“It is not unusual that girls your age do not get along with their parents,” she finally says, slowly, as though she’s thinking about each word. “Things are difficult between you and your mother?”
My mood rises. She’s given me a starting point.
“Things are bad. Very, very bad,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Sylvie asks, her brow once more puckered.
I measure my words carefully. “She never lets me do anything,” I begin, then instantly regret it. I sound like any teenager, whining about parents who won’t let her go to a concert five hundred miles away or stay out late on a school night. It’s not like that at all.
“She worries about you,” Sylvie says, moving closer, “because she loves you.” She brushes a strand of hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“She worries about me all the time,” I begin, desperate to find the right words. “Morning, noon, and night.”
“She is a mother, ma chère,” Sylvie says. “Even when my Ansel was grown, I thought about him all the time. You never stop loving your baby.” She looks down, and the expression on her face is so sad it hurts me. I close my eyes and turn away. How can I explain that my mother’s love for me isn’t like Sylvie’s love for Ansel? Mom’s love is a kind of prison that I have to escape from. My life has always been one of confinement. Locked doors and bars on windows. Ansel’s life was one of freedom. Sylvie and Émile never tried to keep him wrapped in cotton and tucked carefully away. There’s no lock on the outside of his bedroom door.
Before I can say anything else, the muffled notes of the “Imperial March” play from my back pocket.
Sylvie laughs at this. She finds it funny that I use this song as my Mom’s ringtone. Then, she waits, looking expectantly at me. She even makes a little gesture, prompting me to pick up. Trapped, I answer, remembering to whisper.
“Where are you?” Mom shouts. Her voice is cracked and her breathing ragged. “I called the camp again, but some man answered and he had no idea what I was talking about! He said there’s no such thing as the Red Rock Youth Art Camp! Then, some woman got onto the phone and said that there was an art camp and that you couldn’t come to the phone. Something is going on, Rosemary! Where are you?” she shouts.
“Mom, I—” the words catch in my throat. I look at Sylvie, who now looks back at me with worry etched onto her face. I know she can hear Mom’s screaming. The entire building can probably hear it from my phone.
“I’m outside in the desert, painting,” I splutter.
“DON’T LIE!” Mom screams. “That woman said you were asleep!”
A gentle hand rests on my shoulder, and Sylvie sweeps the phone from my fingers. Icy drops of fear trickle into my stomach. I try to grab the phone back, but Sylvie has already moved out of reach.
“You are, eh, Darla, no?” she begins in her halting, strongly accented English. “Do not worry, Rosemary is well. She is . . . happy here.”
Sylvie winces and holds the phone away from her ear. I can hear everything that Mom shouts. Now she wants to know who Sylvie is, and who that guy was, and why he said there was no art camp, and what is going on? I hold my hand out for my phone; feeling like my heart is twisting inside me, feeling my freedom slipping away.
“I am Sylvie, yes? You know my name, of course,” Sylvie says when Mom finally pauses to take a breath. “We are so glad you let Rosie come to us this summer, we love her!”
I try to snatch the phone away. Sylvie darts out of reach, holding her other hand up in a warning gesture, telling me to wait. I bite my lip and draw blood. I feel like I’m waiting for a bomb to drop.
“Yes, she paints,” Sylvie says. “She learns to paint very well,” she adds, looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. I have to look away. I turn my back and pull random leaves from a lemon tree and shred them, dropping the torn bits over the side of the building. So close. I was so close.
“No, no, Émile,” Sylvie says, as though she’s correcting something Mom said. “Men do not know everything, you know?” Sylvie laughs softly at something Mom says. I no longer hear my mother’s frantic, screaming voice. I remain where I am, back turned, but my hands fall still as I listen.
“Ah, you were worried about your daughter, I understand. I will tell her she must call you more. She must tell you what she is doing.”
I’m still kind of freaked. I’m scared that I’m about to be discovered, but something has changed. I don’t exactly know what’s being said, since I can no longer hear Mom’s long distance screeching, but Sylvie is still calm, speaking softly.
“Of course. Here she is,” Sylvie finally says, handing me the phone. Her face is smooth, unmarred by worry or concern.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says, her voice rough. “It’s only that you’re too young to be this far away from me! Your art teacher sounds nice, and she said you really were out painting. I guess I panicked, honey. You have to be careful, baby! What if you got lost? No one would be able to understand you,” she says, her voice bubbling with tears.
After I move a few more feet away from Sylvie so she won’t hear how strange I sound when I talk, I mumble a few lame answers and fake promises and get Mom to hang up.
I stare at my now silent phone. She hung up? She still thinks I’m in Arizona? I look at Sylvie, who gazes back at me with a softness in her eyes that gives me hope. How much English does she actually understand? Apparently, not much.
Drawing in a shaky breath, I feel strangely elated. As dangerous as it was, the phone call showed Sylvie some of what I was trying to say, better than I ever could have with my own weak, ineffectual words. I look into Sylvie’s dark eyes.
“I believe that I am beginning to understand. As you said, things are, shall we say, difficult with your mother, no?” she says with a tiny smile.
We stay up on the roof, talking long after the sun goes down. Well, Sylvie talks. I still whisper.
I tell her things I’ve never told anyone, though I don’t spill everything. I don’t mention my nightmares about the weird shadowy images or ordinary things that terrify me. Or that I’m locked in at night. I don’t tell her that Zander helped me come up with a fake art camp so I could come here. But I tell her about my mother. How Mom chooses what I wear. How she schedules every second for me. How I’ve only ever had one friend, chosen for me by my mother. How I’ve never been completely alone.
“Never?” Sylvie breathes out.
“Never.”
I can barely read Sylvie’s face in the moonlight as I say this, but I can tell she’s shocked. I give her a moment to let that sink in. If she weren’t here I’d be shouting with joy right about now.
I don’t hate my mother. It’s just that our relationship is . . . I don’t know. I have no words to describe it. Complicated? That doesn’t even begin to describe it. I mean, there’s that whole thing with Mom locking me in my room at night. Jada doesn’t even know about it. Her wheelchair doesn’t fit in the narrow hall that leads to my bedroom, so she’s never seen the lock outside my door. I’ve never told her about it, and I won’t tell Sylvie about it now, because it’s just weird. Like the kind of oddball thing that causes people to call social services. And I’ve never wanted that.
Anyway, I know my mother loves me. She’s only trying to protect me. I don’t want her to get into any trouble. But I don’t want to stay in her world anymore, either.
Lie Number Five: I am going home in September.
Truth: I don’t plan to go home. Ever.
I just want to get away.
And I think it’s going to work.
Eleven
The view from the window in front of me is a brick wall, only inches from the glass. I’m fully under-impressed by the apartment Gavin’s parents rented for the summer. Along with the dismal view, the place is all shiny metal and sharp edges, like something from a sci-fi movie where everything in t
he future is made out of chrome. I hate it, and everything in me wishes I were back in Sylvie and Émile’s happy blue kitchen where there are no English-speaking guys.
I can’t pretend that I’m fascinated by what’s on the other side of the glass, so I turn around and watch Émile try to teach Gavin to speak French.
“Say it again,” Émile says. “Je m’appelle.”
Gavin says, “Jim apple.” At least that’s what it sounds like when it comes from his southern-fried mouth.
In only two seconds, Gavin has revealed how horrid his French is. He can’t even say “my name is” without sounding like an idiot. I try not to smile but I can’t help it. I throw a glance over at his mother, Mrs. French teacher. Two little frown lines are carved between her dark eyebrows. They deepen every time her son murders the French language.
Gavin notices my expression. His face goes blotchy and his eyes seem kind of hurt. I wish I’d hidden my smile. I brush the thought away like it’s an annoying fly. Why should I care about hurting his feelings?
“Real southern barbecue,” Phil calls from the kitchen to the rest of us, all squeezed together as we are in the tiny front room. “Hope y’all are hungry.”
The meal goes well. Meaning, Gavin doesn’t talk to me. As we eat, though, his dark eyes keep turning in my direction. If our eyes meet, he drops his gaze. The shredded pork with spicy sauce is insanely good, but I can’t help wondering when Gavin will pounce. I expect him to do, well, something.
We finish the meal and return to the ugly front room, where the adults have wine and Gavin and I are given lemonade. Valerie turns to me.
“How is your throat, Rosemary?” she asks.
I shrug. I knew I couldn’t keep this laryngitis thing up forever. I was planning to start talking more to Sylvie and Émile. Like, tomorrow.
Sylvie says something about taking me to a doctor, a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me. A little jolt of alarm jabs my stomach. I sip my drink and mentally plan my sudden “recovery.” I’ll wake up in the morning with a voice. It’s way past time. Émile has started to look at me funny every time I whisper.
Valerie grins and speaks to me in English. Her southern accent is all drawling vowels that drip honey. “Oh, I do hope you get your voice back soon. I know Gavin here would love to get to know you better. I could tell he was dying to talk to you.” Her eyes sparkle.
I’d rather shove pins into my eyeballs.
I avoid everyone’s gaze and take another sip of my lemonade.
“It’s so nice that Gavin has someone his age to hang out with,” Valerie adds. She pauses and sips her wine. “Maybe we all can get together more this summer.”
She beams at me and I sort of smirk in her direction. As if. Then Sylvie suggests that we continue to speak French since both Gavin and I are trying to learn.
I adore the woman.
Gavin stares at me for a second or two. His eyes look serious. He leans forward.
“Help me out, okay?” he says in a soft voice. “I don’t understand what they’re saying. Will you translate for me?” He pats the sofa next to him and Émile obligingly slides over to make room for me. “You don’t need to talk loud,” Gavin adds.
He’s wearing this solemn, innocent face, but I don’t buy it. He’s trying to trick me. His Mom likes it, though. Valerie beams at us like we’re just the cutest thing ever, two kids flirting with each other.
Of course, the moment Gavin asks for help, the conversation around us dies. Sylvie, Émile, and Valerie are all staring at me. I finally plop down onto the sofa next to Gavin. I don’t know where to look and can’t figure out what to do with my hands.
“Uh,” I whisper, stalling for a moment. Then, I shrug. I wasn’t actually listening.
“Y’all just keep on talking,” Gavin says.
But Valerie is sweetly certain that I want to flirt with her baby boy. She leans forward from her perch on a little ottoman and whispers in French, “We were talking about going to the Matisse Museum together.” She sits back with a conspiratorial wink.
There’s no way out of this one. They’re all staring at me, waiting. So I turn to Gavin and whisper, “Matisse museum.” The last word trips me up. Three syllables smash themselves together into two.
“Uh, what?” Gavin says, his brows meeting in the middle. He looks uncomfortable, but I’m certain it’s part of his act.
I try again. “The museum,” I repeat. But I’m so nervous the word doesn’t come out any better this time.
Gavin is staring. He blinks a couple of times and his forehead is crinkled. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, “but I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“The Matisse Museum, dear,” Valerie interjects. She throws me a nervous glance, like she can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a look I recognize. I mean, I see it all the time.
What it means is: something is wrong with this girl. She’s not normal.
I don’t dare risk a glance at Sylvie or Émile. What do they think? Do they understand what’s happening?
“Are you all right, hon?” Valerie murmurs. Her face now wears a look I can’t stand. Pity.
“Fine,” I whisper. Why won’t they just keep talking?
Gavin clears his throat. “She said she was fine. So, anyway, I was thinking that I’d like to try wind surfing. I saw someone doing that yesterday and it looked like a lot of fun.”
Valerie ignores him and goes to sit on her little coffee table so that she’s right in front of me. Our knees practically touch.
She reaches out for one of my hands.
“What’s wrong, Rosemary?” she murmurs in her honeyed voice. “It’s okay, sugar. You’re with friends. You can tell us.”
Is she serious? The woman’s face is inches from mine. Her wine left tiny purple stains at the corners of her mouth. Her pretty face isn’t as young as I’d first thought. The lines show through her makeup.
She squeezes my hand. I can’t take it anymore! First, she practically forces her son on me, and then she puts on this drippy, sugary-sweet act of concern for poor little Rosemary? I tear my hand from her grasp and bolt to my feet. My sudden movement throws Valerie off balance and her glass of wine goes flying.
Shouting at the top of my voice, I scream a phrase that I’ve never used before. Oh, I’ve thought it. Many times. But today it flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. And the sounds twist themselves into a million knots as they leave my mouth. I made myself look totally stupid. Worse, I’ve just shown everyone in the room that I’m a liar. Or that a miracle just occurred and cured my laryngitis.
The silence that settles is the squirming, prickly kind. Everybody shifts around in their seats. Something clatters in the kitchen. Sylvie’s dark eyes are enormous. Émile looks sad. Valerie’s mouth hangs open. A dark wine stain spreads over the carpet at her feet.
“She said she was fine, Valerie,” Gavin says, getting to his feet. He walks out of the room and heads down the hall. His voice is angry. “Just leave her alone.”
Sylvie and Émile say it’s time to go. I don’t know what excuses they give. It doesn’t really matter.
We walk in silence. My heart pounds and my lungs want to explode. We pass shops closing for the evening and the ugly red and yellow McDonald’s that’s like a splotch of neon paint in a pastel world. We pass palm trees and fountains and churches. There are teenagers on skateboards, lovers strolling hand in hand, old men playing cards. They all look at me; a scrawny teenage girl with long, dark hair and a face twisted with anger, and I hate them. I hate them because they don’t know what it’s like. They’re all normal.
My French parents murmur goodnight and nothing more when I head to my room.
I don’t stay put, though. Instead, I sneak through my wall and enter the apartment behind it. I don’t know why. I just want to be alone there, breathing in the smell of forgotten
things.
Maybe that will help me forget.
The bedroom draws me the most. I sit at the dressing table and stare at the spotted mirror. The table is covered with combs, brushes, tiny boxes and bottles.
Out of nowhere, I hear my mother’s voice.
You have to try harder, Rosemary.
Rage rips through me. I grab a bottle from the dressing table and throw it against the wall. It shatters beautifully, exploding all over the place, and yellow fluid trickles down the faded wallpaper as a heavy scent fills the faded room. I smirk with a sense of grim satisfaction, but almost as soon as I do, the smile slides off my face.
Sylvie and Émile discovered that something about me is not normal. They’ll treat me differently from now on. That’s one of the main reasons I hate being me. I had hoped, truly hoped, that somehow I could fake it in a new country. I could hide who I was; pretend I was nothing more than some normal girl trying to learn another language. I thought maybe they’d think the way I talked was “cute.” Oh, that’s just Rosemary’s funny American accent. Ha.
The smell of the spilled perfume is choking me. I stand to go, but as I do my hand brushes against something on the table. Among the bottles, combs and boxes is a square bundle of papers, tied with a dark blue ribbon.
I pick them up. They’re letters, yellow and brittle with age. I hold onto them for a moment, put them down, but then pick them up again. Who would miss them?
Back in Ansel’s room, I check them out. The blue ribbon is so old it falls apart when I untie it. The paper feels fragile, and the handwriting is tiny, slanted, and hard to read. It’s almost faded away in some spots. My French isn’t all that good yet, but I try to decipher.
Ma Chère Marguerite,
How I miss you! Your eyes are jewels that gleam in the sunlight! Your lips are like petals of the reddest rose . . .
The French Impressionist Page 7