Excerpt: Lost Ones

Perhaps you have to be French to notice, but did you know that there are no sufficiently masculine feminine names that exist in French culture. We’ve got more than our fair share of masculine names that to an outsider would appear ridiculously feminine: Michel, Daniel, René, Camille—we’ve even named some Jean-Marie! But all our girl’s names are so ridiculously feminine as well. And of course, my parents had to name me the most feminine of them all: Geneviève.

Now let’s get something straight. Before you all start slaughtering my name, let’s go over the proper pronunciation, shall we? It’s not Jenn-a-veeve. It’s Jahn-vee-ev. I’m not the stuck-up stereotypical French person, I promise. I just have a thing about my name. I have enough name to make sure that someone will spell something wrong each time you try to do anything with it: Geneviève Marie Louise St. Martin.

If you hadn’t noticed yet, I’m still a little bitter that I wasn’t born a boy. And that all happened eleven years ago. Some people say that I just need to get over that. I’ve just settled with knowing that if I can’t be a boy, at least I can act like one. And I do, thank you very much.

It’s a source of much gossip in our town. That’s what happens in small towns. They’re brutal. Right here on the edge of Bretagne—or as you’d say, Brittany—sits our little town. It’s called Arnevec. We’re in between Brittany and Normandy, but we consider ourselves Bretons. We have maybe five families that have been in Arnevec since the concept of Arnevec passed through the mind of some primitive being who decided to plop it where he plopped it. Most people agree that the town was founded by a member from one of two families. Either us, the St. Martins, or the Peuxperdeaus. We St. Martins firmly believe that it was us. The Peuxperdeaus firmly believe it was them. Some cite this as the beginning of our deep and divine hatred for one another.

However this hatred occurred, is immaterial. The fact is that this hatred was very alive and very hot.