“Photos? Of what?” I blurt.
Jada grunts with the effort it takes to put her words together. “Cactus and rocks and a cool statue.”
“Oh.”
I am a horrible human being. My best friend is lying to my mother. Jada is helping me keep this massive charade going where I pretend to be somewhere I’m not, and she doesn’t even know I’m lying to her, too. I pick at my t-shirt and pull the fabric away from my sticky armpits. Why is it so hot out here? I’m dying!
“It looks like that Cars movie,” Jada says. She’s laughing so much I can hardly catch the synthesized words coming from her laptop.
“What does?” I ask like a total idiot.
“Sedona!” Jada finally says with a loud guffaw, the kind you hear in cartoons but don’t expect from real people. I love her laugh. I am the lowest life form in the universe.
“Thanks,” I add as an afterthought, which I only manage after clearing my throat a few times so Jada can’t hear the tears in my voice. “You know, for sending the pictures.”
“No problem. Mitch says hi,” she adds. Mitch is her boyfriend.
“Hi back,” I say, sighing.
Oh, the fun conversation we’re having.
We chat for a few minutes. I don’t tell her anything. I don’t ask if she read my email. I don’t ask for her advice. Jada does most of the talking. Mitch is visiting from his school and will spend Saturday with her. They’re up late playing Zombie Killers IV. Tomorrow they’ll watch old horror movies, drink chocolate milkshakes, and hold hands all day. Special. We finally say goodbye.
I toss another galet, trying to make it skip like I’ve seen people do on TV, but it plunges into the water with a wet plopping sound. Maybe it only works on lakes. Seagulls screech as they circle overhead, and white sails float over the expanse of turquoise in front of me, like dots on a big blue canvas. The waves make whooshing sounds. The heat makes me feel weak and almost dizzy. My hair feels so heavy. I don’t know why I came here, except maybe because of Émile’s story I had the beach on the brain. Or maybe one day I’ll really hop on a ship and sail away. Where to, I don’t know.
“Why, hello,” a cheerful voice chirps in bubbly Southern English. It belongs to someone I know and don’t really want to hear. Valerie.
I glance up at the woman, wrapped in a pink terrycloth cover-up. Phil follows, puffing and wheezing with beads of sweat on his balding head. Thankfully, I don’t see Gavin.
I stand and brush sand from my jeans.
“Mind if we join you?” Phil says. His smile is fake.
Yes, I do mind. Just keep on walking, hillbillies.
But I shake my head no, because that’s what I do. I pretend. I stay on my feet. Phil places a folding chair on the pebble-filled sand and Valerie sits with a sigh.
“Such rocky beaches, here,” she says, smiling.
Again, I move my head, this time nodding in agreement.
Then silence, except for the whisper of the waves. I scratch at an itchy spot on my head, wondering if I should turn and walk away, but then Valerie speaks.
“Hon,” she says, with that sugary voice I now hate. Phil gazes out at the white dots of sails on the water.
“My niece has a problem, too. Not like yours, but . . . anyway, she stutters. She goes to a speech pathologist,” Valerie announces, proudly, like it’s a mark of honor in your family to need speech therapy.
I stare. How do I respond to that?
Phil clears his throat. Seagulls screech. Waves whoosh. Nobody says anything else for several seconds.
Oh, the fun conversation we’re having.
“Um, I have to go,” I mumble, and immediately feel the blood rush to my face. The words were mush.
“I have a date,” I add in a rush. “Uh, I . . . don’t want to be late.” I’m glad the words came out clear enough, but why did I have to make them rhyme? Who am I, Dr. Seuss? I’m still flushed, partly from the heat but mostly from embarrassment at how stupid I always sound.
“Oh, you have a date? How nice,” Valerie says. The look on Phil’s face is one of mild perplexity. Either he didn’t understand me, or he’s shocked that someone like me could have gotten a date.
I throw them a lame, weak little wave of my hand while I turn to walk away. Valerie and Phil say goodbye with obvious relief in their voices. They won’t be forced to endure a strained, embarrassed attempt at conversation with a girl who chews up all her sounds and spits out big wads of mangled words. My tennis shoes slide around on the galets as I make a non-graceful exit, happy that at least I’m escaping Val and Phil.
Shops blur past as I meander, not in any hurry. When I walk by “La Banane,” a wonderful, sweet smell wafts over and I’m suddenly dying for another grilled banana sandwich.
The tiny place is filled with people. I join the long line. While I wait, I can listen in to what everyone else is saying, and I can practice in my head. I’ll know exactly what to say and how to say it when it’s my turn. The thought gives me just enough courage to stay.
And my words don’t have to be perfect. I listen to some British tourists laugh as they try to order in French. The woman behind the counter laughs with them, but she’s kind. She helps them and gives them their sandwiches.
I can do this.
I say the words to myself, chewing them, tasting them. I feel my tongue move, forming silent sounds, over and over. And before I know it, it’s my turn, and I look up at the woman behind the counter and open my mouth to speak, but before I do she turns and calls out, “Andreas!” She ducks into a doorway behind her. Andreas emerges. He stands before the cash register, looks at me, and waits.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first, probably because of the boy’s eyes. They are melted amber, surrounded by a fringe of the longest, blackest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on anyone, girl or guy. He has high cheekbones, honey-colored skin, glossy, dark hair. He says something and I stare at his mouth. I even think his lips are beautiful. And I don’t remember what I want.
He raises his perfectly shaped brows above his gorgeous eyes. “What do you want?”
“Uh, I—” I start to say. I panic. I swallow nervously, while the young man taps his fingers on the counter in front of him, and I can tell he’s getting impatient. So are the people behind me.
“Croque banane!” I blurt. I skipped a word. “Chocolat!” I practically scream.
My words didn’t sound like French, or English, or any other language I recognize.
Andreas looks down at me. His forehead is wrinkled with confusion. He asks me to repeat myself. I try to speak, but can’t. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
Before I can think of what to do, a man behind me shouts out something and shoves his arm past me. Andreas turns and takes a sandwich from the case beside him, hands it to the man and takes his money. I step back, shocked.
But my mouth is still glued shut. And then a woman orders something, and Andreas helps her. And then he helps another person, and another, and another. Gradually, I’m pushed aside and away from the counter. Andreas doesn’t even look at me. Not once. I feel burning, stinging blood flood my face. I shove my way outside.
He didn’t understand me. Why did I think life would be any different for me in France? It doesn’t matter if I speak English, or French, or Swahili, or Pig Latin. I’ll never be able to say anything correctly. I’ll always be a freak.
Fourteen
J. You there?
She doesn’t answer. I just wanted to hear her voice. I wasn’t about to tell her what happened. I know what she’d say.
Hashtag so not impressed. Or Hashtag bring it, girl!
Jada, a major Twitter fan, started using that stupid word “hashtag” before practically every other sentence last year. She thinks it’s funny. I did at first, until this guy named Crey Lewis started using it every time he saw me in
the halls between classes.
Hashtag Mama’s girl walking.
Hashtag mutation at four o’clock.
Hashtag Silent Hill.
I didn’t get that one until Jada showed me a picture of a girl with no mouth. She understood the reference because her mother doesn’t control what video games she plays like mine does.
That last comment bothered me more than the others, because it’s true. I’m the girl with no voice.
I’m actually hungry now. I try to ignore my stomach, but I can’t. So, instead, I sit and feel sorry for myself. Apparently, the only way I’ll get food is if someone mistakes me for a garbage can and tosses their leftovers in my direction.
After I finish my pity party, I try to figure out what happened. I’m mortified by what went on at the sandwich shop. Why didn’t I stand up for myself? What was I afraid of?
Two old men on a nearby bench toss crumbs to tiny swallows that hop and peck without fear at their feet. One even flutters up to land on the outstretched palm of one man, who twitters and chirps to the bird, like he’s talking to it. Then, the man glances up and catches my eye. His eyes crinkle as he smiles and he speaks. I catch a few words, something about lunch time, but look away quickly and shake my head like I understood nothing when I really did.
I know what I’m afraid of. That fear is always with me. I’m scared I’ll get the funny looks and the sideways glances. I don’t want to see the faces wrinkled in confusion, the annoyance, the impatience, or the expressions of dawning comprehension when people learn that I can’t speak correctly.
Hashtag hate being me.
More and more people head out to enjoy the sunshine, and I walk aimlessly among them. My stomach growls again when I pass a little outdoor food stand. I recognize socca, a thin kind of pancake made from chickpeas that Nice is famous for. I practically drool. The seller, an older stocky man whose square body is covered with a greasy apron, looks up and catches my eye. He grins a jack o’lantern smile and says, “Deux euros,” holding up two fingers.
It’s easy to buy stuff when you don’t have to talk.
I should have thought of that in the sandwich shop. Just point to something.
I hand the man my money, and he hands me the socca. It’s salty, has a nutty flavor, and it’s hot. I inhale it right there by the stand, and buy another by wordlessly handing the man two more euros. I munch as I walk. With food in my belly, my mood lifts just enough that I’m ready to go back to Sylvie and my self portrait.
Then, something in a shop window hits my eyes and I freeze. It’s the portrait Mrs. Thackeray was showing Sylvie earlier this morning, on display behind the glass. The shop is the kind with bars on the door. Something prickles in my brain. I hadn’t caught everything that was said this morning, but I do remember hearing Mrs. Thackeray say that she wasn’t going to sell this painting right away. And yet, only hours later, that very portrait is on sale in some snooty shop. I chew my socca without tasting it. Mrs. T. and her son didn’t come for advice. They showed up with only one thing in mind: to give me their warning.
The painted woman beams at me from behind the glass. Her dark hair curls around her ears and neck, and her eyes shine, like she’s been laughing at something. I wonder . . . Could she be the woman who lived in the dusty apartment? Marguerite from the letters, the one with the “weak” words?
A dark form appears on the glass and floats up like a ghost to fill the space of the shop window. It’s Mrs. Thackeray’s son, Thomas. Our eyes meet. His are not friendly.
I turn and speed walk down the street, wanting to put distance between myself and the shop as fast as I can.
The shop door slams into the side of the building as Thomas flings it open. Then, his familiar gruff voice shouts, “Hey!”
I walk faster.
“You, there! Kid! Wait up!”
Yeah, right.
I pass a little alley and duck in there, but it’s a dead end, so I pivot and come back out again. He’s closing the distance between us quickly.
“Hey! Stop!” he yells.
I worm myself into a group of Italian-speaking teenage girls. They exclaim in surprise as I try to disappear among them, but I can’t shake this guy. Thomas plows through the group like a big British bowling ball, knocking the girls aside, and he grabs me by my braid.
“Let go!” I scream. Terror shoots through me.
“We need to talk, girlie,” Thomas growls. The Italian girls yell angry words at him, but he pays them no attention. He lets go of my hair but grips my arm and yanks me over to the side of the street. I drop my socca.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but you stay out of that apartment,” the man says, grating the words out with his face only inches from mine. His eyes are bloodshot, and his breath is sour.
I’m so terrified I can’t say anything. I try to pull away, but his grip is too tight. My arm is nearly numb, but then Thomas stumbles back and lets go.
“Ow!” he shouts.
Two of the Italian girls are slamming their heavy backpacks into him. Thomas holds his arms over his face in defense. More of their friends join in, shouting in shrill voices as they slug him with purses and tote bags.
A man runs out from a nearby bakery, shouting something in a shrill voice. Then, the girls all talk at once, gesturing and pointing at Thomas, who by this time has gotten away and is hurrying down the street. He glances back, once, and his face is an ugly grimace.
The girls swarm around me. They pat my shoulder, offer me bottles of water, and chatter words I can’t understand. The bakery guy asks me who Thomas was, and I shrug. He stares down the street in the direction Thomas ran, shaking his head in disgust. I don’t get away until we’ve all been given free pastries, little squares of puffy bread with bits of chocolate inside. I’m not hungry anymore, but I take my pastry and smile.
My scalp still aches where Thomas yanked on my braid. I rub my head as I walk home on shaky legs, afraid I’m going to meet his ugly face every time I turn the corner. He lives upstairs from me. What am I going to do? My brain buzzes with so many confusing thoughts I hardly see where I’m going. I collapse onto a bench and stare at discarded candy wrappers and bits of newspaper and string that litter the gutter. I add my pastry to the pile. And then, I let my hopes hurtle toward the ground.
I can’t do this. Why did I think it was a good idea to come here to France? I can’t just pick up and move to another country to ditch my mother and my old life. I’m fifteen, not twenty! How stupid was I to think this had even the slightest chance of working? I sit and watch people walk by. Most of them talk on cell phones or chatter in small groups. It’s so, so easy for everyone. Everyone but me.
After a minute or two, I take a deep breath and grimace. The air around here stinks. It’s like a thousand skunks paraded by and sprayed in unison. When I turn around I discover the source of the stench. I’ve been sitting in front of a beauty salon, and somebody got a perm.
The perm victim is an elderly woman who sits and reads while she waits for the chemicals to fry her hair. Neat rows of tiny pink curlers cover her head. A tall girl, the stylist, sweeps up a pile of dark hair from the floor. I imagine my own hair floating downward until the tiles below are covered with a scattering of black fuzz that piles up higher and higher.
My phone beeps. I get a text.
Hey, sweetie. U there?
I no longer see the scene in front of me. Only myself, silent and staring into the spotted bathroom mirror. Mom is behind me, combing, fussing, yanking, curling, braiding. Adding ribbons or tiny bows with polka dots. Adding flowers. She did my hair every morning, right up until the day I left.
I’m fifteen, not five.
Rosemary?
I have to do this. I won’t ever go back to my old life.
Hashtag Mama’s girl is gone.
The handle of the salon door feels cool to my fingers. M
y heart speeds up. I enter and find myself smiling at the stylist. She has an eyebrow ring and pink streaks in her hair. She smiles back. Maybe I can’t manage my mangled words, but I know how to point to pictures in magazines.
“Rosie! Your hair!” Sylvie gasps when I walk through the front door.
It’s nearly gone. Yes, it is. I run my fingers through my gloriously short hair and grin, feeling weightless, like a cork floating in the ocean. Feeling free.
Sorry, Mom.
I don’t need you to do my hair anymore.
Sorry, Thomas.
Let’s see you try to grab me by my braid now.
Fifteen
Dear Rosemary,
I miss you so much. Please write back soon! It’s dull here without you. Zander takes me out almost every night and keeps me busy, but I think of you every second. Are you still practicing? Don’t forget, thirty minutes a day, at least! Have you made any friends? Remember that I love you to the moon and back.
Mom
I love you, too, Mom. But is it harsh if I say that it’s easier for me to love you now that we’re like, 5,468 miles apart? Maybe. It’s true, though.
Dear Rosemary,
How’s Paris? Sounds like you’re having a blast. I’m proud of you, kid. I knew this would be good for you, or I wouldn’t have helped you pull one over on Darla in such a big way. This is hard for her, so I planned a trip of my own. We’re going to pick you up in August. A vacation in Paris should help her get over the deceit once she learns the truth (I hope). Anyway, I’m buttering her up by taking her out a lot. Glad to hear you liked the Louvre, but don’t forget the Musée D’Orsay. It’s my favorite, and that’s where you’ll find all your Impressionists.
Zander
PS
Don’t forget to contact your Mom every day. She needs to hear from you.
The French Impressionist Page 9