by Cutter, Leah
Francine remembered the first time she’d been back here as a child. Lights were strung up on poles, circling the chairs. Fireflies had blinked beyond the circle, next to the trees, calling to her.
Uncle Rene had told her that only inside the circle of lights was safe.
Francine believed him: The shadows had danced to their own tune in his garden.
Now, in the soft summer afternoon, Francine still stayed inside the circle of lights. The trees watched them, drowsing in the heat of the day.
Uncle Rene’s pie was as heavenly as any Francine had eaten: The outside was crisp; the inside, soft and tasty. She’d had crawfish pie at the school cafeteria once. She couldn’t believe the academy kids thought it was better than the food she brought for lunches. Uncle Rene’s piecrust melted on her tongue, and the filling was spicy enough that she had to quench it with a swig of cool lemonade.
After they’d both finished their slices and had put the dishes to the side, Uncle Rene finally started to speak.
“I’m sure that in that fancy school of yours they’ve taught you about Louisiana Creoles, right?”
“People descended from the French, Spanish, and slaves who stayed here,” Francine said.
Uncle Rene nodded.
“Very, very simply put, yes. However, it wasn’t just the French, Spanish, African, and American people who got mixed when they came over to the new land. Others came with them. Your mama and I told you stories about the others when you were young—about the elves, the dwarves, the goblins and the fairies. They all came as well, with the French, Spanish, and African people, and mixed with the native spirits already here.”
“What are you saying?” Francine asked, shivering suddenly despite the heat.
“There are other types of Louisiana Creoles,” Uncle Rene said. He looked out across the garden at the trees. There was no wind, and the garden lay quiet and still.
“Those others you saw, they were tall, weren’t they? Dark hair. Couldn’t keep your eyes off ’em.”
Francine nodded slowly.
“And they seemed familiar. Like family.”
“Yes,” Francine said.
“We knew they’d come calling when you were born with their mark. Knew you were like them.”
“Mark?”
“Your birthmark, on your shoulder.”
Francine thought for a moment, taking a sip of cool lemonade.
“The kids at school called it a ’swamp stamp,’“ she said, her feelings about it all mixed up.
“They’re only a little wrong,” Uncle Rene said, staring out across the yard.
“It means you belong here, in these woods. They’re part of you, in your blood. Like they’re in your papa’s.”
“But who are my lost cousins?” Francine said, wanting Uncle Rene to spell it out.
Uncle Rene turned and smiled at Francine, his shark smile, the one he used when he was playing cards in the back room at Slim’s.
“Not who, darling. What.”
“Uncle Rene, are you really saying there’s some kind of other in our family?” Francine asked derisively.
This had been the uncle who’d sworn up and down on a stack of Sundays that there was a half-gator boy just down the road.
Now he was claiming she had Féerie blood in her veins?
“What do you think?” Uncle Rene said, gesturing toward the trees at the far end of the garden. “Can you hear them talking?”
Francine wanted to deny what her uncle was saying. It was hard enough being from the country side of the parish and going to school on the other side. However, Francine couldn’t deny there was something special about these trees. It was why most people were never invited into Uncle Rene’s backyard. The trees didn’t allow it. The kudzu in the corner covered more than just branches and trunks: It gave Francine the impression of a curtain hung over a door.
Something magical and dangerous lived beyond those leaves.
“It’s why your papa had only you,” Uncle Rene said quietly. “Though your mama wanted more children, she agreed to just one. They knew you were mixed. Your papa knew you’d be torn, wanting those woods and something more, like he was. He didn’t want to bring another child into the world only to have her hurt that way.”
“So why doesn’t Papa want me to meet my cousins?” Francine said. “Why did Mama tell me to walk away if they came calling?”
“Do you think those trees are safe?” Uncle Rene challenged.
Francine looked out again, lips pressed together hard as she thought. The trees weren’t cruel, that much she knew. But they weren’t innocent either. They had their own thoughts and deeds; different than the puny humans they towered above.
They fascinated Francine as much as they made her uneasy.
“So my lost cousins—”
“Are just as foreign, frightening, strange, and fascinating as those trees.”
“Huh,” Francine said. She wanted to go take a closer look, but she wasn’t about to leave the safe circle of lights. She knew once she stepped outside and went under those branches, there would be no going back.
“I know that look,” Uncle Rene admonished. “You have their scent now, and you’re curious as a cat with a hot radiator.”
“Yeah,” Francine admitted.
“Will you at least trust me when I say that you’re not ready yet? That you should run when they come calling again? Because they will.”
Slowly, Francine nodded.
“I do trust you. For now,” she added.
“And will you tell me when they do?”
“Maybe,” Francine said slyly. “Depends on what you bribe me with.”
“Cornbread waffles,” Uncle Rene said with a grin. “With bacon, grits, and bread pudding.”
Then he leaned over closer.
“One other thing you should know: If you go with them, you’ll leave all cooking behind.”
Francine turned to stare at Uncle Rene. “Really?”
“Southern gentleman’s word.”
“Then why bother?”
“Exactly,” Uncle Rene said. “We got it good here.”
Despite the rest of her last year of school looming, Francine agreed.
“Yeah, we do.”
* * *
Sniggers greeted Francine as she pushed open the door of the high school. She told herself she was a senior, only a few more months left. The perennial smell of wax and whiteboard markers made her nauseated. She braced herself as she walked around the corner, spying her locker easily.
Someone had “decorated” it for her—purple and gold glitter proudly proclaimed her “Zydeco Queen.”
Francine’s breath suddenly grew short. Darkness edged her vision. She hated this—this torture, this constant reminder of how different she was from the rest of them. She spun and raced for the girl’s bathroom, barely making it to a stall to vomit up her breakfast.
Pale and shaking, Francine finally made her way back to her locker. Her first impulse was to scrub the words off, but she stopped herself. They would just do something worse.
Francine tried to think of how to get revenge. She considered asking her cousins for help. They would come running. Aunt Lavine’s eldest boy had a truck; they could all hitch a ride into the city, then find Billy and put him down, hard. They wouldn’t touch Laura—she was a girl. Francine would have to find some other way of getting to her.
But hurting Billy that way would get her cousins in trouble. And Billy had brothers. Francine didn’t want to start a feud.
As lunch ended, Mrs. Beaumont, Principal Martin’s secretary, came into the cafeteria, calling Francine’s name. Francine hurried over to her, worried that Billy and the others had already escalated their attacks.
“Would you come with me?” Mrs. Beaumont asked Francine, leading her to her locker. Principal Martin stood there, along with Billy, Laura, Karyn, and a few of Billy’s other buddies. They were all looking down or away, anywhere but at Francine as she walked up.
�
�Is this your locker?” Principal Martin asked, his eyes pale and watery behind his thick glasses.
“Yes, sir,” Francine said, drawing herself up, thankful again for her height. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked sternly at the principal, holding herself to hide her fear. Would he blame her for this?
“Did you do this?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask these gentlemen to do it for you?”
Francine gave an unladylike snort.
“No.”
At Mrs. Beaumont’s look, Francine added, “No, sir. Ma’am. I wouldn’t ask these gentleman for a drop of water even if we were standing in the middle of the Mississippi.”
Principal Martin and Mrs. Beaumont exchanged a look.
“I attended some interesting workshops this summer,” the principal said. “While this academy has always had a ’No Bullying’ policy, it hasn’t always been enforced.”
He paused, cleared his throat, staring hard at Billy.
“From now on, this academy has a zero-tolerance policy regarding bullying. Billy McGyvner, you are suspended for the rest of the week.”
“What?”
Billy’s head snapped up and he stared in outrage at the principal.
“Furthermore, if I hear of any more of this behavior, I’ll be advising the staff not to write you any recommendation letters, which will make it difficult, if not impossible, to get into the colleges you’re applying for.”
Francine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this year finally going to be tolerable? Was the staff finally going to do something?
“And you, Francine Guiscard. If I hear of any sort of retaliation, I’ll advise the teachers to do the same. Which means no Louisiana Music College for you.”
Francine gulped, surprised that he knew about the offer or her plans. She nodded.
“In addition, I want you to start seeing the school counselor, Mrs. Delacroix, once a week.”
“What? Why? I’m not crazy,” Francine protested.
Billy sniggered.
“I’m not suggesting you are,” Principal Martin said, glancing at Billy, who abruptly schooled his expression into something more innocent.
“But you’ve been under intolerable stress,” he said to Francine, while still looking at Billy. “It would be good for you to talk with someone. Plus, that way you’ll have a regular dialogue with the staff and an easy avenue for airing grievances.”
Francine barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She knew the stilted phrases came straight from whatever workshop Principal Martin had attended.
She decided she would never tell the counselor anything. She wasn’t a snitch.
Then she glanced at Billy and her heart sank.
Billy’s glare was pure hatred. He was never going to forgive her for this, even though she wasn’t the one who started it, wasn’t the one responsible for his punishment. He was going to make her life hell, even worse than it had been.
And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
* * *
The week dragged on. Francine flinched every time she saw Laura or Karyn, certain they were plotting revenge with Billy. The next week was worse, once Billy returned. His friends all acted like he was a hero and being unjustly punished.
Francine, in return, spent a very uncomfortable thirty minutes with Mrs. Delacroix, replying to all her probing questions with, “yes,” “no,” or “I don’t know.”
The following Friday, Mrs. Beaumont pulled Francine out of her chemistry class. Mama sat in the stiff-backed visitor’s chair in the principal’s office. Principal Martin sat behind his desk, his thin, nervous fingers folded together but still twitching. The lights had been turned off and the shades drawn against the afternoon sunlight.
Francine sat down on the edge of her seat, too scared to sit back. It wasn’t the first time she’d been brought in here, but it was the first time she didn’t know what she’d done.
“You’ve been accused of cheating,” Principal Martin told Francine bluntly.
“I’ve never—”
“That’s what I told him,” Mama interrupted.
“Parents don’t always know what happens at school,” Principal Martin said mildly. He steepled his fingers for a moment, stilling their action.
“Did you know that Francine has been bullied almost every day since she started attending the academy?”
Francine looked down at her feet. The principal was making it sound like she always needed rescuing or something. She gave as good as she got.
“I knew she was fighting—”
“She’s been a victim, and now that the pressure is off, she’s falling into bad habits.”
“I’m doing what?” Francine asked, confused.
“I’ve never cheated. Not once.”
Her grades were good because she worked hard.
“Francine,” Mama warned.
“Whatever the case may be, now you’ve been accused of cheating.” Principal Martin pulled out two papers.
Francine recognized them. They were the first papers required for history that week.
“As you can tell, they’re practically identical.”
One was Francine’s. Joseph, a fellow band member, had written the other. As far as Francine knew, he wasn’t friends with Billy or any of the others.
“I didn’t cheat,” Francine said exasperated. “I don’t know how he copied my paper. But I didn’t cheat.”
“Why isn’t this young man in here?” Mama asked reasonably.
“He turned in his paper before Francine.”
“But he’s in my class!”
“According to Mr. Frazier, he still turned it in before you did.”
“Mama, I didn’t cheat,” Francine said earnestly, facing her mother. “I swear to you, I didn’t.”
“What do we have to do to prove she didn’t?” Mama said, reaching out and taking Francine’s hand.
“Mr. Frazier has assigned you another paper. Due Monday,” Principal Martin said. “If you can produce original work with this one, we’ll assume the other was some type of error.”
“Will you pull Joseph in here and accuse him of cheating if I write you a good paper?” Francine demanded.
“She’ll write you a good paper. I’ll make sure of it,” Mama replied, glaring at Francine.
Francine sat back in her chair, folding her shaking arms over her chest, while Mama and Principal Martin talked about her assignment. She was too angry to pay attention. None of this had been her fault. It was all so unfair. And, as always, she was powerless to do anything about it.
* * *
Francine stared at the red C at the top of her paper. She knew Mr. Frazier would be mean and give her a bad grade, no matter how good a paper she did for him to prove she hadn’t been cheating.
Billy McGyvner had something on Mr. Frazier, and Francine would never find out what.
Joseph, the tall, reed-thin boy who swallowed too much when he was nervous could no longer meet Francine’s eye. He had a new oboe that he showed off in class the next week, much fancier than what his shoes and hand-me-down coat said he could afford.
But that was history. This was English. Francine had always done well in English. She wrote A papers. What she had in her hand was an A paper. Why had Mrs. Anthony given her a C?
Mrs. Anthony continued to hand out papers to students, calling their names alphabetically. Francine could barely hear her through the sound of rushing blood in her head.
Had Billy gotten to Mrs. Anthony as well? Was there no teacher Francine could trust to be fair?
When Mrs. Anthony finished handing out papers, she gave the next assignment. Francine copied it down, word for word, to make sure she didn’t mess up again. The bell rang just as Mrs. Anthony finished, and Francine made her way to the teacher’s desk.
“I don’t understand why you gave me a C on this,” Francine said, anger giving her the courage to just ask.
“It wasn’t up to your us
ual quality,” Mrs. Anthony said gently. “You didn’t form one of your references correctly, your point wasn’t clear in the second paragraph, and your conclusion wasn’t formed accurately.”
Francine just stared at her teacher. Her last paper, which had received an A, had two references incorrectly done and a number of other concerns. She didn’t understand why she was suddenly handing in C-quality work.
“It’s because of Mr. Frazier’s accusations, isn’t it?”
“Now Francine, you know I don’t believe you’d ever cheat. But your work has been slipping.”
The look Mrs. Anthony gave Francine was one of sincere concern. It took Francine only a moment to put it together.
Francine wasn’t slipping. She was doing the same level of work she’d been doing. But because of the accusation of cheating, the other teachers now looked at her differently.
For a moment Francine’s vision wavered. She felt as if she were underwater, everything blurry and moving at slow speed. She was drowning with no way to swim against the current.
“You should go to the nurse,” Francine finally heard as she came back.
“I’m fine,” Francine assured Mrs. Anthony. “No, really,” Francine added when Mrs. Anthony just stared. “And the next paper, you’ll see. It’ll be perfect.”
Mrs. Anthony beamed at her. “If anyone can do it, I know you can.”
Francine walked out of the classroom, barely able to pay attention to where she was going. She didn’t know how she was going to create a perfect paper. She already worked harder than everyone else. But she had to try. Billy and his pals weren’t going to win.
* * *
Mrs. Delacroix’s office smelled like old gardenia perfume. The furniture was all brown and beige, as dull as the rest of the school. The only spot of color was the orange lamp on the side table, seemingly out of place, with a pile of bright parade beads curled up around the base.
The counselor had a pinched mouth and gray eyes the same color as storm clouds. Her voice, though, was gentle, as she asked Francine, “Why are you so hated, child?”
Francine shrugged. That was her standard response to most of Mrs. Delacroix’s questions.