We stopped for a late lunch on Île Saint-Louis, at a café called Saint Régis. I had a croque madame minus the ham, and Charlie had a croque monsieur. When we stepped back outside, she said, “Now I will show you my favorite places in Le Marais.”
For the next hour or so she took me through the winding streets of her neighborhood, showing me hidden gardens and food markets. We stopped at a boulangerie; she bought an éclair, and I bought a financier. We shared. She belched when she was done.
“Last but not least, I will take you to my favorite museum in Paris,” she said. “Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature.”
The museum was housed in a beautiful old apartment in Le Marais, and it was easily the weirdest museum I’ve ever visited: part creepy, part fantastical, part inexplicable. Some rooms were filled with taxidermied animals and trophy heads (the creepy part), including a talking albino warthog. Other rooms were dedicated to certain animals—the wolf, the horse—one small room was dedicated to the unicorn. “I love it because it is like a fairy tale,” said Charlie. “There is darkness, but also magic and light. When I was a child, I would spend hours in here.” She showed me her favorite things, like a teddy bear floating in formaldehyde and a ceiling covered with owls’ faces, peering down at us.
In a room dedicated to wolves, a drawer contained wolf poop. Actual hardened wolf poop. “There is a lot of poop in this museum,” Charlie said. Then she took my hand. “And now I must show you my favorite thing of all.” Her skin felt soft and warm as she guided me to an archway between two rooms. She knelt down and indicated for me to do the same. “A trompe l’oeil,” she said.
There, on the baseboard, was a perfect drawing of a little mouse, peering out of its hole. It looked real. It looked three-dimensional. “It is the museum’s little secret,” she told me. “Very few people know it is here.” Our foreheads were almost touching. She gently put a finger to my lips. “Now it is your secret, too.”
* * *
—
Finally, exhausted, we headed home. I played head games with myself the whole way back. Should I tell her how I feel? Should I keep my mouth shut?
As we stepped off the elevator, I made my decision. It was now or never. I had to take the plunge.
“Charlie. I—”
The door to the apartment flung open.
Guillaume had been waiting for us. His hair looked wild, like he’d been pulling on it. “Enfin! Tu n’as répondu à aucun de mes messages.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Margaux is in town,” Guillaume said, his eyes trained on Charlie. “With Frédéric. She called me last week and I forgot to tell you. They expect to have dinner with you tonight.”
The color drained from Charlie’s face. “Mais non…”
“Who is Margaux?” I asked.
“My ex-wife,” said Guillaume.
“My mother,” said Charlie.
* * *
—
Charlie and Guillaume spoke in rapid-fire French. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the sentiment: Charlie didn’t want to have dinner with her mom, and Guillaume was telling her she had to.
“If it would make things easier, I could go with you,” I said.
Charlie looked at me. “You would do that? You would come, too?”
“Of course.”
She thought about it for a moment. “All right. Then I will go.” She marched ahead of us into the apartment.
Guillaume’s stern expression melted, and he gave me a grateful smile. “Wilbur, that was a kind gesture.” He patted my arm. “It almost makes up for pissing in our bidet.”
* * *
—
We were supposed to meet Margaux and Frédéric at eight o’clock at a bistro in Le Marais called Le Carreau. I’d changed into a full Sal suit for the occasion.
We arrived at five after and were shown to our table in the corner. “They aren’t here yet. It is typical,” said Charlie. She immediately ordered us a carafe of red wine.
“But you’re only fifteen,” I said.
“So? Here we are not so uptight about such things. Teenagers are sometimes given wine at supper.” She poured us each a glass. I felt very sophisticated. I raised mine, swirled it around, sniffed it—just like I’d seen people do in restaurants and on TV. I had a sip and tried not to make a face. It tasted sour. But Charlie had already downed hers and was pouring herself another.
At eight twenty there was still no sign of her mother. “We will give her ten more minutes, then we will leave,” she declared. “We will go somewhere and have our own dinner.”
I secretly wished her mother would not show.
But nine minutes later a very stylish woman—even by French standards, which is saying something—entered. She wore a gray wool dress and very high heels and a white cashmere wrap. I could smell her perfume before she reached the table. She was beautiful like her daughter, but in a more generic way. She looked like she’d had plastic surgery; the skin was pulled back around her eyes and mouth, and her expression stayed the same all evening, like she was mildly startled.
Charlie and I stood. I watched as they did three cheek-kisses: right, left, right. She gave me a look that somehow managed to be inquisitive and dismissive at once. “Qui est-ce?”
Charlie explained who I was in French. Margaux’s cool gaze relaxed into a smile. “Bienvenue, Wilbur,” she said, giving me the same three cheek-kisses.
A much younger man in a suit approached the table. I thought he was our waiter until Margaux said, “Tu as trouvé où te garer?”
He nodded. “Oui.”
“This is Frédéric,” she said. “My lover.”
“Maman!” groaned Charlie. We had to do the same three cheek-kisses with Frédéric; honestly, with rituals like these, it’s a miracle the French get anything done.
When we were all seated, Margaux scrutinized Charlie’s outfit; she was in the same smock-like blouse and tights that she’d worn all day. “Is this how my daughter has been dressing? Wilbur, let me apologize on her behalf; I send her beautiful things, but she refuses to wear them.”
“They are not my style, which I have tried to tell you before,” said Charlie. Her voice sounded different, childlike.
“I love the way your daughter dresses,” I said to Margaux. “Her unique style was one of the first things I noticed about her.”
Charlie gave me a grateful look.
Margaux pursed her lips and turned her scrutinizing gaze onto me for an uncomfortably long time. “Il a une drôle de tête. Ni beau, ni laid. Vous couchez ensemble?”
I understood vous couchez ensemble because the Mumps and I had sung “Lady Marmalade” many times on our karaoke machine, and it included the lyric“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir.” I could feel my face get hot.
“Maman, t’es impossible!” Charlie said, and that set off a barrage of heated French between them.
I turned to talk to Frédéric, who sat beside me, but he was busy with his phone. I peered at the screen; it was a game of Candy Crush.
Eventually Charlie slumped back into her seat and crossed her arms over her chest, looking glum. Margaux asked me some questions about Canada. I asked about her life in the South of France. “It is good. I run a small clothing boutique, close to Nice.” Then, to Charlie: “Shoulders back, darling.”
“And you, Frédéric?” I asked politely, even though his nose was still buried in his phone. Frédéric opened his mouth to respond but Margaux beat him to it. “He is a kept man!” She laughed, and Frédéric laughed with her.
“Oui! C’est vrai,” he said.
Our server brought a basket of bread to the table. Charlie reached for a piece. Just before her fingers curled around it, her mother said, “You look a little heavier than you did last time I saw you, Charlotte.” Charlie pulled her hand away.
Silence descended on the table. Charlie looked like she might burst into tears.
Impulsively, I reached over and took two pieces of bread. I slathered them both with butter. Then I handed one to Charlie. I looked her in the eye and stuffed the entire piece of bread into my mouth. She did the same. I buttered two more pieces of bread, and we did it again.
Margaux huffed her disapproval.
When our server returned, Margaux ordered a bottle of wine for the table—our original carafe was long gone—and a salade de chèvre for her main course. Frédéric ordered the same. Charlie ordered a galette with ham, cheese, and egg.
“Charlotte, you are being ridiculous, that is too heavy.”
“I will have the galette, too,” I blurted. “Minus the ham. And would you share a couple of starters with me, Charlie?”
She smiled. “Oui.” I let her choose; she ordered the escargots and a creamy mushroom tart.
Then Frédéric changed his order to the steak frites, which earned him a death glare from Margaux. “Quoi?” he said, before he returned to his game of Candy Crush.
After our server left, Margaux turned to me. “You think I am being cruel. But you must understand that Charlotte was a very chubby child.”
“So was I,” I told her. “But my mothers never body-shamed me.”
She bristled. “I am not body-shaming, what a ridiculous, North American expression. I am a realist, I know how cruel people can be, and I only want the best for my daughter—”
“Which is why she abandoned me for her lover when I was seven,” said Charlie in a rather loud voice.
They broke into heated French again. The server returned with the wine and poured some for all of us; Charlie drank hers quickly, grabbed the bottle, and refilled her glass.
Their arguing continued throughout our appetizers. I forced myself to eat a snail, trying not to think of the slugs that crawled through our garden. I failed on that front, and let Charlie eat the rest of them. But the mushroom tart was heaven. So was the galette.
When the waiter asked if we’d like dessert, Margaux said a firm, “Non, merci,” but Charlie and I said in unison, “Oui!”
We stuffed our faces with the most delicious dessert I’ve ever tasted, called îles flottantes.
Margaux looked into the middle distance, stone-faced.
* * *
—
When we left the restaurant, we had to do the kisses all over again. It took forever. The moment we were done, Margaux and Frédéric headed off toward their hotel without a backward glance.
I thought Charlie would be upset. If my Mumps had ever walked away angry like that, I’d be crushed. We had a rule that, even if we were really mad at each other, we always had to say “I love you” before we stormed out, in case one of us got hit by a bus.
But she wasn’t upset. In fact, she started to laugh. As we headed down the sidewalk, she grabbed my hand. “Wilbur, you were so wonderful! I normally leave these dinners in tears. But tonight, I feel like I am floating on a cloud!”
“I suspect that’s partly due to all the wine you drank.” She was weaving a bit and slurring her words.
“She is so very good at making me feel so very bad. Thank you for being my knight in shining armor. You were very brave.”
I had to help her get her key in the front door, because she kept missing the lock. We entered the apartment; it was dark and quiet. Guillaume had gone to bed. She turned on a small lamp in the living room and stared at me intently. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You are the same, and yet so different, Wilbur…what happened?”
“I—well—a lot of things, I guess. But mostly—friends. Friends happened.”
“You have changed. On the outside, yes, but on the inside too. The insides were always beautiful, but you have become stronger. More self-assured. These are very sexy qualities.”
Sexy.
She had just called me sexy.
We gazed into each other’s eyes.
This was it.
This was going to happen.
I was about to kiss the girl of my dreams in the city of love.
She leaned in. I leaned in. Our lips brushed—
“Braaaaaap!” She belched loudly, and I caught a violent whiff of ham, wine, and snails. “Oh!” she exclaimed.
She covered her mouth. Her expression went from amusement to alarm. “Oh…”
She bolted to the washroom.
And barfed loudly and prolifically.
I had no idea what to do. I stood outside the door and whispered, “Charlie? Are you okay?”
A few minutes later, she stepped out and stumbled to her room. I followed her in. She collapsed onto her bed. “Charlie? Is there anything I can do?”
My question was met with a groan, then silence.
“Charlie?”
She didn’t answer.
She’d passed out.
I gazed down at her, lying on her bed, helpless, dead to the world.
And I did what any teenage boy would do.
I took off her shoes and placed them on the floor.
I rolled her onto her side, just to be safe.
I poured her a big glass of water and put it on her bedside table.
I put a garbage pail on the floor beside her head.
I covered her with a blanket.
Then I tiptoed out, leaving her door open in case she needed help in the night.
Throwing caution to the wind
A high-wire act without a net
Sometimes you have to take a chance
And win—or lose—the bet
From “Win, Lose, or Draw” by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf
“Nooooooo,” Fabrizio said the next day. “Such a drag.”
“But you did the right thing,” said Alex.
“Without a doubt.”
“Yeah, I know.” I was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep; I’d tossed and turned all night, thinking about what might have been.
We were wandering through the Palace of Versailles. It was big and overwhelming and opulent, and I realized with a pang of guilt that I wasn’t really into it. For one thing, Charlie hadn’t come with us. Guillaume had heard her barfing again in the night, and over breakfast she had to tell him what had happened. Her eyes and face were puffy, and she looked like she was still hurting; not once did she meet my eye.
Guillaume had been stern, but not unkind. He’d told her to go back to bed. “But I expect you to help me set up for the concert in the courtyard later this afternoon.” She nodded her agreement, then stumbled back to her room without a word or a glance in my direction.
“Do you think she remembers what happened?” asked Fab.
“I don’t know. I’m guessing not.”
We went outside and perched on the edge of a fountain. It was a hot day even though it was only early spring.
“We leave tomorrow,” said Alex.
“I know.”
“And the concert’s tonight.”
“Yeah.”
“I hate to say it, Wilbur,” said Fab. “But your window of opportunity may officially have closed.”
“Unless,” I began. An idea had started to form in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep, but until now I didn’t dare say it out loud.
They both looked at me. “Unless?”
I told them my plan. Fab clapped, delighted. “But I can’t do it alone,” I said.
“I’m game if you’re game,” Alex said. “Although I’m also terrified.” He started to blink rapidly.
“I could join in to help calm your nerves,” said Fab. “I’m not scared.”
“Of course you aren’t,” I said. “What
would you do?”
He shrugged. “I’ll think of something. I’m told I have mad go-go dancing skills.”
Alex and I did our secret handshake. We taught Fab how to do it too, which meant it wasn’t quite so secret anymore, but I didn’t mind.
“I’m proud of you, Wil. This is a bold move,” said Alex.
“I keep asking myself: What have I got to lose?”
“Aside from any last remaining shreds of your dignity?” said Fab. “Absolutely nothing.”
Then Alex started laughing, and as usual it was contagious, and pretty soon, we were all busting a gut.
* * *
—
It was almost five o’clock when we returned to the city. The courtyard was in the midst of being transformed. Guillaume, Charlie, and Madame Da Silva had strung up fairy lights and put out tables with actual tablecloths. I helped them set up rows of chairs.
When I’d finished with the last row, Charlie pulled me aside. “Wilbur. I am so embarrassed. I am so sorry for last night.”
“It’s okay, Charlie. Really—”
Guillaume interrupted. “Charlie, it is time for you to pick up the petits fours.”
“Oui, Papa.” She left, giving him a chastened look.
I tried to interpret what she’d said to me. Was she embarrassed that she’d gotten drunk? Embarrassed that she’d barfed? Embarrassed that she’d almost kissed me? Or a combination of all three?
I had no idea.
* * *
—
I went upstairs and changed into one of Sal’s suits. When I came back down, it was twilight, and the courtyard looked beautiful. The fairy lights twinkled. Students and parents filled the space, chatting and eating hors d’oeuvres. Everyone looked happy, except for Mr. P. He stood in a corner, looking mournfully at Mademoiselle Lefèvre, who was in a tête-a-tête with a man I hadn’t seen before.
I brought Mr. P a glass of wine. “Why, thank you,” he said.
“Who’s the guy?”
“Geneviève’s new beau, apparently.”
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