Summary: Yumi Ishiyama is preparing herself for another terrible year at Kadic; a year where she will endure boring lessons, lonely lunchtimes and constant ambush from chavs. Ulrich Stern isn't exactly keen on the place either; he still doesn't understand why he couldn't just stay in Germany. Jérémie Belpois is hoping for a place without constant bullying or ridicule; or, at least, a faster internet connection. So what will all of them make of Kadic, a new school year, and each other?
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Code Lyoko. That is the privilege of Antefilms. It would be nice if I did, though.
Author's Note: This is my first CL fic. I'm sorry if there are any inaccuracies, but I'm just going on the information I've gathered so far. By no means should you take this as actually being what happened when Yumi, Ulrich, and Jérémie met. It's my idea, nothing more. And I can already hear you asking 'Where's Odd?' Well, on the premier episode, Garage Kids, it shows Odd arriving at Kadic when Yumi, Ulrich, and Jérémie are already friends. So I'm just following what is said there. Oh, and there is the little matter of language: at the moment of writing, I have never seen an English episode of Code Lyoko. I've only ever seen Cod Lyoko, which is Welsh. So, obviously, all the characters speak Welsh and don't have the same voices as in the English one. When I describe the voices, I'm describing the Welsh ones. And I'm a Brit. I speak British English. After reading a few of the CL fics (excellent ones, too), I've gathered that most fans of the show are American. I've tried to Americanise myself as best I can, so I do say 'soccer' instead of 'football' at most points in the story, but it is written in English (U.K.). I DRAW THE LINE AT SAYING 'MATH'. IT'S MATHS, PEOPLE!
Language: Some, mild
Violence: Not sure if you'd really call it violence… but maybe, some, mild
Oh, and I'd like to apologise to any chavs who read the story and find my description of chavs offensive. Yes, I do realise there are nice chavs out there. I'm not being prejudiced; I'm just writing from my experiences.
La Premier Semaine à Kadic
by Fudge 1
Morning has never been my favourite time of day. I do not DO morning. I'm a creature of the night and sunlight poking through the gaps in the curtains isn't exactly my idea of a good time. However, contrary to all my complaining, morning still comes every day.
I know that there are people out there who like mornings because they're the beginning of the day and you don't know what's in store, but my life pretty much follows the same pattern: wake up, go to school, eat lunch, come home, do homework, watch TV. Oh, and sometimes I read my Manga comics. That's about IT, though.
I know that today is the first day of the new school year but that isn't really a reason for me to jump around like I'm actually happy. The new school year looks as if it's going to be pretty much the same as last year, unless there's something weird going on and I wind up in the wrong universe. (Ha, just had an image of me as Storm from X-Men… now that would be fun…)
Yawning and persuading myself that I do not control the weather I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Halfway along the corridor I realise I've forgotten to turn my alarm clock off. Drag myself back to switch off the infernal beeping, head to the bathroom, and begin my day.
Still looking kind of sleepy (but now with hair that does at least marginally obey the laws of physics) I head downstairs.
My Dad looks up at me. 'Yumi,' he sighs, 'are you really going to wear that to school?'
What's wrong with it? When you think about it I could be wearing MUCH worse. Okay, so my shirt does show my navel, but at least the rest of me is pretty much covered; compared to the girls at Kadic, I am DECENT.
I tell my father this and he tries not to smile.
'I mean the colour, Yumi,' he says. 'Black doesn't make a very good impression now, does it?'
I shrug and grab a banana. I like black. It's expressionless and matches my hair. Besides, I think everyone's happier with me in black than, say, pink. Black has dignity.
'Excited about going back to school?'
I shrug and concentrate on the fruit.
'Won't it be nice to see all of your friends again?'
I try not to sigh. I love my parents, I really do, but sometimes I wish they didn't have such… rose-coloured images of me. Do you understand? No, you probably don't. Okay. I'll explain.
The official term for me at school is 'loner', but I prefer 'misfit', 'outcast', or, if I'm really in a bad mood, 'school bitch'. I just don't socialise. I tried, in the first few weeks, but everyone I met just jarred on my nerves. The girls were too busy talking about make-up and the boys were too engrossed in beating each other up. I didn't fit, like a piece from the wrong jigsaw. I wasn't exactly Miss Popular at primary school, but at least I had some friends who I could talk to and joke with in lessons. At Kadic Junior High? I'm lucky if I can find a partner.
Not that I've told my parents that. It hurts not telling them the truth, but it'd hurt even more if they looked at me with pity.
Oh, now don't go feeling sorry for me. Just don't. I don't mind eating lunch on my own; I've grown used to it. Besides, school doesn't last forever.
Anyway, I eat breakfast and look around for my school bag. Once I've found it I head outside and grab my bike. At a cry from my mother I remember to put my helmet on.
Then I cycle the short distance to school in an almost lazy fashion. I look around at everyone who passes: adults off to work, little children clinging to their parents' hands as they go to their first day at school, older children fidgeting as they headed to their first day at Secondary School… poor, poor things. They don't know what they've let themselves in for.
I enter the grounds of Kadic and chain my bicycle up. My school bag feels a bit too light; I've yet to receive the books that'll drag it down for the rest of the year. However I do have some stuff in it. I head over to one of the benches and pull out one of my many Manga comics.
I've barely gotten to page five when I hear footsteps. I look up, ready to make some sort of scathing comment, but when I see it's just Pandora I give a sort of smile in greeting and put Cardcaptor Sakura away.
'Good morning, Pandora,' I say.
Pandora nods a greeting.
'I see you've dyed your hair again,' I continue. Last year her hair was an acidic green; now it's electric blue. In a kind of strange way it works well with her dark purple bandana.
Pandora nods again. 'You should try it, sometime. You'd look good as a blonde.'
I make a face. 'You don't see many blonde Asian women, Pan.'
'You can be the first, then. Be an individual.'
Individualism is very important to Pandora. Once you get that, you can understand the brightly coloured hair, the stripy off-the-shoulder shirt, the denim three-quarter trousers and the overlarge trainers.
Pandora puts her head on one side. 'How about dark red, then?'
'I'll end up looking like a Harajuku girl! You know,' I explain, 'one of those girls who follow Gwen Stefani round.'
Not exactly the best description of a Harjuku girl, but the one most Westerners will understand.
Silence between us. Then Pandora says, 'Did you sign up for that Help Another Scheme last year?'
'Yeah,' I answer, a little uncertain. I joined because Mom said it would look good on my College Application.
Pandora's face splits into an evil grin. 'Ha ha,' she says. 'You have to look after one of the new kids.'
My mouth drops open. 'Why me?' I despair. 'I have no patience with some kid three feet tall who can't even tell left from right!'
I know I used to be one of the new kids, but give me some credit. I was taller.
Pandora shrugs. 'Wish I could help,' she says, although we both know that's a lie, 'but I'm afraid you're stuck. You gotta report to the principal's office and he'll tell you what kid you'll be minding.'
I give a sort of exasperated sigh and pick my bag up, swinging it over my shoulder. 'Bye, Pandora,' I say.
I wish she wouldn't call me that. My name just should not be shortened. I don't bother saying anything, though. Pandora isn't exactly my friend – we just happen to know each other – so there isn't really much point in asking her not to abbreviate my name. It's not as if she talks to me every day; more like once a week, if none of her actual friends are here.
I enter Kadic's main school building and relax a bit. I may not like the students or the teachers or even the subjects, but I love the school. Its smell, the way the corridors twist around… I love it.
I start walking to Jean-Pierre Delmas' office, dragging my feet on the polished floor. Occasionally I glance up at the various displays and posters on the walls. They're not actually all that interesting; mainly about how amazing Kadic's past students were. Nothing, I notice, about their current students.
Still, can't blame them. Kadic'd be a brilliant school without students.
Outside Mr Delmas' office, I run into one of the reasons why.
His name is James Moriarty. He has brownish-black hair slicked back from his forehead, wears the 'latest' sports gear and talks as if there is no 'h' or 't' in the alphabet, littering his dialogue with swearing and words that no one else really understands; but I guess that doesn't matter, because he doesn't know what he's talking about half the time. He smokes because he thinks it's cool. He is the epitome of stupidity. He is, to all extents and purposes, a chav.
And I really, truly, deeply, in every sense of the word, HATE HIM.
Why? He's about to show us why.
James spots me coming and makes a sort of 'ha' noise. 'Yumi, my girl,' he begins.
'I'm not your girl,' I snap.
His group – all of them as stupid as their leader – guffaw.
'Yumi, Yumi,' James says. 'When are you goin' to admi' that you luuurve me?'
'When America turns Communist!' I say. (I never say 'when Hell freezes over' because I'm not really religious).
James laughs. That's probably the thing I hate most: however snappy the comeback, however clever the insult, he just laughs. Too stupid to understand and too idiotic to realise that one of these days, I swear, I'm going to kick his brains out.
'We all know tha' you're jus' dyin'to ge' off with me,' James continues, oblivious to my rising temper.
'If you don't shut up,' I hiss, 'you're going to be one who's dying!'
Mr Delmas opens the door then. He's quite a nice principal, when you think about it. 'Miss Ishiyama,' he says pleasantly. Then he notices James. 'Oh… and Mister Moriarty.'
Mr Delmas glances along the length of the corridor. There are some other students arriving, most of them those annoyingly cheerful types who genuinely want to help. Morning people. Blech.
'Are we all here?' Mr Delmas says. One of the girls in the year above me says that, 'Hannah's got the flu.'
Flu in the summer? I think. Oh, well. It happens.
Mr Delmas nods gravely as though this piece of news signifies ecological warfare. 'I see,' he says slowly. 'Well, I'm afraid we must make do without Hannah.'
He steps back into his office and comes out holding a pile of papers. 'Everyone form a queue,' he says. 'As I am sure you know, every year Kadic receives a great number of foreign students as boarders. To show that we care, a select few students take one of these students under their wing to show them the wonderful values of our way of life.'
'Select few students'? 'Wonderful values of our way of life'? The 'select few students' are the only ones stupid enough to volunteer. The 'wonderful values of our way of life' are mainly kicking some poor kid's head in because they have an accent.
I don't get why Kadic thinks that only the foreign students are going to have trouble navigating their way around the school; it's as if they believe that French students, even if they come from the other side of the country, will find their way around Kadic with ease, while the foreign ones will end up wandering into a Supply Closet instead of Maths class. (Although, to be fair, that has actually happened… but only to Thierry, who comes from Paris and is not exactly the brightest bulb in the batch).
I step forward and I'm handed a piece of paper with a timetable on it.
'These are their timetables,' Mr Delmas explains. 'This way you always know which classroom they need to get to. There's also information about their dormitories and class on there.'
I look at the bottom of the page.
Ulrich Stern, it reads. Class 1, Room 114.
I fold the paper up and slip it into my pocket.
This Ulrich kid better be an okay kind of guy. For his sake.