by Ann Jacobus
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To Jake, John, Caroline, and George
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was started in 2006, but some elements and characters are recycled from a shelved manuscript that dates back to the late nineties. So many people helped bring this story to life, and others helped resuscitate it when there was no discernable pulse. Each deserves not only acknowledgment but also all-you-can-eat Nutella crêpes.
On the journey with it longest and closest is Erzsi Deàk, who was my Paris BFF and critique group partner long before she was my agent. And she doesn’t even like dark stories.
Gros bisous and a lifetime supply of assorted French pastries to Kat Brzozowski, my editor, for falling in love.
Champagne for everyone at Thomas Dunne Books/ St. Martin’s Griffin! Special thanks to Mitali Dave, Stephanie Davis, Eva Diaz, Justine Gardner, Jessica Katz, Michelle Cashman, and Karen Masnica.
Tim Wynne-Jones read a nascent draft while he was my advisor at Vermont College of Fine Arts and encouraged me publicly. Paris writing group members Claudia Classon, Sandra Guy, Pedro de Alcantara, and Melissa Buron gave me excellent input on early drafts, as did Tracey Adams and Emma Dryden, psychologist Dr. Alex Cook, and Lacy Jacobus.
VCFA readers Stephanie Greene, Miriam Glassman, Nancy Bo Flood, Stephanie Parsley Ledyard, Dianne White, Candy Dahl, Jen White, Caitlin Berry Baer, Angela Morrison, Jonathan Rich, and Kelly Barson all provided invaluable direction and encouragement. Deb Gonzales did, too, plus created the ace discussion guide.
I’m especially grateful to Jane Resh Thomas who gently counseled me on delving into the dark heart of my protagonist, and to Richard Peck who shared his story-telling genius repeatedly.
My San Francisco writing group, Beyond the Margins, lavished me with guidance and support. Cases of Bordeaux and mercis to Annemarie O’Brien, Christine Dowd, Frances Lee Hall, Linden McNeilly, Helen Pyne, and Sharry Wright.
Joy Neaves of namelos helped deepen this story significantly, and Deborah Halverson’s expertise polished the manuscript to a shine.
I had astute young adult readers along the way including Caroline Kordahl and Jessie Papaglia for early drafts, and later, Nell Dayton-Johnson and Jacqueline Wibowo—thanks to Nancy Sondel’s PCCWW.
Un grand merci to Chef de Service of the Police Municipale de France, Jean-Louis Le Touze who advised me on all things criminal in Paris, and Dr. Christian Jacobus, MD, who was cheerfully on call 24/7 for his expertise in medicine and emergencies. Shukran to Zayna Hindi, Shoka Marefat, Layla Al-Ghawas, and Wael Elbhassi, who helped assure me that Moony was all I believed him to be.
In memory of Mom and Dad, and their unending faith in me; and with devoted love to Catherine, the Kordahls, my wild and crazy sibs, my dear kids; and of course, to Jim, who has been stalwart, patient, and beside me every step, in this as in all things. Chihuahua Louis XIV kept me company (slept) through countless hours at my desk.
And finally, to the grand, eternal, and dazzling City of Paris, with undying admiration and respect—I trust it can handle the optic of a depressed adolescent that results in something a little less flattering and laudatory than usual. Summer’s views are not mine.
ONE
Paris Métro
Charles de Gaulle-Étoile
The train rounds the turn in the tunnel and the interior lights flicker off. Summer Barnes, pressed by the crowd against the doors in the second car, regards the brightness of the station ahead. This must be how it looks when you have an NDE, she thinks. A near-death experience. You’re rushing through a dark tunnel toward The Light ahead. Where Dad and Grandma wait with smiles and open arms.
A whiff of the garlicky breath of the old lady leaning into her brings Summer back to the moment.
Nearby, a young Goth girl lays her head against her boyfriend, closing her kohl-rimmed eyes. His pierced and studded face softens as they entwine like tangled wire.
That’s the answer, Summer thinks. Three feet away.
Love.
If you’re passionate about someone, and they feel the same, everything else must fall into place.
And have purpose.
She’s in the most beautiful city in the world and all she can think about is getting on the next flight out. Or finding a pair of ruby slippers and tapping her heels. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate it. Paris! La Ville Lumière. City of Light, endlessly cool. Where Mom lives, although seems to spend very little time.
Maybe being stuck in the tunnel has to do with coming to Paris unexpectedly. One minute she was sprawled on her dorm room bed, the next she was staring out an airplane window at the icy black north Atlantic far below.
Or maybe it has to do with the fact that lately, she’s always solo. Whatever, the November cold and the short, sunless days weigh her down like a ton of snow.
She just needs to find someone in Paris to hold hands with.
A train thunders by in the opposite direction. Her ears pop.
Brakes screech. Her train jerks to a halt and Summer slams into the garlic lady. They’ve stopped before reaching the end of the crowded platform.
A woman screams. The rawness vibrates through the station and tunnels.
A trill of panic zaps her. The train doors open and no one moves for two beats. Then she and the others rush out. What if it’s a bomb?
No, there’s been some accident. Two Métro employees jog down the stairs and force their way through the jittery crowd. One opens the white electrical closet against the wall and the other scurries down the stairs at the end of the platform to the tracks.
Everyone waits. No one leaves. A little saucer-eyed girl grips a man’s hand. Summer smiles reassuringly at her. That stupid dad needs to get his kid out of here instead of gawking at the show like a big-mouthed bass.
The Goth girl points at the tracks, her face frozen with shock.
The edgy mob surges forward and people crouch to peer between the cars at something under the train.
Probably a person. Summer struggles to think of … Little Red Riding Hood, equilateral triangles, unfurled lilies.
It doesn’t work. The tracks are practically yelling, Look over here! Plus people are hyperventilating up all the oxygen. She gropes for the silver flask of mandarin orange vodka in her pocket, unscrews it, and takes a deep swig.
Time to partir. She turns and collides with a tall guy in a dark wool coat and hat. “Pardon,” she mutters, looking up at him.
He’s her age and breathtakingly gorgeous. The kind of guy who would normally look right through her.
“Do you speak English?” she blurts out.
“I do.” His dark, sympathetic eyes seem to say, Isn’t this strange, isn’t life awful?
“What happened?”
“That’s a woman on the tracks,” he says somberly. “Were you on the train?”
“Yeah.” Summer rubs her eyes with her
gloved hand. It’s weird, but she’s close to tears. “Did she … fall? God, I hope she wasn’t pushed.”
“Here,” he says. He nudges people out of the way by the edge of the platform between two cars. She leans in to look. Two Métro guys are straightening the cloth that is already covering the body.
A black, patent-leather, low-heeled pump lies on its side in the gravel between the rails. “Oh,” she breathes. That solitary shoe makes her knees go rubbery. “How horrible.”
The guy tilts his head. “Not necessarily. If she jumped, it may have been a release.” He pauses. “A deliverance.”
Summer blinks at him, then pivots and pushes her way to the exit stairs, heat creeping up her neck. That’s exactly what she was thinking—that the lady is so lucky to be out of here. She knows the guy can’t read her mind and doesn’t mean anything by those words, but there it is: the real, and growing reason why she’s got to find someone to love.
TWO
The next day at lunchtime, Summer stands in the skylight-lit atrium of the Paris American International High School (aka PAIS). She’s pretending to study a large bulletin board. Her search for someone to be with ought to start here even though she’s likely the oldest student in the building. She’s scoped out the guys in her classes, but needs to look again.
She puts in her earbuds. Her favorite urban blues singer-songwriter, Kentucky Morris, croons to the cello riffs and gospel back up on “Love Me Back 2 Life.” She hums under her breath.
Her thoughts drag to the incident in the Métro the evening before. It’s like a piece of chewing gum stuck to her shoe.
That round-eyed little girl couldn’t see the body, she’s sure. Still—people shouldn’t off themselves where little kids are, for chrissakes. But what’s the best, surest way to do it?
“Ever been in a musical?” says a deep American voice over her shoulder.
She spins around with a frown and steps back. “No.” She pulls out her earbuds. “Are you joking?”
“Nope. You were reading the announcement.” A guy with a big smile, olive skin, and dark hair that covers his ears stands a little too close. One brown eye looks off about ten degrees in another direction.
“Actually, I wasn’t.” She had noticed it though: The Unsinkable Molly Brown.
“Going to be a great show. Tryouts Tuesday.” He lists slightly to one side. His right arm hangs limp, the fist curled in a tight knot. And his words have the faint imprint of an old speech impediment.
“I’ll, uh, make a note of that.” She touches her nose ring. He’s the guy who limps in the halls. He’s in one of her big classes, too.
He grins good-naturedly, warm and real. “You’re Summer, right? Got Concert Choir with you.” A hanging fern behind his head gives him a bright green aura. “Just arrived?”
She can’t help but smile back. “Day eleven, but who’s counting?” He’s a nice guy for a drama geek, and is obviously making an effort.
“From where?”
“Boarding school.” She wants to bolt, the better to avoid any questions about flaming out of St. Jude’s School for the Hopelessly Messed Up. But a pack of guys leaving the gym look toward them and one yells, “Yo, Moony!”
“Moony?” she asks. Must be a drama nickname.
The guy jogs over. Three more follow, but hang back. The jock—blond, meaty, and undoubtedly A-list—leers at Summer. Her whole body tenses. She knows what comes next.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asks Moony.
With reluctance in his voice, Moony says, “Uh, Summer Barnes, meet Josh MacDougall.”
Josh says, “Hey, hey, hey, Summer breeze, where have you been all my life?”
Heat floods her face. “Seriously?” That’s his setup for the punch line?
He blinks. Leans back. “Wait,” he says, frowning. He puts his finger to his chin. “Aren’t you related to the chicken Barnes? Weren’t they, like, giving the birds bad drugs, and exploiting illegal aliens?”
Somebody must have googled her. Few people have the nerve to bring up the family chicken business notoriety to her face—poultry mistreatment and undocumented worker scandals from long ago. It was her grandfather’s business.
“Josh?” she says, through gritted teeth.
“That’s me.” His lips stretch back from his teeth and, unbelievably, he makes a soft hen-clucking noise. “Bawk bawk.”
“Clearly, your mother was given bad drugs. Or you’d know not to freaking accost someone you just met with such rude questions. Oh, and dumbass sound effects.”
The other guys laugh. So does Moony. “Burned you, Josh,” he says.
“Wha?—I—no.”
“My god. Look at that top hat,” Summer exclaims, pointing. When they all turn, she disappears.
So much for holding hands with any high school boys.
THREE
Summer’s phone dings in the rest room where she’s hiding. A text from Missing Mom, who, as far as Summer knows, is on another continent. But on top of certain details as usual.
Don’t forget Mme. LF. Ask about colleges for January.
Crap. She did forget. She’s late for her appointment with the college counselor.
She peeks out the door then leans her head heavily against the cool jamb. What’s his name—Josh—wasn’t trying to insult her. At least at first. She was supposed to say something witty or flirty back.
Not burn him.
Twenty–sixty hindsight.
But she will have to hunt beyond the International School if she wants to meet someone. Where and how is going to take planning.
The coast is clear and she dashes.
Madame Laforge is an American, married to a Frenchman. She sits behind a blond wood desk in a small office that smells like pickles, frowning at Summer’s tardiness.
“Sorry about that,” Summer says, plopping into the chair. She’s still revved from her unsocial encounter. Deep breath.
Madame rifles through Summer’s file, purple-framed glasses perched on her nose. “I spoke with your mother, who was quite insistent that I help you as soon as possible. And she’s out of the country, I understand.”
“Yep.” Exhale.
“I have received your transcripts.” She adds, “You were a straight-A student in eighth and ninth grades.”
Summer knows the shocked tone well. Her average has declined a tad since then. Her last school was for disabled, unable, and unwilling rich kids. Ironically, her one relationship experience, if you could call it that, was there.
Madame goes on, “I understand you’ll actually finish at the end of this semester.” She glances at the IB art students’ calendar on the wall. “In five weeks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Thanks to her mother’s high-level negotiations and maybe a large donation, the school will let her graduate—even with her abysmal record.
If she passes everything.
Madame’s expression says, Good luck with that. “Your academic record is one thing, but I’m not sure how we can downplay this disciplinary history.” She purses her lips. “Being asked to leave four schools will be problematic any way we cut it.”
Summer gazes out the window at the gloomy day. At Verde Valley School in Arizona, at least the sun always shone. She was there for eleventh and most of her first senior year. It’s the only one she misses. St. Jude’s was a train wreck.
“While we’re on the subject, you do understand that PAIS will absolutely not tolerate the use of drugs or alcohol?”
Summer knows to look directly at her interrogator. “Yes, I do.”
Before shuttling her to the airport, the disciplinary committee at St. Jude’s played her the grainy clip that some brainless freshman videoed—and the dean confiscated—of her staggering hammered across the dorm lobby and then face-planting outside in the hedge.
If only someone were casting for a last-one-standing party reality show, she thinks wistfully. She’d be a shoo-in.
Madame regards Summer over her glasses. “Is your
father here in France?”
Why is she asking? “No.” Now he had some drinking issues, but Summer doesn’t say that. “He died. Six years ago, next month.”
“I see. I’m sorry. Normal procedure is a first meeting with a student’s parents, but we’ll have to forego that.” Madame focuses back on her laptop screen. “We’ll be targeting only US colleges, as UK or EU universities are out of the question. If you can bring your grades up for this semester—and there isn’t much time, it’ll all be over December twentieth—we might be able to swing it.” She sighs.
“Right. I’ve turned in more homework in the last two weeks than I did in the previous year.” Totally true.
“Well.” Madame licks her thumb and flips through several more pages. “You desperately need some extracurricular activities.”
“That could be a problem,” says Summer drily.
Madame beams her a look of disbelief.
She shifts in her seat. “Okay, not a problem. I was actually just thinking about helping with the school musical.”
“You understand you will need high grades to prove that you have a new attitude.”
Remembering Mom’s instructions, Summer asks, “Are there any schools that start late January that I could apply to fast?”
“This January? May I ask why?”
“Because my grandpa wants me to.” She doesn’t clarify that he’s dead and left her money that she’ll receive only if she graduates from a four-year university by age twenty-two.
“First-semester grades won’t be out in time. And based on your records, no.” Madame observes Summer over her glasses. “You do understand that we cannot give you another chance if you fail to pass all your classes in the next weeks.”
“Yes. I do understand. Everything.” She notes that familiar cold, falling feeling. But it’s not leaden. It’s wispy. Like snowflakes.
When she was eight and on a family skiing trip, she and Dad glided off trail and stopped beneath a ledge. He wanted a nip from his flask. They sat side-by-side in a soft, protected hollow, her body leaning into the safe warmth and weight of him. They watched through the evergreens as snow fell silent and graceful against darkening skies.