You Changed My Life Read Free Page B

myself an impressive collection. In the evening, I line up my favorite cartoon heroes in order of preference. My brother, that big buzzkill, interrogates me.
    â€œWhere’d you get the Beagle Boy Pez, Abdel Yamine?”
    â€œIt was a present.”
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    â€œShut your trap or I’ll punch you.”
    He does what I say.
    I also like boats, submarines, and tiny cars for the bath: you crank a lever on the side that lifts a mechanism and the machine starts going. On many occasions at the store, I fill entire bags with them. First, I go into the store, like all the other people who go to do their shopping, then I unfold a bag, make my selection, serve myself, and leave. One day, it occurs to me that I skipped a step. I should have gone through the checkout, according to the store manager.
    â€œDo you have money?”
    â€œMoney for what?”
    â€œTo pay for what you just took!”
    â€œWhat did I take? This? This costs money? What do I
know? And let go of me, first of all—you’re hurting my arm!”
    â€œWhere is your mother?”
    â€œI dunno, probably at home.”
    â€œAnd where is that?”
    â€œI dunno, somewhere.”
    â€œOkay. Since you’re playing tough guy, I’m taking you to the poste ”—the police station.
    Now I’m really confused. I know what the poste is—I’ve been there many times with Amina. We buy stamps or rent a phone booth so she can call her cousins in Algeria. What’s that got to do with the Pez? Oh yeah, now I get it! At the poste, you can also get money. You give a piece of paper, signed with numbers on it, to the lady at the desk, and in exchange, she takes hundred-franc bills out of a little box. I look up at the store manager, who is holding me firmly by the hand—I hate that.
    â€œMister, there’s no point in going to the poste . I won’t be able to pay you because I don’t have the little piece of paper!”
    He looks at me stupidly, like he doesn’t get it.
    â€œWhat are you talking about? The police will take care of this, don’t you worry!”
    So this guy is obviously a complete idiot. There are no policemen at the post office, and even if we found one I doubt he’d pay for my candy . . .
    We enter a gray hallway. This isn’t the poste I know. The people are sitting in chairs against a wall. A man in a dark blue uniform checks us out from his desk. The store manager doesn’t even say hello. He goes straight to the point.
    â€œOfficer, I’ve brought you this young thief I caught stealing red-handed in my store!”

    Red-handed . . . this guy’s watched Colombo too many times . . . I pout and tilt my head to the side: I try to look like Calimero, the cartoon chicken, when he gets ready to lisp his famous line: “Ittho unfair. Ith really tho unfair!” The manager makes it worse by presenting my loot to the on-duty officer.
    â€œLook! A whole bag! And I bet it isn’t the first time, either!”
    The cop sends him on his way.
    â€œOkay, okay, leave him with us. We’ll take care of this.”
    â€œWell, you make sure he’s punished to the maximum! That’ll teach him! I don’t want to see him hanging around the store again!”
    â€œSir, I just said we’ll take care of it.”
    Finally, he goes. I stay there, standing, I don’t move. I’ve stopped doing my impression of the poor little victim of an outrageous injustice. In fact, I’ve just realized I really don’t care what happens now. It’s not even that I’m not afraid: I don’t know what I could be afraid of! There were bags there, just at my height, and candies, too, just within reach, so they should have known I was going to help myself, right? I’m being honest, I thought that’s what they were there for—the Carambars, the strawberry Tagadas, the Mickey Mouse Pez, Goldorak, Albator . .