The French Girl

by Felicia Donovan

  “But Etoile, you love school.”

  “Please Giselle,” I pleaded, “You are so smart and you know about so many things, so does Jean. You could teach me from home. Please, Giselle, I do not want to go back there.”

  “But you have made friends. What would Winnie think if you did not show up at school anymore?”

  “Winnie does not like me either.”

  “Of course she does. You talk about her all the time.”

  “They all hate me. I can’t even play Miss Mary Mack.”

  “Why do you have to be like them?”

  I could not think of an answer.

  “Come with me for a moment,” she said.

  Giselle led me outside to the flower garden and sat down on the ground. She gestured to me to join her.

  “It is not you they hate, Cherie. It is that we are different. Here, do you see this soil?” she said digging her hands into the dirt.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you see how loose and open it is?”

  “Yes.”

  She took my hand and dribbled some of the dirt into it.

  “Now look here,” she said as she tried to dig her hands into the hard soil of the walkway. “Nothing grows in this because it is hard and dense. You must have openness in order to grow.”

  I shook my head, confused.

  “The people who write those things are like the dense, hard soil that new ideas and new thoughts can never grow in. It takes room and space and sometimes courage. It is impossible for them to ever embrace anything that is different unless they are willing to turn over their own soil. Does that make sense?”

  Explaining it that way, it did make sense. I nodded.

  “There will be people you meet all your life whose minds are already as hard as this packed soil and there is very little you or I will be able to do to change them other than to try and be the best person you can be. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now come on, I will teach you Miss Mary Mack.”

  We sat on the steps of the front porch facing each other as Giselle began to chant the rhyme, “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. All dressed in black, black, black.”

  I tried to meet her hands, but got confused. She stopped.

  “You just need to get the rhythm,” she said. “Here, do it in your lap first.”

  It was easier that way. She walked me through the entire rhyme and then we began again. This time, it was much easier and I was able to match her hands each time, even when she began to speed up.

  “With silver buttons, buttons, buttons,” Giselle said very quickly, “All down her back, back, back.” Our hands flew at each other until we dissolved into a fit of giggles. Just then, Jean pulled up on her bike and came over towards us.

  “I’ll bet Jean even knows it,” Giselle said.

  “Knows what?” Jean asked as she leaned down and kissed Giselle.

  “Miss Mary Mack.”

  Jean rolled her eyes. “If I could do Miss Mary Mack, I could probably dance, too,” she said. “You know I’m not that coordinated.”

  “But you are a wonderful athlete,” Giselle observed.

  “Large motor skills, fine motor skills. Two completely different things,” Jean said.

  Giselle turned to me. “Cherie, would you please go and water the tomatoes for me? I never finished watering them.”

  I watched Jean and Giselle disappear inside the house before creeping around to the kitchen window.

  “Someone stuck this in her book today at school.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says gouine. It means dyke,” Giselle said with a heavy sound of disgust.

  “Does she know who it was from?”

  “No, but I have my suspicions. The little bastard...”

  “Giselle…” Jean replied with a reprimanding tone, “You must remember that it’s the parents who are narrow-minded, not the children.”

  “I do not care. They made fun of her because of us. She is very upset, Jean.”

  “Good.”

  “What? What do you mean by good?” Giselle asked, her voice rising. “How can you say such a thing, Jean?”

  “Because, Giselle, we all knew this wasn’t going to be easy. I’d rather she find out now how people might treat her rather than have her think everyone was going to be accepting of our situation.”

  “You said just the other day how glad you were to have her in your life, Jean.”

  “And I meant that, but we can’t always stop these things from happening. I know it’s hard to see her suffer because of us…”

  “Suffer because of us?” Giselle asked in an outraged tone. “Suffer because two people love her? Suffer because she’s cared for?”

  “Suffer because of the pain others can inflict with their words. Suffer because it will always be perceived as different. Suffer because at her age, she doesn’t have the strength to deal with the intolerance and ignorance that you and I deal with everyday as adults.”

  “You forget one thing, Jean.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She is French. Real French women are a lot tougher than most.”

  ***

  The next morning, I got up early and came downstairs ready for school. Giselle raised her eyebrows at me as Jean lowered the newspaper she was reading.

  “What is this?” Giselle asked.

  “I am ready to go back to school,” I announced.

  They looked at each other.

  “Etoile,” Jean said folding the paper neatly and setting it aside, “Giselle showed me the note and I’m very, very sorry that someone left that for you. It’s not your fault that…”

  “I know,” I said interrupting her. “They are dense and have no room in their heads for new ideas.”

  Jean cocked her head and looked over at Giselle.

  “Come on,” Giselle said pushing me to the table. “It is the start of a new day.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The end of the school year was winding down. I ran down the driveway towards the Stone Cottage with the blue and white mimeographed assignment sheet Mrs. Spenser had handed out to us as we were being dismissed.

  “Giselle!” I called as I ran through the front door, which was almost always kept unlocked.

  “I am out here, Cherie.”

  I cut through the kitchen to the back porch. Giselle was standing in front of a canvas propped up on an easel. Her left hand was folded under her chin as she studied the work in front of her. I moved closer and came to a halt when I saw it. She turned and smiled.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  I gazed at the picture for a long time before answering. It was a portrait of Jean, Giselle and me standing in front of the fireplace, their arms resting on my shoulders.

  Giselle picked up the small Polaroid picture from the corner of the easel and showed it to me.

  “Do you remember when I asked Eppy to take our picture? I want to surprise Jean for her birthday. You will keep it a secret, yes?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, but I kept staring at the picture. In it, Jean’s head was slightly tilted to the right. Giselle had her head tossed back. I sat in between them but thought I looked much older and even more like Giselle. We looked as if we had been together forever. Somehow that made me feel like I was going to cry. I was glad that Giselle had her back turned to me.

  Calling over her shoulder, she asked, “How was school?” She leaned in and very lightly placed a tiny stroke on the fireplace mantle. I cleared my throat.

  “It was fine. Winnie and I played Miss Mary Mack at recess and then Mrs. Spenser gave us our final project assignments.”

  “Really? If you will let me work on this for a few more minutes, we will go over everything at dinner, okay? But you must promise not to mention this to Jean.”

  “I promise, Giselle.”

  “Thank you. Now there are some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on a plate in the kitchen but you may only have two before
dinner. And be careful, they are still quite warm.”

  I quickly recovered upon hearing this news and raced back into the kitchen. Giselle made the best chocolate chip cookies of any I had ever tasted. They were crisp on the outside, but soft and chewy inside with lots and lots of chocolate chips. I poured myself a large glass of milk, took two of the cookies and went back out to the porch sinking deeply into the denim beanbag chair beside her. I watched Giselle as she painted, dabbing away at the colors, often picking up the small Polaroid and studying it before returning to the canvas. A small dab here and the candlesticks on the mantle suddenly cast a soft glow behind our heads. Another dab and a glint of light reflected off of Jean’s glasses.

  I sat there and watched Giselle for a while. She had a habit of leaning forward on her toes, then drawing back on her heels. In and out she went, over and over until she suddenly stopped and glanced up at the clock.

  “Oh mon Dieu,” she said as she hastily grabbed the canvas very carefully by the edges and tucked it in a closet. “Jean will be home any minute.”

  As we sat down to eat that night, Jean read the blue and white mimeographed sheet I had brought home several times.

  “First of all,” she said, “we need to decide which book the project will be on.”

  “I was thinking of Anne of Green Gables.”

  “Yes, I suppose you could do that,” Jean said rubbing her chin, “but it would be interesting to do something a bit more…visual.”

  Giselle twirled her spaghetti around in the homemade sauce and looked at Jean. “Don’t you think it is best to let Etoile decide which book she will choose for her project?”

  “Of course,” Jean said rereading the paper one more time, “but because it’s a diorama, it should have some visual interest. I thought perhaps…” but Jean saw the look Giselle was giving her and stopped.

  “Perhaps what, Jean?” I asked as I reached for another slice of the homemade garlic bread, drenched in oil and garlic.

  “I just thought it would be a lot of fun to do Nancy Drew.”

  “Nancy Drew?” Giselle asked. “What redeeming literary value does Nancy Drew have?”

  Jean passed the paper over to her. “You misunderstand the assignment, Giselle. The teacher isn’t looking for some great diatribe on literary value, she’s merely asking the students to visually convey what books they enjoy reading. Very different, indeed,” Jean said as she picked up her spoon and twirled her spaghetti.

  “Fine,” Giselle said, “but remember this is Etoile’s assignment, so she should make the decisions.”

  “Of course she’ll make the decisions. Now here’s what I was thinking…” Jean began.

  ***

  That weekend, Jean carried an old wooden wine box outside and painted it all white with a can of spray paint.

  “Here you go,” she said carrying it into the back porch once it had dried. She set it atop a shelf for Giselle.

  “Jean, I really think Etoile should be the one…”

  “Come on, Giselle,” Jean pleaded. “Just paint us the Stone Cottage with the red door.”

  “But isn’t the title, “The Secret of the Red Gate Farm?”

  “Yes, but that’s the whole point. That’s the secret. Not only will it be a diorama, it will have its own little mystery for the others to figure out. A mystery within a mystery you see…”

  Giselle shrugged and painted a picture of Stone Cottage with its red door on the inside of the box. After it had dried, Jean and I worked on setting tiny clues within the picture. She dabbed a brush in red paint and very slowly painted over the gate to make it red. She showed me how to sharpen a pencil and take the fine lead shavings leftover to dust a fingerprint and set that on the front door.

  “I did not know you could make a fingerprint appear like this,” I said, watching over her shoulder.

  “It’s a trick I learned growing up. Now here, we need to add the final touch.”

  Jean took a small magnifying glass and hung it from the top of the diorama so that as it swung around, it magnified everything behind it.

  Giselle watched her and shook her head. “Etoile, you still have the written part to do, non?”

  “Oui.”

  “Then why don’t you go up to your room and work on that and do not let Jean do it for you.”

  I started up the stairs. “And Etoile?” Giselle called.

  “Yes?”

  “Do a very good job on it, will you? I do not think Jean could handle getting anything less than an A.”

  ***

  Parent’s Night caused quite a bit of discussion between Jean and Giselle.

  “Maybe it would be best if I didn’t go,” Jean said.

  “Do not be silly, Jean. You should be there. Besides, you did all that work on the project…”

  “I know, but I’m just thinking it might be awkward.”

  “Awkward for who?” Giselle asked. “For them or for you?”

  “You know how it is, Giselle,” Jean replied. “People can accept one of us being there, not both of us.”

  “Then that is their problem. Why don’t you ask Etoile if she would like you there?”

  I was dreading this, because I was not so sure if I wanted them to both be there, but then I felt terrible thinking that Jean would not be there after all the help she had given me. In all the time I had been hanging out with Winnie Wickham, I spoke often of Giselle but rarely spoke of Jean. I did not know why, really. Somehow it just seemed easier that way. I was hoping, though, that if Winnie’s parents were there, that they would let her come over and visit Stone Cottage during the summer.

  “Etoile, would you like me to come to your Parent’s Night?”

  “I guess. Yes.” I said, but my stomach was already feeling a bit funny just thinking about it.

  ***

  That night, we walked into Mrs. Spenser’s classroom and Jean immediately broke away to find my project. Giselle, who looked very pretty in her white sleeveless dress with the red geraniums on it, smiled at many people as we caught up with Jean, who bent down to read the note taped to its side with the grade posted on it.

  “Hmm…,” Jean said tilting her head.

  “What is it, Jean?” Giselle said bending down to read the note. “I think a B+ is very admirable.”

  “Hmm…,” Jean said again. “I’m just curious as to why your teacher didn’t find it worthy of an A.”

  My stomach took a little dive. Giselle turned to me and rolled her eyes.

  “Come on, Etoile. Let’s go look at some of the other projects.” Giselle smiled at many of the parents, mostly couples, who meandered around the room. “Look,” Giselle said stopping in front of one of the more decorative dioramas. “This one is about Anne of Green Gables and it got an A+. Let’s hope Jean doesn’t…”

  “That’s mine,” Winnie said as she came up behind us with her mother. Winnie’s mother was very pretty and shared the same wide smile, white blonde hair and light blue eyes.

  I introduced them, saying “This is Giselle,” without any explanation.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Toussaint,” Winnie’s mother said offering her hand. “I’m Barbara Wickham.” Mrs. Wickham glanced quickly around the room. My husband is around here somewhere.”

  “It’s Giselle Simone,” Giselle said as she shook Mrs. Wickham’s hand. “Etoile is my cousin who lives with me.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Wickham said with a bit of surprise.

  Giselle turned to Winnie and said, “You should be very proud, Winnie, for your project. Etoile says you are an excellent student.”

  Mrs. Wickham smiled and touched Giselle’s arm lightly.

  “And Winnie speaks of Etoile all the time. What a lovely French name.”

  “Thank you,” Giselle said. “Actually, I am very glad to meet you. It appears the girls have become close friends. We were hoping Winnie could come over this summer and visit.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Winnie comes home talking about Etoile all the time.” Mrs. Wick
ham stopped when Jean came up behind Giselle and stood there. Giselle smiled, turned and said, “And this is Jean Becker.”

  “Barbara Wickham,” Mrs. Wickham said offering her hand.

  “We were just trying to arrange for the girls to get together over the summer,” Giselle explained.

  Winnie grabbed me by the arm and said, “Here comes Mrs. Spenser.” Introductions were made all around and Mrs. Spenser looked at Winnie and me and said, “These two young ladies have become thick as thieves.”

  Mrs. Spenser asked, “Are you Dr. Jean Becker from the University?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe my daughter is in your Women’s Studies class.”

  An instant of recognition crossed Jean’s face when she said, “Dorothea Spenser?”

  “That’s my Dottie,” Mrs. Spenser said and Winnie and I looked at each other with open mouths because we had no idea that Mrs. Spenser had children.

  “She’s an excellent student,” Jean said. “Very focused and insightful. I’m enjoying having her in my class.”

  “And she’s enjoying having you as a teacher,” Mrs. Spenser said kindly. “In fact, she shared one of the articles you had written on the influence of gender in young adult literature with me just the other day. Absolutely fascinating and very well written. I may apply some of your theories in my classroom next year.”

  All this time, Mrs. Wickham was watching the exchange.

  “I’m honored,” Jean replied. “And as a fellow teacher, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the constant need for self improvement and was wondering what Etoile could have done differently to have achieved a better grade,” Jean said as she drifted off with Mrs. Spenser towards my display.

  Giselle rolled her eyes and leaned towards Mrs. Wickham and said very quietly, “Jean does not like to get less than an A.”

  Mrs. Wickham smiled and said, “Nor does Mr. Wickham. He worked for hours building the diorama for Winnie,” and the two women laughed.

  “We really would love to have Winnie over,” Giselle tried again. “And you’re more than welcome to visit too, if you’d like. We live at the Stone Cottage.”