? If mine were on the outside, could I go back to my brothers? All I have is this hole. This hole means I can’t go home. This hole brought me to the boarding school. This hole. I would stop it up.


COLETTE
Corinne is my friend my best friend. She has long sharp nails like a cat. With her long nails, she scratched Jeanne’s hands, drew blood, while we were playing Devil’s Tail in the main hall. You have to go behind people and steal their tail their cloth tail. Corinne came to take mine, but Jeanne stole hers, so she scratched her. Jeanne’s hands bled and the blood ran down onto the floor of the main hall, it ran like that drip drip. Dame Anne who teaches mathematics came and stopped the game. After recess we played on our own, Corinne and me, in my little bedroom up under the eaves. We play often with our feet. I sit on this side of the bed. Corinne sits on that side. I tickle her with the ends of my toes. First on the soles of her feet, then the crook of her knees when she’s lying on her front. It’s nice. I tap her on the bottom with the sole the sole of my foot. Then I slip my toes up to. I try to slide my foot into. She’s the one who showed me. I wouldn’t do it with anyone else but Corinne, I would only do it with her.


JEANNE
my pulse jumped in my palm
my pulse jumped in my whole hand
my pink cheeks in the mirror
my reflection blurred in my hand’s deep lines
flatten the pedal of the sink
my blood in stars in the fountain
pulse
dame anne takes me to the nurse
her hands on my martyr


CORINNE
I smile as I follow Jeanne’s trail out of the main hall. Dame Dread hands me the mop. It’s not my job to clean up her drops. The red water oozes over the tiles. The red water gets stuck between the cracks in the floor. I kept my cloth tail, took it back to my bedroom up under the sloping roof, rolled it up in a ball and slipped it into my pants. If it weren’t for the older girls, I would be king.


LÉA
Science class is in the basement where the floors, washbasins, and stairs are made of concrete. A house reflected upside down. The whole basement seems to have sunk into the ground. They made the cellar deeper and put the basement there. When you go down, you don’t feel the sun anymore, there’s only the light coming through two windows. Nothing leaks, nothing escapes. Every room has two lightwells that get blocked in winter. Then, Dame Gabrielle sends us out a few times a week to shovel the courtyard—for her mood, she says. When you put your hand on the dusty floor, the concrete is cold and damp. The ground has started to freeze. And always that dreadful feeling, the further you go into the cellar. In the dark, but in the light too, the feeling of going quietly down to your own grave. The rooms around the science classroom are workshops. A printing room used by the older girls, with tiny letters scattered across the desks. And the press for when our stories are fixed. In the other corner, the laundry room and the dresses that hang from the ceiling like ghosts, to dry. In the darkness at the end of the corridor, there’s the vault with its heavy metal door. A sarcophagus. At every bend of the corridor that borders the inner courtyard, I imagine seeing a ghost. Or just a pair of eyes. Just for a second, during a class—catching a glimpse of something. I often have the impression that I’m being watched. Even though it feels unreal, thinking of death still frightens me every time I go down the stairs and get the dry, earthy smell of the concrete in my nose. I keep going down there alone, despite my fears. If someone were there. If some dead soul were to come and carry me off to harm me. That Léa with her soft skin and her orifices. I say that I’m afraid, but it’s a pleasant fear. It’s also an expectation. A morbid expectation. Maybe the last girls are watching us from the other side of the wall.


FRÉDÉRIQUE
In the dining hall, I sit between Catherine and Diane. I like to go around with them because we look good together, dare I say. And if someone wanted to take a photograph of us, I would sit in between them and put my arms around their shoulders, to show that we are friends. We eat the meals that Dame Françoise makes for us, that she cooks so well. Her hands are always grubby from something—the garden, the rake, the beets. They chose Dame Françoise to do the cooking because of her maternal instinct. She had a daughter once, but she had to give her up for adoption. It seems that it happened a lot, back then. It’s been twenty years now, she says. Her daughter is older than we are. It must be wonderful to be an only child. It is good o