by Ann Jacobus
At the end of their street, a woman in short shorts, a fake fur vest, and shiny black thigh-boots stands with attitude on the corner. Another woman similarly dressed is across the street. Hookers! She’s never seen a real live prostitute before. That she knows of, anyway. Mom’s building is not far from the Bois de Boulogne and according to Ouaiba, all sorts of sexual activity goes on there. But this is too posh a neighborhood for them to hang in very long before the police nationale chase them off.
Why are they so scorned when it’s clearly not a first-choice profession for the vast majority of women? They’re forced into it, usually at really young ages, by circumstances and abuse. They aren’t strong enough, don’t have the resources, the education, the contacts, to avoid it or get out of it. And yet they’re reviled. Even in the Bible. It has never made sense.
No one has their backs.
As she passes the woman, Summer takes out her earbuds and says, “Bonjour,” in a sort of sisterhood hello. Just like Fantine in Les Misérables, or Nancy in Oliver Twist. She could give her some money, but then vetoes the idea. She feels sorry for the woman and doesn’t want her to know that.
The woman replies with French and gestures, the equivalent of, You want some? She’s older up close, tired looking.
Summer’s face heats. She shakes her head. “Just being neighborly,” she mumbles.
In her room, she peers out her window at the fur vest woman, who’s relocated like a walking stereotype under the streetlight on the corner. The other one is gone. A slick black Peugeot stops and the passenger window glides down. The woman leans in to talk. Straightens up, pauses, then opens the door. An interior light blinks on, illuminating a man. Summer doesn’t want to be a voyeur, but she can’t pull away. The woman gets in and before she closes the door, the man stares up through the moon roof at Summer’s third-floor window. Like he’s looking right at her.
It’s Kurt. Or his doppelgänger.
She jumps back. Ohmigod. Is he freaking following her?
No, she never said what street she lived on, just the area.
The car drives off. She looks again. Wait. The man is older, gray-haired even. Or is that moonlight bouncing off his head? She’s seeing things. She leans against the wall, closes her eyes, and takes two deep breaths.
Was it him? If it were, so what? Picking up a prostitute in her neighborhood … maybe it’s some sort of game.
She’s so clueless. Is she supposed to be outraged, or turned on?
Or scared.
ELEVEN
On Wednesday, Summer thumbs through a Marie Claire without registering the fashionable contents. She’s in a high-ceilinged waiting room in an old apartment building on Parc Monceau in the eighth arrondissement. Dr. Garnier, in a chic gray wool suit with pink piping, smoky stockings, and high heels, opens the door to her office. Summer shuffles in.
This is Mom’s idea of punishment for getting kicked out of school.
Again.
She just wants to get through the hour without getting all her blood sucked out.
“Hello, Summer,” the doctor says with her accent. “Please. Be seated.” She gestures at one of two chrome-and-dark-leather chairs, a glass coffee table between them. Tall windows look out over the bare trees in the park and the chilly dark Paris evening.
“What’s up, doc?” Summer says.
“But it is you who must tell me what’s going on.” It’s her second visit. Last week they covered the fact that St. Jude’s expelled her for possession of alcohol, pot, and medications that weren’t prescribed to her. And the huge fit her mother had.
Today, she tries to run the clock down with babble about each of her classes at school, spinning the fact that she will be involved in the musical. She already knows what her issues are. And what she needs to do: focus, buckle down, work, pass. Eat right, sleep right, exercise. Try not to think about … escaping.
She should be home doing all that and not wasting time here. She wonders if Moony ever went to a shrink, like while he was recovering from his accident.
“And how do you feel about it?”
“About what?” The room is paneled with wood and packed with books, including leather-bound sets of the works of Voltaire, Dumas, and Sartre. Not that Summer’s read anything by them, but she knows who they are and that she’s supposed to be impressed.
“Being in Paris. Attending a new school, doing theater. Living with your mom. Any of it.”
She has to give her something. Not too little info, and not too grim or bright a picture. She’s not sure about Dr. Garnier but most shrinks love to set off unnecessary alarms. Balanced and “realistic” is the key. This is a tiresome game that costs hundreds of euros an hour.
Come on, say something honest. “Well, a little … overwhelmed,” Summer admits. “It’s an adjustment.”
“Mais, oui.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Where would you like to be?”
She contemplates this unexpected question for a moment. Père Lachaise Cemetery? She can’t joke about that here. “Maybe in California. Not far from the beach. My aunt Liz lives in San Francisco.”
“But is this not your first response to difficulty? To withdraw and retreat? Or escape? We discussed this last week.”
“Is it not?” Summer echoes, trying to keep sarcasm out of her voice. “I guess.” She thought her problem was anger. And she only retreats to cut losses. She doesn’t back down when it matters.
“What is Aunt Liz like?”
“She’s real,” Summer says, picturing her aunt in one of her lumpy, uneven, hand-knit sweaters. “She’s Mom’s younger sister but she’s very different. She accepts herself and others for what they are. Plus, she thinks I’m awesome.”
“What would you do there?”
“I could read. Walk on the beach. Maybe give swimming lessons?” It’s a dumb answer, but at her third boarding school, she did just that with kids for the Red Cross. After two weeks, she had the whole lot of them swimming like guppies. “Um, I could sleep.”
Dr. Garnier shifts in her seat. “Are you having trouble with sleep? Too much, too little?”
She is, but Summer says, “No. I just like to.”
“Your mother mentioned you have slimmed down. Is this on purpose?”
“I’m always dieting.” She is proud of her new figure, only it doesn’t feel like self-control. It really isn’t on purpose, but who cares?
Dr. G makes a note. “It sounds as if there would be less pressure in San Francisco.”
“Yeah. For sure. No having to finish school. This term anyway. I could maybe do it later.”
“Tell me something that you enjoy.”
“I like to read.”
“What do you like?”
“Almost anything. Romances. Gothic or otherwise. Fantasy. Poetry. Biographies. Nonfiction. Just not so much lately.” She’s always read a lot, even when she was flunking. Until the last few months.
“You don’t read now?”
“Not really.” A fascinating book on near-death experiences, and some clinical stuff on death and dying, but for sure if she mentions that, the doctor will get her panties in a knot. People are so weird about death. It’s actually a rich and interesting subject, across cultures and history. Egyptian, Viking, and Parsi customs have interested her most recently.
The cool thing is that pretty much everyone agrees: something happens afterward.
The doctor makes another note on her writing pad. “Tell me other things you love?”
“Things I love?” Summer asks. Despite Herculean efforts, her eyes roll. “Kentucky Morris.”
From her expression, the doctor isn’t sure where that is.
“A singer-songwriter. You know—When you’ve gone ’round the bend, and the world comes to an end?” The woman looks at her blankly. “‘Absolute Zero.’ It’s a popular song.”
“Ah, bon.” Dr. Garnier nods. “I’m an old Beatles fan myself. ‘All You Need is Love.’ And?”
Summer forces a smile, “Lord of the Rings.” It was really more her dad’s favorite, but she’ll claim it. “Les Misérables. Snarky YA. Um, schnitzel and strudel? Walking in the rain?” Sour cherry nitro-martinis pop into her head. She and Grace snorting lines of cocaine last year on senior skip day before their big falling out.
Dr. Garnier folds her hands. Waits.
“Like I said, I like romance. In books and movies.”
“What do you like about romance?”
“I don’t know. I guess because I would like to meet someone.” Nothing wrong with confessing this.
Dr. Garnier brightens. “You had a boyfriend before?”
This old French woman just assumes she likes guys. She happens to be right, but still. And Summer has no intention of discussing he-who-shall-not-be-named. “No,” she says, chomping a fingernail. “Boy friends, yes. A boyfriend, no.”
“What would this change?”
“I wouldn’t be lonely?” Duh.
Back in tenth grade, her best friend Katie met Justin and suddenly the two were planning their joint futures. It straightened Katie out and gave her life focus and meaning. Or maybe it just got her away from Summer’s worsening influence. Whatever the reason, they’re still together.
The doctor asks, “Do you feel lonely?”
Tread carefully, she tells herself. Rational, cooperative, mature. She definitely doesn’t want to get into her propensity to lose friends, her current complete lack thereof, or her abysmal record in love. “I’m new in town. I’ve been to, um, a lot of schools in the last few years. Plus I want to have sex.” Good sex. She had sex and knows by all the hype that it could be much better. Plus, this has got to be a suitable conversational thing to say in France to change the subject.
Dr. Garnier smiles. First one all day.
“Have you met any boys?”
“Maybe. There’s a great guy at school, only he’s … I do really like him.”
“What do you like about him?”
“He’s smart and funny and handsome. Has clear boundaries, that’s for sure. He’s not easily put off, and I like that. Because”—she clears her throat—“sometimes I put people off. Also, he’s got this energy, totally positive.” She thinks a moment. “He’s got purpose.”
Dr. Garnier tilts her head. “How do you mean?”
She shrugs. “He just knows why he’s here and what he needs to do.”
“Ah, oui. He sounds like an impressive boy.”
“Yeah. And I did run into a guy this past weekend, very hot, kind of, um, alarmingly so.” Probably best not to say she saw him outside her window in a car with a hooker. “But out of my league. I guess.” Time to exit this subject. “Another thing I love is quiet. And peace. Away from the roar of the world.”
The doctor frowns. Maybe that was a little too abrupt.
“I mean, sometimes I think I’d like to live in a simpler time. Be apprenticed to a shoemaker or something. Or live in an Alpine convent.”
Dr. Garnier says drily, “No boyfriends allowed in a convent.”
Summer smiles. She should just give the doctor what she really wants. “Lately, I miss my dad.” It’s true. The words came out surprisingly easy, but sit there all heavy. She pauses. “We’re very much alike. But I think I was a disappointment to him, too. Then he was…” She trails off. Does the doctor know anything about Dad or his drinking? Or his strangely quiet and muffled death?
Such a can of worms to open, but maybe she should. He’s been on her mind a lot.
“Ah,” Dr. Garnier says, looking at her watch, “we shall discuss your father next time.”
“Oh.”
Dr. Garnier scribbles more notes. “Are you taking your antidepressants?”
“Uh, yeah,” Summer lies. She’s tried several kinds and they all suck. She didn’t even bother getting the French prescription filled last week. She’s not big on pills other than occasionally for recreation. Liquids are another matter.
“I think you are an excellent candidate for them now, during this time of transition. I’ll give you another prescription after the holidays. Do you take walks?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“Consider it. Paris is a lovely city for walking,” she says proudly. “It is also my prescription. Dress warmly. Wear trainers and walk for twenty minutes.” She means tennis shoes.
“Okay. Why?”
“It stimulates the system, makes you exercise, releases good chemicals in the brain. Helps you sleep. About our appointment next week?”
Summer rises to go. She needs a nap after all this work. “Thanks,” she says. “Oh, shoot, I can’t make it next week because of the play. And it goes on for a while. I can call to make another appointment when I better know my schedule?” Shrinks she’s known in the US aren’t so bossy or overdressed. Plus, she has no intention of coming back.
Dr. Garnier pauses, but says, “Très bien.”
TWELVE
PAIS is closed for Thanksgiving. Mom is having a dinner party this evening and Summer plans to avoid it. She’s just returned from the large Monoprix nearby, wheeling the blue plaid plastic shopping caddy heavy with bottles to sustain her through the coming weeks. She’s going to pass all her classes come hell or high water but she’ll need a little help from her good friend Vodka.
The checkout lady didn’t even look twice. Vive la France.
Her cell phone dings with a text from Moony:
Hunting props at Les Puces. Métro Porte de Clignancourt 13:30. Come with?
She texts back fast as white lightning:
Okie-dokie. See you then!
The day brightens like a meteor shower.
* * *
Summer descends with determination into the Métro, but her breathing speeds to panting, and the crowds swell and threaten to suffocate her. Bad trainophobia. She about-faces and climbs back up to ground level, leaning against a news kiosk until she’s steady.
She finds an ATM, withdraws some euros, and hails a taxi. Then waits for Moony outside the Métro entrance near a bedraggled café and a phone card store. She’s so happy he invited her, but her palms are sweaty, and she can’t stop fidgeting. It’s gray, cold, and drizzling. North African immigrants stroll by in distinctive long clothes and head ware. Summer uncorks her flask and takes a deep pull. Liquid courage. Then she pops a piece of cinnamon gum.
Three young men, Arab gangbangers by their tracksuits, bling, and attitude, are eyeing her. The French call them racaille. She tries to ignore them but clenches her teeth. These North African guys think a woman by herself is against the law. That it means you’re a prostitute.
One of them walks closer to her and says something; she has no idea what. “Go away,” she says, looking him in the eye.
He makes rude kissing noises at her.
She gives him the finger knowing full well that the gesture is much more shocking in France. His friends hoot.
The guy’s furious. “Fook you.”
He picked the wrong girl to diss. “Fookez VOUS and your friends. You seriously want a piece of me?” Her mouth has gone dry so she spits her gum on the ground near his shoe. His track pants are tucked into his socks.
He hesitates. Confusion and fear play in his eyes, Summer notes coolly. Definitely not what he expected.
Poor guy. He has no idea that she has nothing to lose.
He takes two quick steps toward her as if to compensate for his delay. More skinny homies, looking amused, slink up and surround them. Now he’s feeling braver and rattles off a bunch of chipped and broken-sounding French, an ugly sneer on his face. The others laugh.
Adrenaline courses through her veins, as she fleetingly wishes she were her old weight. Never corner something that’s meaner than you are, her dad used to say.
A half dozen guys inch closer. She probably can’t vanquish them all but she could do some damage. She’s threatened people numerous times, but has only come to blows twice. The possibility of sexual violence distracts her. Six on one. But
surely not here on the sidewalk in front of the Métro entrance in broad daylight. Although pedestrians are now keeping clear of them.
She steps toward him, watching herself move in slow motion. Every detail of the scene assaults her senses—garlic and grilled onions from a nearby restaurant, diffuse gray light reflecting off the chrome of a parked Honda, the guy’s hi-def patchy facial hair, his flickering eye movements.
“In that case, don’t forget to fook your maman.” She pronounces maman with her best accent so he is sure to understand. He does, and snarling, fumbles to grab at something in his jacket. Fortunately, it’s extremely unlikely to be a gun here. And she has a Swiss Army knife in her pocket. She can slash them with the corkscrew. Plus her flask is in an inner coat pocket over her heart, so at least if they stab her there, they’ll bounce back.
Summer assumes her tae kwon do fighting stance.
THIRTEEN
“Summer!”
“Moony!” Summer cries. He’s at the top of the Métro stairs. “These turkeys are annoyed that I’m not covered up with one of those … long black dresses!” She fails to smooth the shake in her voice. “Oh yeah, I did clash them and their moms.” Clasher is a slang French verb she picked up.
The gang collectively observes Moony’s limp and posture like the pack dogs they are. If they try anything with him, she vows to pop their eyes out.
Moony rattles off something in Arabic. They frown and look back at her. Summer holds her stance and lifts her chin. Moony pats his coat pocket and keeps talking, now in French that flies over her head. They look alarmed, exchange glances, and slink away.
Summer lets her breath out. “What did you say?” she demands when he reaches her side.
He scowls at her. “You mean ‘Thanks for saving my butt.’”
“I was doing fine.”
“Think so?” His right arm hangs, but he’s shaking his left hand in her face. “Outta your mind? What you said—way more offensive than in Arkansas.”
“I know it’s not nice. They started it. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”