by Ann Jacobus
Mom glares at Summer in the mirror again. “I tried dozens of times to get him to help himself.”
“I mean you should have been home. Found him sooner.” Now Summer’s voice cracks and she furiously blinks away the burning in her eyes.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t.” Frowning, Mom picks up a sleek silver case of blush, and brushes some on her cheekbone. “The tickets are on the front table.”
Mom is not sorry. She packed Summer up and moved to Paris so fast, it blew Summer’s hair back. But she’s too tired and dispirited to generate any snarky comebacks.
“Have a nice trip, Mom.”
SEVENTEEN
Summer and Moony stand in line outside the wall of the US ambassador’s residence on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré across from sleek haute couture and jewelry boutiques. Oversized luxury cars disgorge their multinational, expensively clad passengers. Students and bourgeois alike must go through security.
Moony’s wearing a blue-striped button-down shirt and a forest-green sweater, grinning and bouncing like a kid. It makes her smile. She wasn’t sure if he’d turn up or not and has to admit she would have been crushed if he hadn’t.
Please don’t let me mess this up, she thinks, standing as close to him as she can without being creepy.
“You’re quiet today,” says Moony.
“Am I? This is a long line.”
“Everything okay?”
“Absolutely.” She touches her nose ring.
“You look great,” he says.
She smiles. She’s wearing a skirt that minimizes her butt, and a pair of Mom’s smooth leather boots. “You brought your passport, right?” she asks. “Not the Gulf one. The American one.”
“Of course.” He gives her a How clueless do you think I am? look.
A guard directs them into the compound courtyard and to another queue that winds into a small building. Summer takes the mint gum out of her mouth and sticks it in a thin, bullet-shaped trash can. She had a strong vodka and OJ before she left home and hopes there’s no trace.
Moony asks, “How did the French test go?”
“Super.” This is an exaggeration, but she’s sure she passed. “You’re an excellent tutor.”
“Thanks.” The line has moved ahead and he steers her by the shoulder. She memorizes his touch. He’s slow to remove his hand.
They slide their passports and the invitations to a uniformed guard behind a counter. “Zee names do not match zee invitations.”
“Oh,” says Summer. “They’re my mom’s. Adrienne Barnes. See? I’m Summer Barnes. It says ‘and guest.’ Moony”—she picks up Moony’s passport—“Munir Butterfield Al Shukr—is my guest.”
“Pas possible. Zee names must match.”
“My mother was invited. She gave these to me.”
A tall guard eyeing Moony’s complexion and shaggy hair says, “Sir, could you step over here, please?”
“Sure,” says Moony.
“What’s the problem?” Summer demands, her whole head heating even though something inside her is sluggishly congealing. They search her backpack, pulling out the flask, opening it, sniffing it, and then putting it back in.
“We need to do a search. It will just take a moment.” The guy nudges Moony through the metal detector. It shrills.
Moony explains in his clearest speech, “I have metal in my leg, hip, and arm.” He points with his good hand. “And my shoe.”
“Yes, sir. I just have to check.” The guard makes Moony remove his fleece jacket, then roughly pats down his shirt and jeans.
“Through here, mademoiselle.” Summer goes through the metal detector and stops on the other side. Somehow, the guy pushes against Moony’s bad leg, causing it to buckle. Moony has to grab for the table edge to keep from falling.
“What the hell is this?” she explodes. “You heard him, he has metal in his leg. His bones are pinned together with it! He was crunched in a car accident.” She feels like her dad is watching her. Refusing to let her back down.
“It’s okay. Summer, please.” Moony’s expression is aghast.
“No, it’s not okay. This is ridiculous.” Moony shouldn’t see her like this but she can’t stop.
“I’ll have to search you, too, ma’am.”
The matron behind them mutters. The crowd does not appreciate this scene. Right on cue, a suited embassy type rushes in.
“What seems to be the problem?” the suit asks.
Molten anger threatens to blow the top of her head off like a new Arctic Sea volcano under the ice cap. With all her might, she makes herself say calmly, “My name is Summer Barnes. My mother was invited, Adrienne Barnes. This is my friend and he’s being discriminated against. Will you please explain to these people that we’re not terrorists?”
Moony’s holding his head in his good hand.
She hears the shrillness in her voice. Here she goes again, ruining everything.
The suit studies their passports then says quietly, “Miss Barnes, Mr. Al Shukr, will you come with me please?” A guard hands her the backpack. Moony limps ahead of her.
The man leads them into a room inside the carriage house. Another suit sits at a desk. He introduces himself politely, looks at the invitations and documents, then scans the passports in a small device. He hands them back. “Sorry for any problem. I know your mother. Enjoy the evening.”
“Thanks,” mutters Summer.
* * *
Moony and Summer silently follow the line of people up the front stairs of the main mansion, into a large marble foyer, where some American poetry lady welcomes them. Five living rooms of various sizes, with twenty-foot ceilings, fan out from the foyer. They walk wordlessly through huge double doors into a turquoise, then pink, and a mint-green room, all lined with gold moldings, massive paintings, and French antique furniture. A long salon at the end has about sixty petite red velvet chairs lined up before a podium.
They sit near the back. The gilt molding on the walls is blinding.
“What?” she finally says. “I embarrassed you.”
“Don’t need anyone to fight my battles.”
“But it was my battle, too. You’re my guest. They humiliated us.” The shrill edge to her voice is creeping back in.
Moony scowls at her. “Was normal security stuff.”
“Fine.”
“Why are you being so … What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Yeah, why is she being so?
People are holding flutes of champagne. She excuses herself to go find the source.
In the biggest salon, a crowd surrounds a long, linen-draped table covered with silver trays of canapés and glasses of champagne. Summer takes a glass and downs it, then sips another as she presses her nose against the cool glass of the oversized French doors. She stares out at the floodlit, perfectly manicured shrubs and the golf-green lawn that sweeps out from a wide terrace over prime Paris real estate.
Poor Moony. Someone needs to tell him that being her friend is rough duty.
Feeling better, she goes back to her seat. The ambassador, a mega-wealthy, graying ex-quarterback, is already introducing the poet laureate, a tall and gawky guy with tufts of sticking-up hair. He reads to the hushed room but she cannot follow him, though she tries her best.
All this red velvet is buzzing and jittering her head. Maybe from the adrenaline of her tantrum earlier. The crowd’s weird energy is magnifying it. She can’t not think about Dad’s death. He was really messed up and he didn’t even try to get better. Seems like he just drank more. And Grandpa used her as a pawn to make him worse. Now everything is howling and freezing and stinging like she’s standing outside in a blizzard. Wearing only a push-up bra and thong.
She’s got to get out of here.
“Be right back,” she says, but Moony doesn’t even acknowledge her departure this time.
She heads for the bar, but zigzags through two new rooms before finding herself in a long corridor lined with oversized oil paintings. AMERICAN ARTISTS reads
a plaque. Gentle applause from the reading sounds in the distance. She paces the length of it hoping for an exit. She can’t leave Moony here, but she desperately needs to get outside. She can’t breathe.
A cigarette will help.
A man in a dark suit strolls in with two glasses of bubbly and two cigarettes dangling between his fingers.
“Summer,” he says.
It’s Kurt.
EIGHTEEN
“What are you doing here?” Summer asks.
“I was invited.”
“You know the ambassador?”
“Yeah. Great guy.”
“You can’t smoke inside. And I—I think it’s strange that you’re here.” He looks fantastic in that suit—and more like twenty-something than her age—but she cannot talk to him right now.
“It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” he says, holding out a glass for her. His red tie features mini martini glasses and tiny cigars. “Although in my case, it really is.”
He seems downright delighted, in fact, his face lit up like someone just gifted him a pony. “Oh, for chrissakes.” She takes the champagne and drinks. He holds out the second cigarette so she takes it, too.
“Want to catch a movie?” he asks. “If we leave right now, we can make a seven o’clock show.”
“No, I don’t. I’m here with someone else.” She takes a deep drag. “You sure get around.”
He shrugs.
“So, do you work full-time? How old are you anyway? Did you already go to college?”
“Yes, old enough, and I’ve been to many schools.”
“You and me both.”
A suited security guy with shades and a squiggly wire behind his ear appears.
He says sadly, “Miss Barnes.” She doesn’t recognize him, and he doesn’t even look at Kurt who is suddenly interested in a John Singer Sargent portrait of a nineteenth-century ambassador’s wife farther down the gallery. A tiny part of her is glad this guy showed up.
“Absolutely no smoking in here. Would you please take it outside?” asks security. He points in the appropriate direction.
“What about him?” Summer demands, thumbing at Kurt.
“Excuse me?”
She turns. Kurt’s gone, slick as oil.
“Fine.” She stomps to the nearest door, grabs the handle and shakes. It’s locked.
“Miss Barnes? To your left.” He gestures. “Your other left.”
* * *
Outside in the courtyard, she smokes, chugs what’s left in her flask and paces. She cannot go back into the salon and sit still. The icy black weight of something terrible that’s going to happen is getting heavier and closer. It’s like she’s held it off for a long time, but now there’s nothing she can do to get out of its way.
Finally, people amble out. It’s over. Summer scans the crowd to find Moony, and to avoid Kurt. Moony limps out late looking sullen. She waves in relief and falls in step beside him.
“Thought you took off,” he says, not looking at her.
“I—I just came out here, and … smoked.”
“He was good,” Moony says coolly.
“I—” She wants to explain how she couldn’t stay in there anymore. That she feels unhinged—loose and lost as a polar bear pup drifting on an ice floe. She didn’t know Grandpa stripped Dad of his part of the company. And gave it to her. Of course Dad knew.
She’s been trying to get it all to blow away. Freeze and float off in the frigid air! But it won’t.
She can’t get into all this with Moony of course, but she could tell him about Kurt. How he keeps showing up. She was wrong before about being able to take care of herself and that it’s not anyone’s business.
But Moony is grim faced, and limping ahead of her, not waiting. She embarrassed him, left him alone, and there are plenty of other reasons, too. He doesn’t want to talk to her at all. He hates her.
“He was Big Bird in a turtleneck,” she mutters. “And his poetry sucks.”
Moony climbs on a bus, and she hails a taxi. Her only friend and she’s doing it again.
NINETEEN
The next day Summer does not go to school or even get up. When Ouaiba taps on her door midmorning, she calls from her bed, “Je suis malade.” She does feel sick, flu-ish, and a day off to rest is a solid idea.
At midday when she reawakens, she rethinks her decision. These are the kinds of choices that have not paid off well in the past. Cutting classes. Staying in her room. She feels ill, but it’s a freaking hangover, not a virus. She can still salvage this. Just go late, turn in her paper, get her assignments. Apologize. Do her work. Try again tomorrow. Stop being a chicken liver.
James Brown sings in her head, Get up offa that thing! Beat, beat. And dance ’til you feel better.
Get up offa that thing! Beat, beat. And try to relieve that pressure.
She can get back on track. The only thing she needs to worry about is getting a high school diploma. Forget all these ridiculous male distractions or getting anywhere near their hands. Holding hands. What was she thinking?
Just. Do. Homework.
* * *
She walks to Place Victor-Hugo to get a taxi. She forgot to eat and her stomach is unhappy. She used to live to eat. Now she can hardly remember to.
A high-tech ice cream shop, walled inside and out with polished black marble, looks inviting. Some chocolate ice cream might hit the spot. She’ll order one to go and then hail a cab.
She just turned in the history paper online that was due this morning, but needs to talk to the teacher about some extra credit or something. The paper is not her best effort, but it’s done. Now she needs to show her face in her other classes. If only going there didn’t feel like scaling Mt. Everest.
In the queue, she thinks about Moony and what she’ll say to him. She will see him, because she will find him. And apologize for being so flaky last night. She must.
Although he’ll probably roll his off-kilter eyes and walk away.
She sighs. Wise move.
A whiff of stale cologne, old beer, and cigarettes makes her turn. Kurt stands too close behind her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, white teeth gleaming.
“Ohmigod,” she says. Part of her is horrified, part is thrilled. Her knees are weak. He takes her arm. That same warm iciness spreads from his touch.
“Let go!” she blurts out. People turn around and stare at her. He lets go, but looks hurt. Now she feels like an idiot. She’s too touchy. No, she’s not used to people touching her.
He speaks quietly. “I had an appointment on rue Copernic and saw you come in here. I thought a little ice cream might hit the spot.”
She blinks. That’s what she thought.
“What kind of appointment?”
“Business.”
“You’re following me.”
His eyes widen in alarm. “Honestly, I’m not. I did follow you in here, but I thought you were following me at Les Puces. Maybe great minds think alike.”
“Um. Sure.”
“Will you at least sit down with me for a moment? To eat your ice cream?” His voice is bedroom low.
She doesn’t answer. His pupils are oversized. Dilated. That means you’re looking at something you like, right? Or you’re high.
Or brain damaged.
“I’m such nice company. And you are—besides heart-stoppingly gorgeous—spunky and charming.”
She snorts. There’s no getting rid of him. Besides, no one has ever called her charming before. Certainly not gorgeous.
Or spunky, for that matter. “Okay, okay.”
He sits at one of the small tables and she orders two single Belgian chocolate ice creams in a cup. She could bolt, and go to school like she planned. But honestly, what’s the point? She’s already late, another half hour won’t make much difference. Besides, he’s watching her from across the room, smiling, godlike. He’s muscular, lean, and somehow tanned. Maybe from skiing or a recent weekend closer to the equator. His face is ba
lanced perfectly between rugged and pretty-boy. He’s wearing a satiny blue oxford shirt—that she’d like to run her fingers across—under a jacket and jeans. He absently pulls his hand through his unruly mane of hair.
She wonders why no one else is staring at him, wondering which celebrity he is. Probably because they’re too cool in this neighborhood. People either seem to look right through him, or stare at him in alarm.
“Thanks,” he says as she sits down across from him. “I’ll get it next time.”
He leans over the table and x-rays her with his eyes as he takes a bite of the rich dark ice cream. Then he holds the spoon in his lips and closes his eyes. She can’t help staring. “Mmmm. Orgasmic,” he murmurs.
She pokes her spoon in her cup then puts it, ice cream–smeared, into her mouth and sucks. Her blood is humming too fast through her veins now to eat. She wants to sit in his lap and kiss him. At least. She knows almost nothing about him but imagines her tongue tracing his cheek, down his throat to that smooth hollow—
“What’s up with the crippled guy?” he demands severely.
“Huh?” She’s snapped from her fantasy. “I—he’s my friend.”
“I don’t think so.” Now he laughs. “Not anymore. He’s a waste of your time anyway.”
“What? Look, if I want your take on things, I’ll ask. Anyway, he’s not ‘crippled.’ He’s disabled. And not even.”
“I’m starting to get jealous. You need to pay more attention to your true friends now, like me.” He glances out the window, then gives her another sexy grin. “Hey, the sun’s out and we must make hay.”
“What?” He’s so Jekyll and Hyde–like. The sun isn’t out. And all she can think of is a “roll in the hay.” She’s also dying for a slug from her flask.
“Come with me,” he says, standing. “I’ve got a great idea.”
“I—I can’t. I’ve got to go to sch—somewhere.” How annoying that he assumes he’s a friend. She can’t keep up.
“Nonsense.” He takes her by the elbow and leads her outside. It jolts her, but she follows. “You’ll love this.”
TWENTY
Summer insists on a taxi. En route to the surprise destination, she pulls out her flask and downs several glugs. “Whew. That’s better,” she says. “Thirsty?” She offers it to Kurt.