“Order something for me, okay?” Gavin says. I glance back at him. Order for him? Is he serious? He’s taunting me. He’s making fun of me, looking for any chance he can get to make me talk, because he knows I’ll sound stupid. But then I notice the red streaks creeping up his pale cheeks, and I see the sheepish look in his eyes.
“You know I can’t speak French,” Gavin says.
The guy behind the counter clears his throat. I glance into his face. A flash of recognition glints in his eyes. He remembers me. I take a step back. I feel myself withering, shrinking, wanting to run. It’s what I always do. But some day, I have to find my feet, and I have to make them stop walking away.
My mouth feels like it’s filled with sand, like it always is when I have to speak to strangers. But I force myself to open my mouth and speak. The guy waits. I look at a spot above his face, try not to think about how cute he is, and say the words.
“Deux croque-chocolate bananes.” Then, I wilt inside. My words came out about as mushy as cooked bananas.
The young man says, “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, what did you say?” I look into his face. His forehead, like before, is crinkled. I can clearly read the look of annoyance in his eyes.
A tall blonde girl sidles up to the counter and smiles at Andreas and he grins back and moves away from me to stand in front of her. And like always, Rosemary turns into wallpaper.
A few more customers squeeze through tables and chairs and head up to the counter, and I find myself being pushed even farther aside. With a burning face I pull out my borrowed cell phone and type, 2 croque chocolat-bananes. Then I shout, “Pardon!”
Heads swivel in my direction. I elbow my way back to the counter, in front of the cute guy. I look up into the amber eyes and shove the cell phone at his face, a little too close. He jerks his head back, but I stay where I am, holding the phone in front of his wide eyes. Finally, he looks at the screen, glances up at me, then back down at the screen. His lips move as he reads. Then, he smiles. His front teeth are large, and stick out a tiny bit. It takes the edge off the gorgeous factor for me.
Andreas reminds me of a ferret. I start to giggle.
The boy turns to make the sandwiches and I keep giggling. Everyone stares. Some eyes are friendly, some, including the blonde girl’s, are not. What, she has a problem with me? Like mush-mouthed Rosemary is some kind of competition? I laugh harder and a couple of tears run down my face. Gavin gives my back a couple of weak pats, but soon drops his hand. I’m sure he thinks I’ve lost it.
The guy puts our sandwiches on the counter and Gavin pays, saying, “Merci beaucoup,” with the worst American accent possible, actually pronouncing the silent “p” at the end. The beautiful ferret-faced Andreas smiles at us in his rodent way. I grab our sandwiches, still laughing, and we go outside. Gavin takes the warm, fried chocolate-banana sandwich I hand him with a strange look.
“What was that all about?” Gavin asks me.
“Nothing,” I say, still laughing. But it was everything. To me, anyway. I take a bite of my sandwich. It’s even better than I remembered.
“Dang. These are good,” Gavin says around a mouthful of gooey bananas and melted chocolate.
“Mm-hmm,” I say. We eat on a park bench and watch the world go by. And eventually, we finish our food and have to start talking.
“Thanks for ordering for me,” Gavin says. “And, thanks for, well, you know, for kind of saving my life, even though . . .” His voice trails off. More red blotches creep up over his face.
“Even though what?” I say, admittedly enjoying his discomfort.
“Thanks for saving my life, even though I was kind of a jerk.”
He gets that? I have to ask him about it.
“Why?” I say, looking into his face.
“Why what?” Gavin asks me back. His eyes are wide open. He really doesn’t know what I’m asking? I sigh. Everybody always wants me to say more.
“Why did you make fun of me that first day?” I ask, slowly, inwardly cringing at the sounds and syllables that trip over themselves.
“I guess I didn’t really know how to talk to you,” Gavin says. He pauses to wad up the paper from his sandwich and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. “I didn’t want to come here in the first place with my Dad and his new wife. He left my Mom for her, you know that?” he says, his eyes glittering with anger.
Oh. All the times Gavin called her Valerie. Not Mom. His voice took on a razor’s edge whenever he spoke of her. And I was too wrapped up in my own stupid problems to see what was right in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I know,” Gavin says. “Anyway, this trip is . . . well, it’s their honeymoon,” he adds with a cringe. “But Dad insisted that I come so they dragged me along with them, and it was as miserable as I imagined. Then, one day something good happened. We went into a souvenir shop and this hot girl was there, smiling me.”
Hot girl? I feel a pleasant sensation somewhere in the pit of my stomach.
“So I went to talk to her,” Gavin says, “but when she said her name, it came out a little weird. I guess I reacted without thinking. I so did not expect something like that. I thought for a second that you did it on purpose.” He cringes. “Stupid, I know! I should never have made fun of you.”
“No.” I say simply. But I can’t help smiling a little as I say it.
“You did stuff, too, you know. You dumped your drink on my lap, and you made fun of me when I couldn’t speak French, but I kind of figured I deserved it, after the way I treated you. I really tried to get to know you, Rosemary. I wanted to let you know that it doesn’t matter how you talk.”
He reads my incredulous expression and hurries on.
“I’m serious! I’ve never met someone like you before, and I didn’t really know how to talk to you. So, I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry for being a jerk. And yesterday when that old lady accused you of taking her stuff, I figured that I owed it to you to help. I was going to pretend that I was the one taking stuff from that apartment.”
There’s so much I want to say right now. But there’s something else I want to do more. So I do.
Gavin kisses me back. Chocolate and bananas taste way better than bubblegum.
Then we talk for a while. Not about anything important. And we don’t talk a lot, either. I’m still not used to having anyone hear how tangled my words are, other than Jada, Mom, and Zander.
A church bell tolls. It’s late, so I stand up. I still don’t know what to do with my hands, so I shove them in my pockets.
“You’re probably gonna be going home, aren’t you?” Gavin asks, rising to walk with me back to Sylvie’s shop.
“Yeah.” It hurts to say it.
“Will you keep in touch?” he asks. He reaches out for my hand so I let him take it. And then I’m holding hands with a boy for the first time in my life . . . It’s weirdly wonderful and confusing all at the same time.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Gavin writes his number on a gum wrapper and gives it to me.
“I gotta go,” he finally says.
I want to kiss him again but by now we’re in front of the shop. I can’t see anyone inside but I feel someone, somewhere, staring.
Gavin gets it. He kisses me on the cheek. I watch him while he walks away until he’s lost in a swarm of buzzing tourists.
A breeze blows through my short hair, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. I close my eyes and pretend that the currents of cool air are pulling some thoughts out of my brain, scattering them over the Mediterranean, making me forget. And putting other thoughts back inside.
I have to learn to do that. I have to forget about some things. How it feels when someone doesn’t understand me. What it’s like when someone makes fun of me. I have to get over it!
Because there are people like Gavin. People who will be patient enough to
get to know me. And understand me.
Anyway, like Ansel says, I can find different ways of saying what I want to say.
I turn to go inside, ready to face whatever is waiting for me.
Twenty-Eight
The waiting area in the airport smells like expensive perfume. We’re right outside a gift shop. From somewhere inside it, I’d swear I heard the sound of breaking glass. It makes me smile.
Mom and I don’t talk much while we wait. I check out my new phone, and my smile fades.
I have six numbers in my contacts list, now. Gavin. Mom and Zander. Sylvie. Nicole (who finally remembered who I was yesterday). Jada.
I’ve heard nothing from her since I said those horrible words. I’ve called, emailed, texted, tried Twitter. Jada’s silence sticks in my gut and twists itself when I lay awake at night, thinking about it. I know some things aren’t easy to fix. And I’m so afraid this never will be.
Mom has the small painting I made for Jada inside her carry-on bag. I didn’t really do it all myself. Ansel coached me a lot. I have no idea what Jada might think of it. If, that is, she chooses to accept it. It shows Jada and Mitch, together holding hands. They face one another as they get married. Mom hates it. I guess the part she doesn’t like is that Jada and Mitch are both standing up. No wheelchairs in sight. I think Jada will totally be into it, though, if . . .
If she ever sees it.
I have to try one more time. I take out the painting, prop it up against my chair and take a photo of it. I email it to Jada while Mom carefully re-wraps the small canvas and puts it back in her bag.
“Are you sure about this?” Mom asks in a tiny voice. It’s the same thing she’s asked for the past three weeks.
“Yes,” I answer. I’m scared. But I’m sure.
Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s only until Christmas,” she reminds me.
“I know,” I say.
I’m doing a semester abroad. Some classes at my new school in Nice will be in English. Some will be in French. Crazy? Probably. Anyway, I’ll be with other American students studying French. We’ll all slaughter the language together. And in December, I’ll go back to Twin Falls for the rest of the school year. It will be different. Mom quit her job at my school. I’ll be there solo for the first time in my life.
And she promised to remove the lock from the outside of my bedroom door. No more schedule. No Matching Shirt Mondays. I choose my clothes. And my friends. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even start dating. Eventually.
Whenever I think about my plan, I cringe a little on the inside. I was so desperate to escape that I didn’t get how insane it really was.
I’m invited to return to France next summer. Every summer after that, if I want. After all, I’m an artist. At least, I think I am. The lie is becoming something less than a lie, although not yet quite true. Maybe it’s a half-lie? Ansel keeps saying that I was telling the truth because I have an artist’s eyes. Whatever that means.
Mom looks down at her new diamond ring and her eyes fill with even more tears. Zander hands Mom a tissue.
“Change is good,” he says with a smile. I can’t believe what happened. He still wants to marry Mom after everything. After the crazy stuff he found out about my mother, like her total over-protective insanity. After what I almost did to him. He believes in Mom, and he forgave me. Anyway, his eyebrow ring isn’t that bad. I’ll have to get used to it at any rate.
My phone beeps and my heart stops.
Girlfriend. You there?
My fingers barely work. I text as fast as I can.
J! I’m soooo, so sorry! I didn’t mean it! I love you. Please forgive me. Please!!!!!
I type so fast I spell everything wrong. But Jada always understands me.
I don’t breathe while I wait. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty-two.
I like the picture. Beautiful. We’ll talk later. Miss you.
My eyes fill with tears. You can’t ever take back the horrible things you say. They’re always there, hanging in the air between you and the one who was hurt by them. All you can do is hope you will be forgiven. After so many weeks of Jada’s silence, I’d almost stopped hoping.
Sylvie and Émile arrive right as Mom and Zander’s plane is announced. Mom clings to me and I feel her heart pounding. But Zander gently peels her off and I tell her that I love her. That I promise I’ll text and email. Every day. That I’ll stay out of trouble. This time.
And she lets me go.
Palm trees welcome me with gentle waves as we drive by. Warm air flows in through the windows. Sylvie hums softly to herself. Émile points out things as we pass: the old fort, the Promenade des Anglais, rows of blue umbrellas on the beach. As if I haven’t seen them before. And every so often, he repeats a number to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “Two and a half million,” he says, with a funny expression. That’s how much someone paid for Marguerite’s portrait at an auction. Mrs. Thackeray is still haggling with the art museum over the Gauguin. It’s supposed to be worth even more.
Émile and Sylvie smile at each other often. I guess the money Mrs. Thackeray got from selling Marguerite’s painting made her feel generous about the apartments and she didn’t adjust anyone’s rent. She also didn’t hand everything over to her son. He’d have a hard time taking care of it all from prison, anyway. Mrs. T. confided in Sylvie, who confided in me. Apparently her son has anger management issues. Thomas had served some time in England for assault but was on parole. He missed checking in with his “offender manager” while he was busy looking for lost jewels and bullying me. So, he’s back behind bars in England. Jolly good.
Well, the best news of all is that the building is going co-op. After having lived there for so long, Sylvie and Émile will only have to pay a few more years before they own their apartment and the shop.
The studio behind the shop is in disarray. Workers are pounding hammers, painting and even installing a bathroom, complete with a special tub that has a door on the side. Everything is for Ansel. “We can all paint together,” Sylvie says with a twinkling smile.
Soon I’m back in my borrowed bedroom. My bedroom. The hole in the wall is sealed. The door is painted shut. Ansel’s ocean is angry and dark, but I notice for the first time that there’s a glimmer up high near the ceiling, where painted stars peek out from behind the gloom. A bare patch catches my attention. I wonder if Ansel ever planned to fill it in. I hope he won’t mind if I do.
I form the Milky Way in miniature high up on the wall with tiny gold and white dots of paint. Finished, I lie down on the bed to admire my work. It’s not bad. Maybe I do have an artist’s eyes. At least I have my own, unique way of seeing the world. I trace the lines on my palm and remember the day, not long ago, when I broke the bottle and cut myself. In my mind, the sparkling grains of sand swirl like a glittering galaxy on my skin.
Tomorrow I go to a new school in a foreign country where they speak a different language. I can’t even speak my own language that well. I told Mom I was sure this was what I wanted, but . . . is it, really?
My insides quiver. I squeeze my eyes shut and hug myself to keep from shaking. I hate what it’s like when I meet new people. I hate the confused looks. I hate the mockery. And most of all I hate the pity. But Marguerite didn’t let any of that stop her. Google told me.
I smile at my galaxy. Marguerite acted all her life; until her death at the age of ninety-three. She moved to America and kept working. She was even in one of the first “talkies,” or movies with sound. I watched it on YouTube.
Nothing stopped her. I won’t let anything stop me.
And I finally understand something. Maybe what matters the most isn’t how I say anything. What truly matters is what I say.
The painted galaxy glitters above me. Fat Cat purrs at my feet.
I’m still scared. Maybe I always will be, at least a little, but I won’t back down. I can bring it
. After all, I once held a tiny piece of the universe in the palm of my hand.
About the Author
Rebecca Bischoff currently resides in Idaho with her family and works as a speech-language pathologist. She loves helping others, especially kids and teenagers, discover their own unique voices and learn to share who they are with the world. When she isn’t writing she loves to read, spend time with her kids, and make awkward attempts to learn foreign languages. She is drawn to all things both French and Italian, used bookstores, and anything made out of chocolate.
The French Impressionist Page 19