Gadget Girl

by Suzanne Kamata

  I load up my backpack with the remaining copies of my comic and then go to the lobby to meet Hervé. Mom follows me down to see me off. He’s standing near the reception desk. His jeans are faded to a pale indigo, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt. A pair of Ray-Bans are on top of his head. Ooh, la la.

  “The opening is at eight,” Mom reminds me. She leans forward and whispers, “Why don’t you invite him to the party?”

  I’m not sure that I want Hervé to see me in the same room as all of those broken bodies. For now, I just want to enjoy being treated normally.

  Hervé leads me to his scooter. “You can ride on the back? Yes?”

  I nod.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “How about someplace not too touristy? Take me to your favorite places.”

  He gets all serious for a moment, then nods. “D’accord. On y va.”

  I put on the helmet he offers me and then he helps me straddle the seat. I prop my feet on the running board and wrap my arms around his waist, grabbing my weak arm with my right hand. I can feel the hard muscles of his stomach through his shirt.

  “Ready?”

  “Oui!” I shout. The engine revs.

  “Hang on tight!” he shouts back.

  I lean against him, so that my boobs are smooshed against his back. I’m glad he can’t see my face. It’s embarrassing to be so close, and I’m sure that I’m blushing. But he nods, as if I’m doing the right thing, and pulls away from the curb.

  I have never been on a scooter before. It feels dangerous and free all at once. The wind puffs out my shirt and whips my hair. We fly past grey stone buildings and an old woman in heels walking her Pomeranian. We zip by bakeries and tobacco stands and bookstores and a girl covered by a veil. Finally, Hervé pulls over in front of a music store. I can hear a song floating out the door.

  “Rai,” Hervé says. “North African pop.”

  “My mom’s boyfriend, Raoul, has a radio show. He would love this.”

  I follow Hervé into the store, which is sort of dark and cramped. At the entrance there’s a table covered in flyers advertising bands and shows and some D-I-Y comics and zines. Young people, some of them with dreadlocks or funky braids, hunker over bins of CDs, looking for treasure.

  Hervé steps up to the counter and says something to the clerk, a cocoa-skinned guy with a gold nose ring. Then he motions to my backpack.

  I lift it off my shoulders, unzip it, and hand over the comics.

  “He says you can put them on that table.” Hervé starts to clear a space, but he accidentally knocks a stack of vampire comics onto the floor. They flutter and scatter, and suddenly Hervé is looking all flustered.

  I know the feeling. I lower myself to my knees and reach for the pamphlets nearest me. Hervé and I reach for the one under the table at the same time, our fingers touching. Our eyes are on the comic, our fingers. We stay like that for a moment, half-hidden under the table, and then Hervé’s fingers slide forward until they are covering mine, and suddenly the only thing that I can feel is the skin and heat of his palm. I look up in surprise. We are both breathing harder now. He leans toward me. At first I think that maybe he is going to kiss me, but there’s no room under the table to maneuver, and there are people walking around behind us, coming to help gather the comics that Hervé knocked over. Instead, he moves his hand away from my hand and reaches for a strand of hair that’s fallen in my face and hooks it behind my ear.

  “Merci,” he whispers. Then he pulls me to my feet.

  I try to act as if nothing has happened. The store clerk helps us clear a little space, and I plonk down my stack of Gadget Girl. I feel a surge of excitement, but I’m not sure if it’s because of la distribution or the moment we just had under the table.

  Hervé takes a long look at me as if he wants to say something important, then gestures to the bins. “Do you know French music?”

  “Not at all,” I say, a little relieved to be getting back to normal conversation. “Pick something out for me.”

  He smiles, making me go all gooey. “Okay. Something special for la mademoiselle.”

  He selects a couple of CDs for me and helps me choose some for Raoul.

  I manage to find Chatmonchy and Kyary Pamyu Pamyu in the import section and buy them for Hervé.

  While he’s thumbing through the jewel cases, I keep my eye on the table. A couple of people go out the door, passing by without a glance, but finally, one girl comes in, pauses at the table, and picks up a copy.

  I nudge Hervé. When he notices the girl tucking the comic into her bag, he grins at me. He seems almost as happy as I am.

  It’s a start, but I’m thinking of what else I can do. I don’t want to be in newspapers and magazines like my Mom, my face plastered everywhere, but there are other ways to get the word out about my creation. I remember that chalk artist we came across our first day in Paris. I could write the URL to my website in colored chalk on the sidewalk, or even draw Gadget Girl.

  I dig into my backpack again and pull out my electronic dictionary. I set it down and tap on the keys with one finger.

  “Hey, Hervé. Do you know where we can find la craie?

  I explain my idea, and we’re off to a stationery shop.

  Later, our fingers all dusty with pastels, we go to a park and settle on a bench. A little girl jumps rope nearby and pigeons peck around our feet.

  “This is where I come to think,” Hervé says.

  I’m flattered that he brought me to his special place. For a moment, I pretend that I’m the only other person who knows about it. “What do you think about?” I ask him.

  “Many things.” He stretches his arms out, across the back of the bench, as if to encompass the world. “I think about the work I will do one day, the countries I will visit. He looks at me and grins. “Sometimes I think about girls.”

  I look away for a moment, then take a big breath. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Oui.”

  “Why aren’t you freaked out by me? Most boys are.”

  “Freaked out?”

  “You know, my hand…” Not to mention my limp.

  Hervé shrugs. “No one is perfect,” he says. “My aunt has MS for many years. Her body changed, but we remember what a good heart she has. When I see you, first time, I think you are very beautiful.”

  His words make me feel dizzy. Even though I’m sitting on the bench, I feel as if I’m twirling around. “Merci,” I say, in my tiniest voice. “Hey, would you like to go to my mother’s show tonight?”

  27

  Here in Paris, Mom’s exhibition is called “Le Corps Exquis.” The title kind of creeps me out. It reminds me of this game called Exquisite Corpse that we played in art class a while back, where one person draws a head, then folds the paper over, and the next person draws the body without looking at the head, and so on, until you unfold the paper and you’ve got a freak that makes everybody laugh. I’m wondering if the allusion is intentional, and if maybe there’s some committee member with a sick sense of humor when Hervé shows up at the gallery entrance with a rose.

  He’s wearing a black sport coat over faded jeans. I catch a whiff of cologne when he bends forward to do the kiss kiss thing. Then he leans back, looks me up and down and says, “You look great!”

  He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s the same indigo dress (with a scarf this time) that I wore to the Moulin Rouge.

  Mom bought herself a dark blue dress, too, so we’ve got this mother-daughter thing going. She looks fabulous in hers, there across the room, surrounded by admirers.

  “I’ve seen that man on TV,” Hervé says, indicating a French guy with long dark hair and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned halfway.

  “He’s an actor?” I say.

  “No, he’s a famous philosopher. He’s married to an actress, though.”

  “Huh.” I just hope Mom doesn’t drag me over to meet him. I’m doing my best to be incognito here. I don’t feel like being called “la muse,�
� and I don’t want anyone to associate me with these statues. “So do you wanna look at the art? Or just go get a drink somewhere?”

  He laughs. “It can’t be that bad.” He takes my hand and tugs me into the room. “Let’s have a look.”

  Hervé goes from sculpture to sculpture, not saying a word, pausing a long time before each one. Mom’s prize-winning sculpture is at the center of the gallery, up on a pedestal and surrounded by spectators. I feel my face heat up. I wish I could throw a blanket over the piece.

  When we get to Aiko, Fourth Position, he circles it slowly, almost reverently. He doesn’t say anything, just squeezes my hand. After we’ve gone through the whole show, we grab a couple of drinks and step out onto the veranda. A slight breeze whispers over my bare shoulders.

  “Your mother is very talented,” he says. “You should be proud of her.”

  “I am, I guess,” I say. “But sometimes it’s like she tries too hard to understand how I feel. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Uh, not exactly.” Hervé laughs again. “So how do you feel right now? Is it okay if I try to understand?”

  I smile into the dark. I want to say that I feel like I’m waltzing through a dream, like I’m a princess in a fairytale, like I might float away with happiness if Hervé weren’t holding my hand. “I feel happy to be with you,” I say, without a single stutter.

  And then the moment is shattered by a girl’s voice. “Hervé!”

  His fingers let go of mine.

  We both turn to see a young woman in a short champagne-colored dress trimmed with sequins. Her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her lips are just as pouty and glossy as that first time I saw her in the café.

  “Celeste!” Hervé says. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” He seems just as surprised as I am.

  She cocks her hip and drapes her arm over his shoulder. Her eyes fall on me.

  “Uh… may I introduce you to Aiko?” Hervé says. “She’s the artist’s daughter.”

  The artist’s daughter. Not his date, not even his friend. It occurs to me then that all along he’s seen me as only that—the daughter of a famous sculptor. His father’s friend’s child. An American tourist to practice his English with.

  “Enchantée,” the young woman says.

  “Aiko, this is Celeste.” I can guess from the way she’s taken possession of him that they are way more than just friends. As if I need more proof, Celeste rubs her cheek against Hervé’s. He does nothing to get away.

  I nod and try to act like I don’t care, but I feel as if I’ve been kicked in the stomach. Of course this isn’t a date. Hervé isn’t my boyfriend. I invited him to come to Mom’s opening, not to come with me. We are not together. I’m the one who misunderstood everything—the rose, his hand holding mine, that moment under the table in the music store. He was just being nice. Being French, I guess.

  “Nice to meet you,” I murmur. “I think I need to, um, go to the restroom.”

  I wrench away from them, grateful for the darkness that veils me as I make my way across the veranda. I move slowly, concentrating on every step. This would be the absolute worst time to lose my balance and fall.

  “Aiko, wait!” Hervé calls after me, but I pretend that I don’t hear him. I don’t want to hear about what a nice girl I am, or how I’m too young for him, or how I’ve somehow gotten the wrong idea. I don’t want him to see the way my lips are trembling.

  I push through the door, back into the gallery, choking back tears. The first person I see is Giselle, Monsieur Le Clerc’s assistant.

  “Aiko!” Her brow furrows. She pulls me aside, into another small room off the main gallery with a brocade sofa, and makes me sit down. “Ma cherie! What has happened?”

  “This guy, Hervé…” I can’t finish. The dam breaks and tears dribble down my cheeks. There’s no way I will be able to go back out there, not with streaks of mascara on my face and a red nose.

  “Tsk, tsk.” Giselle hands me a tissue. “Men! They are such trouble, non?”

  This makes me laugh. How could Giselle, with her supermodel figure and perfect pixie haircut, ever have problems with men?

  “Could you do me a favor?” I ask her, wadding up the tissue.

  She nods. “Anything at all.”

  “Could you help me get a cab back to the hotel and make excuses to my mother? Tell her I came down with a bug, that my stomach hurts or something.” I don’t want to ruin her big evening. Plus, I’d rather not tell Mom about what happened with Hervé.

  “Of course,” Giselle says. “Let me get my things.”

  28

  When I wake up the next morning, I lie in bed for a few moments, remembering last night. I conjure Hervé at the door, looking gorgeous and handing me a rose. And then my hand tucked in his as we walked around the gallery. I picture us wandering onto the veranda, the moonlight falling on his face, but try as I might, I can’t block out the next part. That girl. Celeste. I sigh and get out of bed.

  I find Mom sitting at the table in our room with a pile of newspapers. She’s rustling through the pages of Le Matin, biting her lower lip. When she hears me enter the room, she looks up.

  “Feel better?” she asks. Her gaze drills into me. I wonder how much Giselle told her.

  “Mmm.” I’d rather not talk about myself and what happened last night. “Reviews?” I ask, hoping to distract her.

  “Yes,” she says, brightening. “So far, so good. The critic for the Herald Tribune was very positive.”

  I pick up the newspaper she’s mentioned. On page fourteen there’s a big photo of Aiko, En Pointe with an admirer off to the side. My little feet are once again attracting attention. I skim through the article until I come across my name: “Ms. Cassidy’s art was heavily influenced by the birth of her disabled daughter, Aiko.”

  I imagine Hervé picking up this same newspaper, and reading these words. He won’t be able to stop thinking about my disability. But that’s stupid. He’s seen me. He’s seen my hand, and he’s watched me walk. Anyone who took a good look at me could tell that I have a disability. Still, I’m burning with shame.

  “Why did you have to talk about me?” I ask, dropping the newspaper onto the table.

  She reaches out and strokes my hair. “I didn’t. The reporter must have dug up information about you somewhere else.”

  She’s right. It’s no big secret that Laina Cassidy has a disabled daughter. Ever since that first award-winning sculpture, my existence has been part of the public record. And maybe the reviewer was watching me last night. Maybe she made up her own conclusions.

  “You know, some people never acknowledge their children with special needs. Have you ever heard of Arthur Miller? He was a famous playwright who was married to Marilyn Monroe for a while. Anyway, he had a son with Down syndrome. The boy lived in a home for many years. That little factoid doesn’t even show up in his autobiography,” Mom says. “Would you like people in the future to think that I was somehow ashamed of you? That I kept you a secret because I didn’t want people to know about you?”

  So what about Arthur Miller? Maybe he was respecting his son’s privacy. It’s not like his father could ask his permission to put him in his book. He might not have understood what that meant. Why do you care about what people will think? I want to scream. Why is everything always about you? But I keep my mouth shut because I know what she would say: that as an artist, she has a responsibility to promote social justice. That she is doing this, everything, for me. And besides, she could ask me the same questions. Why do I care what people think? Why do I think everything is always about me?

  “Look, I know it’s hard to have a mother in the spotlight,” Mom says, taking my hand. “But here’s the good news. All of my scheduled interviews and appearances are over. We can spend the next couple of weeks being tourists. It’ll just be you and me, no reporters, no photographers. We’ll blend in with the scenery.”

  I doubt that. People always notice my mother, and they always notice my lim
p. But I understand that there is no way at this point to undo Mom’s fame. And I can’t exactly erase the article and its references to me.

  “Okay,” I say, wanting to change the subject before she starts to lecture again.

  She releases my hand, and then knots her fingers together, pleading. “I’m really sorry, Aiko,” she says, “but I have a meeting this morning. Some guy from last night, a CEO. He’s interested in commissioning a sculpture for the lobby of his company.”

  “Go ahead,” I say. I’d rather be alone anyway.

  “It’ll just be a couple of hours, I think,” she says. “And Aiko, if it comes through, it’ll be good for us. I’ll put it toward your college fund.”

  So now she thinks I’m all sullen because she’s leaving me alone. Better that than the truth. I don’t want her patting my back and telling me that there are other fish in the sea. I don’t want her saying “I told you so,” after she pointed out how flirtatious French guys can be. I’d rather sit here and stare out the window. Maybe eat some chocolate.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I need to catch up on my reading, anyway.” I do, in fact, have a stack of brand new manga waiting for me. After the sulking and chocolate, I may even crack a few spines.

  “Thanks,” she says, giving me a weak smile. “Tomorrow, on your birthday, we’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I’m hardly in the mood to celebrate.

  I click on the TV and try to decipher French news while she gets dressed and made up. She hasn’t asked me about last night, and for that I am grateful. Maybe she bought the story about a stomach virus. Maybe she thinks that Hervé is nothing to me.

  After she leaves for her meeting, I sit and stare out the window for a while. I eat half of a Toblerone candy bar. Finally, I take a deep breath and get dressed. I should go down to the café. I need to apologize. I’m the one who invited Hervé to the opening, and I’m the one who ran away. I’m the one who created this whole big romance in my head. Maybe Hervé was just doing what French guys do—being charming and flirtatious. It’s not like he pledged his undying love. And he’s been really nice to me. We can still be friends, can’t we? We can talk about manga and music and American culture.