by Arden, Alys
Just as my breathing began to even out, he broke the silence. “Up or down?”
“Up,” I answered, and that was the end of our conversation for several more minutes.
The murky Mississippi was calm. I pretended the paddleboat was just out on the river, lazily taking mint-julep-drinking tourists on leisurely rides. If I concentrated hard enough, I could hear the steam shooting out of the whistling calliope – I had heard that pipe organ at 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., like clockwork, almost every day of my life. Its whistling tunes were deeply woven into the fabric of the French Quarter.
The absence of the old riverboat was another reason the city now felt so eerily silent. My eyes burned, and I had to tell myself not to cry over a missing riverboat. Pathetic.
“I heard the Natchez is docked somewhere in Baton Rouge,” my father informed me, as if he knew it was bothering me.
“Oh, good.” I sucked in a breath of air, and then we were back to silence.
The muscles in my legs eased from a deep hibernation, remembering what physical activity was, and side by side, we fell into a steady rhythm. I spaced out for a while.
We passed the open-air French Market, which was now a ghost town, and crossed the border into the Faubourg Marigny. When we approached NOSA, just a few blocks from where I had found the body, my father said, “So, we need to talk about school.”
I picked up the pace. He followed suit.
“Dad, I am not going back to Paris just because I found a dead body and didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I lied about going down to school. I was just scared you were going to freak out and try to send me back to live with Brigitte!”
“Adele— I’m not sending you back to Paris… Not yet, at least. Although, you have one more encounter with a dead person and I will quickly change my mind.”
My brow momentarily unfurled.
“I got a call from your guidance counselor. NOSA is in line for the city-state-fed-whatever government to allocate funds for rebuilding, so who knows when they will reopen.”
I had guessed that based on the state of the campus, but my chest tightened anyway. I could already see where this was leading: my father was going to try to send me away again.
“In the meantime, students have been placed in arts high schools around the country, including the Houston School for Visual Arts, and some place in Florida. A couple even went to New York City.”
I could easily have listed the students who would have gone to NYC. I had many Broadway-bound classmates working night and day to become triple threats.
“She told me about a program you might be interested in, a high school that agreed to auto-admit a few displaced Storm kids. They have a textiles program; you’d get to meet real designers and work with real fashion labels.”
I jogged faster. His longer stride easily kept up.
“And where is this dream school located?” I mumbled.
He took a deep breath. “It’s in California. Los Angeles.”
My eyes welled.
“I already talked to the Joneses, and they would love to have you stay with them.”
My stored tears began to drip. I shouldn’t be upset. There were thousands of kids out there who had been crammed into schools in Baton Rouge and Texas, without books, friends, or routines… But I couldn’t help it; I had just gotten home, and I didn’t want to leave.
“Sounds like a cool opportunity, Dad,” I choked out.
He stopped running. As did I, gasping at the ground.
“Then why are you crying?” He sucked in a couple breaths of air.
I did everything I could to hold in the tears, which made the words come out in a near-scream. “Why do you keep trying to get rid of me?”
“Sweetheart, that is ludicrous. I am not trying to get rid of you. How can you say that? I just don’t want you to miss out on any opportunities because of the Storm. You have to be in school, so I figured you’d like this way better than going back to your mother’s, although I wish you would consider that option.”
I scowled.
“You’ll be with Brooke, and you can come home for Christmas.”
It was a perfectly rational justification, but I still didn’t want to hear it. I stayed hunched over my knees, unable to look up at him. My lack of response made him anxious.
“I don’t care about school, Dad. I am NOT leaving New Orleans again.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Well, I thought you might feel that way… and I may have a happy medium. Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
I smeared away the tears with the back of my hand. Was my father actually executing a classic bait and switch? I filed a mental note to use the tactic on him in the future.
He continued with caution. “So, I made some arrangements.”
My back shot straight up. “Some arrangements?” The last time my father had made some arrangements, I ended up on a plane, flying across the Atlantic, only four hours later.
“If you want to stay in New Orleans… then the Academy of the Sacred Heart has agreed to permit you a seat.”
I covered my mouth as a small cough wheezed from my throat. He must be confused.
“Surely you don’t mean theAcademy of the Sacred Heart? As in uptown?As in Désirée Borges’s Academy? As in Bradgelina’s future kids’ Academy?”
“The one and only.”
“They agreed to permit me a seat? What does that even mean?”
“It means they are taking in three displaced students per grade, and they agreed to offer you one of the slots.”
“So, I’m a charity case?”
“Well, it’s not exactly charity.”
“Dad, what are you talking about? There is not a chance in hell we can afford something like that.”
“Don’t curse, Adele!”
“Don’t be evasive!”
“Well…” He looked behind me, up at the sky. “Your mother made a call.”
“What?Since when does Brigitte get to take part in making decisions about my life?”
“Well, I’m sure your mother didn’t actually make the call. I’m sure she had her assistant do it,” he said, trying to make me laugh.
But the thought of Émile helping my mother plan my little high-school life only made my jaw clinch.
I started jogging again, back the way we came. Do not overreact, Adele. Surely he has just mixed up the school’s name.
He quickly caught up. “Adele, if you want to stay in New Orleans, then you are going to Sacred Heart, because I know you’ll be safe there – and that’s final. Take it or leave it. It’s your choice.”
“So my choices are imprisonment in my own personal hell of cotillion balls or banishment to the land of Barbie dolls?”
“Well, there is a third choice,” he said with a curt smile.
I looked at him with a glimmer of hope. After all, he had said there was good news too.
“You can always go back to Paris with your mother.” He laughed and took off running.
“Ugh, I hate you!” I yelled, chasing him back down the river.
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” he called over his shoulder. “Whatever you choose, it’s just temporary.”
I had less than two years of high school left, but at the rate aid was coming to the city, ‘temporary’ might as well have been ‘forever.’
He slowed his pace until we were back together.
“So, what part was supposed to be the good news?”
“Well… in order to keep your status at NOSA, you’ll have to continue your mentorship training, so you only have to attend Sacred Heart for half the day.”
At NOSA, we spent the mornings doing regular classes like biology and literature, and then spent the afternoons doing intensive workshop-style training in our focus area. I had spent my sophomore year apprenticing with the head seamstress at the University of New Orleans’s theatre department, working on the school’s spring production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was dying to show
her my Halloween costume. I had spent every weekend in Paris working my fingers to the bone, hand-stitching embellishments. The haute couture Master Classes had been the highlight of my trip. Not to mention they were also how I met Émile. Those were the only times my mother parted with her assistant – so he could escort me to and from my dormitory to class every Saturday and Sunday. On week two, we had moved from her car to the back of his Vespa. On week three, he was lying to her about what time my class ended.
“Does that mean I get to work at UNO again?” This situation was starting to appear slightly more tolerable.
“Not exactly. All the current mentors are scrambling to sort out their own affairs. Actually, NOSA is making this exception just for you, sweetheart, since Sacred Heart isn’t an art school.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“On account of you knowing an amazing local artist willing to mentor you. One of the best in the city if you ask me.” His lips tightened into a wiry smile, waiting for a reaction. I tried my best to remain poised, but my words became short as I struggled to run, breathe, and speak at the time.
“Let me get this straight… You want me to go to the Academy of the Sacred Heart, and then spend every afternoon apprenticing with you in the metal shop?”
“Jeez, do you have to put me in the same category with your disdain for Sacred Heart?”
“That’s not what I meant, Dad, I’m just trying to process all of this. It’s making my brain hurt.”
“Well, I’m sorry that the idea of working with me makes your brain hurt.”
“Ugh, Dad, stop. That’s not what I meant. I just…” A seagull squawked as it dipped low to investigate a pile of floating wreckage. “I mean, I’m supposed to be apprenticing in fashion. What would we work on together?” I tried my best not to sound as though there was nothing he could teach me.
“What do you mean? There’s tons of cool stuff we could do. You could create a jewelry line. We could focus on your fashion illustrations, which you and I both know need serious work if you are ever going to put together a decent portfolio.”
That stung a little, but he was right.
“You’ve been talking for ages about wanting to learn how to make your own hardware for your pieces.”
He’d obviously been thinking about this a lot. His pitch was starting to sound pretty convincing.
“We could do chainmaille, or something really avant-garde or conceptual.”
My mind raced with possibilities as he rattled off more and more ideas.
“Dad, stop!” I couldn’t keep the giant grin from spreading across my face. “You had me at chainmaille.”
His shoulders relaxed, and I saw a little excitement in his eyes. “Really? You’d choose Sacred Heart and me over Brooke and a real atelier? I never thought I’d see this day.”
I really, really wanted to be with my best friend, but how could I leave this place? There was so much to do, to rebuild. It was utterly overwhelming. My father put his arm around me and pulled me close. I concentrated on my feet so I didn’t stumble in the awkward runner’s embrace.
“Gross, you’re sweaty, Dad.”
“So are you!” He squirted water in my face. Sometimes he really was a child.
“All right, let’s go home,” I said, letting the water run down my neck. It actually felt pretty good; the noon sun was in full blaze.
“Home? We are just getting warmed up.”
“Warmed up! Maybe you are, but not all of us vacationed in Miami for the last two months,” I teased. “My legs are like jelly. I am going home.” I veered onto Esplanade Avenue as he continued down the river.
“Going to let your old man show you up?” he yelled over his shoulder.
“Oui!”
“And don’t think I forgot about you lying to my face yesterday.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah….” There was now too much distance between us to yell back and forth. What was he going to do, ground me?The whole city was already on lock-down. None of my friends were back. There was no Internet and barely any cellphone reception.
I slowed down to pace myself for the remaining ten blocks home. Had I really just agreed to go to the Academy of the Sacred Heart? “The Academy,” as they called it. Images of Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, sweet sixteens and hundreds of cookie-cutter copies of Désirée Borges popped in my head. I cut across the neutral ground onto Chartres Street and began to count down the blocks when an unfamiliar sight caught my attention.
People.
Three of them standing in the middle of the road on the next block. A little old lady leaning on a cane was looking up with her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Behind her were two goth guys, who appeared to be either elated or scowling; between the makeup and facial piercings it was hard to tell. As I slowly approached them, I realized they were standing outside the cement wall behind the Ursuline Convent, in almost the exact spot where yesterday’s crying fit had begun. I suddenly had a sinking feeling that I knew what they were all looking at.
The taller goth with the twelve-inch bleached spikes was Theis, the boyfriend of one of my favorite coffee-shop regulars. He was contorting himself into various positions to snap photos with his cell phone. Before I even reached them, his aperture led my gaze straight to the attic window.
It looked exactly as I had left it yesterday: glass blown out and one shutter missing. The remaining shutter now swayed, although today there was actually a decent breeze to push it back and forth – so there was nothing peculiar about the motion. Anxiety pricked my stomach, warning me not to incriminate myself. For what, exactly, I had no clue.
“They definitely escaped,” Theis said dryly to his shorter,Manic-Panic-red-haired companion.
I ducked my head as I jogged past them, but the old lady turned to me anyway. “Even all those nails from the Vatican couldn’t hold a candle to the power of the Storm.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I craned my neck back to her, nodded, and mumbled, “Mother Nature.”
“You got it, baby. Lord, help us.”
I picked up my pace.
The crazies are sure out in full force this morning,I thought, shaking my head. What did Theis mean, escaped?
Chapter 10 Lady Stardust
By the time I dragged my luggage upstairs, I felt like I’d had a total body workout, but whenever I rested for more than a minute, my mind bounced back and forth between the convent and Sacred Heart, until I felt like I was going to explode.
Focus on something, Adele. Anything.
I stood with my hands on my hips, trying to figure out where to start.
The afternoon sun illuminated the dust, making everything in my new bedroom sparkle in a strange, dirty way; the sheeted furniture cast oddly-shaped shadows, reminding me of a modern art exhibit.
Cool. I snapped a photo of the nearest mystery sculpture’s oblong silhouette on the wall, and then tucked the phone into my back pocket, held my breath and pulled the first sheet off, sending dust sparkles everywhere.
Whoa, an upright piano. Maybe everything isn’t just old junk.
I started tearing off the sheets like a kid on Christmas morning. A rocking chair. A beautifully carved vanity with a tri-folding mirror. A rose-colored chaise lounge. And a large oak wardrobe. The perfect little setup from the past. In the middle of the room was a large bed with four ornate brass posts that would have once held a delicate canopy, but from which now hung a couple of limp drop cloths. Without thinking, I yanked them off and plopped down onto the mattress.
“Ow!” I yelped, getting a whack to my hipbone. The ancient mattress would have to go.
Lying on the bed, my gaze settled on the last drop-cloth sculpture. It was an incredibly odd shape.Tuba? I jumped up and ripped off the cover, revealing a Victrola.
“Cool.”
The case over the turntable had been sealed tight, so it wasn’t even that dusty. “Do you still work?”
I raced down to my father’s studio and then, breathing he
avily, ran back up the stairs with an armful of records I’d randomly grabbed: the soundtrack to Jesus Christ Superstar, a classic Louis Armstrong, a Led Zeppelin, and a David Bowie. I carefully looked over the cardboard case protecting The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I didn’t know much about David Bowie, but something about the bright gas lamp on the cover attracted me. I gently pulled the record from the sleeve, placed the old vinyl on the turntable, and moved the needle.
My fingers searched for a power switch – until I remembered how old the machine was. Idiot,I thought, reaching for the manual power source. But I couldn’t get the hand-crank to budge. Mental note: get the WD-40 from Dad’s studio.
I gave the Victrola a little pep talk and exerted some force.
It gradually started to turn.
The record spun, and the music started playing, all without the power of electricity. “Just like magic,” I whispered.
The glam-rock beats sounded raw and scratchy coming from the large flower-shaped cone, and the slow start of the opening song crept over me with the grip of a soon-to-be obsession. I spritzed dusting cleanser with the downbeats of the tune, and wiped the rag over the piano as if I was performing on stage. By the time the next track began, I had moved on to the vanity mirror and decided that I loved Bowie.
When the third track began to crescendo, my fingers picked an air-guitar, but just as I started to shred, the music suddenly cut off, and the room became completely still. I caught sight of my frozen pose in the mirror and quickly dropped the imaginary instrument.
I glanced at the Victrola, hoping I hadn’t broken it. Blaming the spiders from Mars, I forced myself to keep cleaning, but it wasn’t the same. Even though we had only just been introduced, I was already having Ziggy Stardust withdrawal.
“Ugh, the crank!” I yelped, having a second mini-revelation over the machine’s need for manual power.
Finish the mirror first…
Without even the slightest ambient street noise coming in through the open windows, the swooshes from my rag seemed loud. I worked fast, eager to get back into David Bowie’s spaceship, but then a wave of tingles jettisoning down my spine made me freeze mid-scrub.