by Arden, Alys
“I have to go. Je suis désolé, Adele. I am so far behind, I have no idea how to catch up.” He grabbed a book from my stack on the counter and tossed it at me. “Plus, it looks like you have plenty to keep you occupied. À bientôt!”
I tried not to sulk as he walked out the door.
It was back to just me and Isaac, who, if I wasn’t mistaken, was smiling at Sébastien’s departure. I cranked some classical music, hoping to scare him off, and picked up the loaner copy of Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.The deceivingly thin paperback was the only book on the Sacred Heart reading list that I hadn’t already read. I sighed, shuffled the pages to my folded earmark, and read the first three sentences.
Then I read the first three sentences again. And again.
Despite not retaining much, I turned the page, trying to prompt my brain into a reading rhythm.
Read.
Read.
Read.
My eyes kept moving from the page to the two lonely nickels sitting in the tip jar – they were begging me to play with them.
Unlike the reading progress, it took only a little mental focus before the coins were dancing around the jar to the Tchaikovsky overture blaring in the background. Careful not to let them clink on the glass and bring attention to what I was doing, I smiled as a dime did a swan-dive to join the pirouetting nickels. The motion was hypnotizing.
When the song ended, I glanced up and saw Isaac staring at me from his table. The nickels clanked back to the base of the jar. There was no way he could have seen the tiny coins from across the room, right? This time his gaze didn’t break away as quickly as usual. My cheeks flushed, and I ducked under the counter to have a moment to myself.
Ugh. I need to focus my energy on something productive, or I am going to end up doing something stupid.
I took a deep breath while I searched for a less dramatic song on the radio and then grabbed a small black notebook from my bag. When I stood back up, his gaze had returned to the felt tip of his marker. I daydreamed the marker floating from his hand and inking a mustache across his upper lip. Thank God it didn’t actually happen, but trying to contain the giggle made me snort.
He looked up.
My hand flew to my forehead to hide my smile as I flipped open the notebook; I tried my best to ignore him as I drew a line down the middle of a new page. On the left side I listed all the items I had tried to move but couldn’t: box of oatmeal, ceramic bowl, sponge, tennis shoe, bag of coffee beans, single coffee bean, toilette paper, broom, towel, stick of gum, book.
There must be some kind of pattern.
I forced myself not to chew on the pen while I recalled more items.
A cool gust of air came through the doors, making my arm hairs stand up. Without looking up from the notebook, I tugged the short sleeves of my coffee-stained V-neck and rubbed my arms, fingers landing on the thin gris-gris ribbon.
“Your cut is getting better—”
I slammed the notebook shut, jumping an inch off the stool.
The voice had come from lips just a few inches from my forehead. Niccolò Medici, the Italiano. I felt my eyes grow wide as I suddenly wondered if I had actuallycaused the Palermo’s sign to fall, nearly crushing his brother.
“Scusa,” he said softly, trying not to laugh. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” I’d been hearing that a lot lately. I really need to stop moping around and start being more alert.
“No worries.” I attempted to resume my casual position on the counter, but it now felt awkward – he was still staring at my face.
My hand went over the claw mark, which was now a pinkish-purple, raised line from the base of my neck to my cheekbone. He pushed my fingers away and softly touched the tender mark. His touch was cool on my warm skin; he must have been working outside this morning. Our eyes locked. I tried my best not to let my nervousness transfer from my pulse, to my cheek, to his fingertips. He did not need to know how intimidated I was by the close proximity of his ridiculous good looks.
If this had been a scene from a French film, it would have been the perfect opportunity for two almost-strangers to kiss – it was exactly the bold kind of thing Émile would have done.
Ugh, get over him, Adele. He’s gone. Focus on the guy in front of you.
But it was too late; Niccolò shifted back, probably sensing my emotional spiral.
“Absurdist fiction?” he asked, picking up the tattered paperback. “So, you are into Kafka?” His accent slightly dragged the first vowel in the author’s name.
My brain begged me not to lie. It had barely retained part one of the German novella.
“Well, I’m reading it for school. The jury is still out on whether I’m into it or not.” My brain thanked me, but then I immediately wanted to choke myself to stop the next words from flying out. “But generally I like the absurd.”
He laughed. “Me too.” His expression briefly scrunched, probably trying to figure out whether I was referencing Ionesco or just trying to be abstract. “Although, I’ve learned to appreciate when things are simple, more straightforward.” He leaned on the counter, his hands nearly touching mine. I had no clue if we were still talking about literature. I nodded, even though “simple” was not the vibe I got from him – and for some twisted reason, I think I was attracted to the confusion it caused me.
Don’t overanalyze everything, as per usual, Adele.
Before I could respond, Isaac butted in with his empty mug. I quickly refilled it.
He gave Niccolò a hard stare before going back to his seat, and with that, our moment was over. I sighed internally. “Can I get you something?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting him to leave. “I know we aren’t in Rome, but I can pull a pretty decent shot of espresso.”
“No, grazie. I just came to see you.”
“Oh.” My stomach did a back flip.
“And I wanted a break from work,” he quickly added, “and from my brother.”
“Gabe seems pretty full-on.”
He let out a deep laugh and leaned a little back on the counter. “That is a drastic understatement.” His lips pressed into a tight smile. Then, as if beckoned, his older brother walked through the door.
“Bella, my heroine! We meet again.”
Gabriel Medici was the type of guy who commanded the attention of a room simply by walking in and being beautiful. I remember thinking the same thing about Émile, only Émile was far more subtle. Ugh. Stop! It was strange to think about a man being beautiful, but it really was the most fitting word to accurately describe the blond – well, both of the brothers, really, but Gabe had the unabashed personality to go along with it.
Niccolò retreated to a table, and his brother kissed my hand in a dramatic fashion, which I assumed was his norm.
“Why do you look so sad, bella? A beautiful woman should never look so sad.” He raised my arm over the empty pastry case, guiding me around the counter, and then spun me around, just as a Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday duet started. I cracked a smile remembering the “Lady Stardust” night with my father, which already seemed like a month ago.
Gabe was as good at dancing as he was at posing – he led me around the floor in perfect time with the music, turning me at all the appropriate moments. It was totally over the top, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the attention, especially since he was doing it right in front of Isaac, which for some reason delighted me. Gabe seemed to pick up on this and further taunted him by bending me into a low dip directly in front of his table. I shot the Northerner a look that meant, Take note,as Gabe held the pose for another measure.He must have gotten the hint because he grabbed his stuff and huffed out the door.
When my attention turned back to my partner, his eyes were stuck on my chest. Jeez, he could at least be a little more discreet. Instead of attempting to hide his overt behavior, he looked up at me with an inquisitive expression and then back down at my chest.
That’s when I realize
d he was just looking at my necklace. The medallion had slipped out of the V-neck. Innocent enough, I suppose.He pulled me up with such excitement, my feet couldn’t keep up with the spin. I flung towards the door, where I was caught in the arms of Désirée Borges. My momentum knocked us both over, because, of course, she was wearing six-inch heels. She was cursing my name before we even hit the ground.
In a flash, Niccolò put himself in between me and Désirée’s line of venomous lashes. He helped me up, while Gabe extended his hand to her. As Désirée’s gaze went from his fingers to his face, her slanderous rage dwindled to silence. I tried to contain it but couldn’t help let out a quiet giggle, witnessing Gabe’s mere presence shut her up.
“Please accept my apology, signorina. I am entirely at fault.” He helped her up with one fell swoop. She looked from Gabe to me and then to Niccolò as she adjusted the micro-miniskirt over her perfect stems.
She seemed rendered speechless by the idea of me fraternizing with not only one but two older, stylish guys. I couldn’t say I blamed her. “No harm, no foul,” she finally managed.
I walked back behind the counter to get a better view of whatever was about to unfold.
“Adele, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
She knows my name? The title “friends” was a bit of a stretch, given this was my second run-in with the foreigners, but there was no way I was going to let an opportunity like this pass me by. “Désirée Borges, meet Gabe and Niccolò Medici. They are over from Italy, looking for some missing relatives and staying with the Palermos.”
“That’s so terrible,” she said. I couldn’t help but wonder if she cared at all or if she just wanted to jump Gabe. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Gabe said as he kissed her hand.
Niccolò stood in the background, looking my way. He rolled his eyes at his brother’s dramatic gesture. I got the impression this was something he’d heard a thousand times before. Another quiet chuckle escaped my lips.
“We’re not staying with the Palermos anymore,” he said to me. “We managed to get our own place around the corner.”
“So, how do you ladies know each other?” Gabe asked Désirée.
The look in her eyes showed that she was falling fast. “Well… um… our parents…”
I intercepted. “We don’t actually know each other that well.” She appeared grateful to no longer be on the spot but seemed alarmed I might blow the fact that we weren’t BFFs. “Which is kind of odd, considering our parents go way back. But we’re going to be spending a lot of time together soon…”
She looked at me with suspicion.
“Because we’ll be attending the same school, as of tomorrow, right?” I flashed her a beaming smile.
Her eyes bugged. “Right,” she said through gritted teeth.
I guess she hadn’t known I was the Academy’s newest recruit.
“Eccellente! Adele is my absolute favorite person in New Orleans. Promise me you’ll take good care of her.”
“Really?” she asked, flabbergasted.
I tried not to show my own surprise. I owed Gabe for this. Big time.
“Si, she saved my life, but that’s another story for another time.”
“I promise,” she said. “And you can tell me the whole story, next time.”
I had no idea if Gabe was really interested in Désirée, but she was eating it up. While she continued to flirt relentlessly, I realized Niccolò had disappeared. My disappointment surprised me, but I couldn’t blame him for wanting to bail on this nauseating display of high school flirtation. I wished I could have.
I made Désirée her sugar-free vanilla iced-coffee so I didn’t have to watch every move as she threw herself at the elder Medici. When I slid the cup across the counter, she happily grabbed it and seductively sucked on the straw, ogling.
Vomit.
“Burgundy, right?” she asked as she flipped her hair and sashayed to the door. The question had been directed at me.
“Huh?”
“You live on Burgundy Street, right? Tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp. Bring coffee.” Before committing to the exit, she turned back and winked at Gabe. He returned a small wave.
I was stunned. Did Désirée Borges really just offer me a ride to school? Maybe she isn’t so bad after all?
Gabe leaned on the counter, posing, and turned to me. “Well, she seems like trouble.”
“Si, she scares me.”
We both laughed, and then he looked me straight in the eyes. “She’s nothing that you can’t handle, Adele.” It felt genuine, like he had finally stopped performing.
“Grazie, Gabriel.”
“Prego. Until we meet again.”
Chapter 15 Walk of Shame
October 22nd
Cleaning out my new room had turned into a constant treasure hunt, always ending with something beautiful and vintage as a reward. I had been excited when I first found the little brass clock hidden amongst the junk in the closet, but now, as I lay in the dark, the ticking noises felt like the prelude to my execution. I imagined myself smashing the alarm clock against the wall.
Breathe.
Most of the night had been spent like this – suffering the first-day jitters for the third time in one semester. It wasn’t humane. My mind time-warped to Paris and reminded me of how pathetic I had felt lying in my dorm room, terrified of the sun rising. I had been so jealous of my Romanian roommate, who lay peacefully asleep while my pulse raced. But Paris was different: over there, everyone had just cause to prejudge me; I was the foreigner invading their land of wealth and glamour. Feeling like a foreigner in my hometown was so much worse.
I rolled over. 5:12 a.m.
As soon as I groaned, the cute little alarm clock went flying into the fresh paint job.
“Shit!” I sat up. All three lamps snapped on.
I hope the clock isn’t broken.
I looked over at the small pile of things I’d destroyed in the last week. This parlor trick – ability, whatever you call it – was out of control, and one more reason I had new-school anxiety.
Now that my nerves were fired up, I conceded to the day’s events, stood, and stretched, forcing my skin to embrace the chill in the air.
* * *
Legs shaved, skin moisturized, and hair tamed, I pressed the power button on the boom-box, not caring if it was too loud for six in the morning. I didn’t care if it woke my father; he had no reason to be out all night given the curfew. Plus, as far as I was concerned, having to go to Sacred Heart was entirely his fault.
“Add one more tally to the dead-body count,” came the DJ’s voice through the speaker. I turned to look at it as he continued: “The N.O.P.D. still doesn’t have anything to say about these recently reported crimes.”
He went on about the lack of aid from the federal government. Ugh. Listening to people rant about our demise wasn’t going to help my anxiety. The tuner knob spun until the voices of people shouting were drowned out by a boy band crooning about how beautiful I was. I walked to the full-length dressing mirror for a self-assessment.
I looked a little skinnier than usual, easily attributed to my meager diet of oatmeal, red beans ’n rice, and coffee. I hadn’t eaten a piece of meat or a vegetable since my transatlantic meal on the plane, if that even counted as real food. My loose waves fell several inches past my shoulders now, much longer than they had been at the beginning of summer – before the Storm, when life was normal. Back when Brooke and I were still planning out our entire junior and senior years.
I moved to the metal garment rack usually reserved for in-progress designs. Now there were just two hangers: on one hung layers of tulle covered in hand-stitched beading, and on the other were various layers of blue, white and gray. Three months ago I would have had trouble guessing which one was my Halloween costume. We couldn’t buy milk or find someone to fix our wall, but Sacred Heart had managed to get me monogrammed uniforms.
I shimmied on the scratchy polyester skirt and buttoned up the collared shirt. My white bra easily showed through the thin, white cotton.
“That doesn’t seem very Catholic schoolgirl-like to me.”
Over went the navy-blue cardigan with A.L.M. embroidered over my heart.
I had never worn a uniform in my life. Even my boarding school in Paris didn’t require them, hence the multiple shopping sprees with ma grand-mère. On the bright side, the uniform should make it easier to blend in. Taking cues from an old Britney Spears video, I pulled on a pair of white knee socks and laced up the saddle Oxfords. I actually kind of liked the contrasting black and white leather shoes.
No amount of concealer dabbing was going to cover the dark circles under my eyes, nor had my prayers been answered about my battle wound miraculously fading overnight. Self-consciousness made my hand shake as I swept powder over the ugly pink line on my cheek. Two layers of black mascara. Light pink lip-gloss. Silver chain. I knotted my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head and started to feel more like myself.
Am I even allowed to wear jewelry? I wondered as I tucked the gris-gris underneath my shirt. I picked up the box my mother had stealthily hidden in my suitcase and tried to suppress the angst that rose whenever I thought about her. It’s an heirloom from your paternal side, I reminded myself and popped the box open. The ring’s style was unlike anything I had ever seen: an opaline stone nested into a thick silver medallion, like a giant pearl in an oyster shell, encircled by an intricately engraved border.
Light caught the milky, iridescent stone as I slid the ring on my middle finger. The metal was warm against my skin. For a moment, I wondered what era it was from and suddenly found myself silently thanking my mother. Maybe it was the pop music (I never would have admitted it, if it was), or maybe it was residual effects from the warm bath, but I felt a bit better. Maybe I would actually make friends? Maybe I would forget about Émile…I drew the navy-blue tie under my collar and snapped it into an X.