by Jes Drew
“That’s all the story you need to know,” Christopher answers.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Seriously, though,” Oto begins, “did she blink her eyelashes at you or something?”
“What would blinking eyelashes have to do with anything?” Chase asks.
“That wasn’t the case,” Christopher answers, ignoring my cousin.
“Good,” Oto says. “Because if it were, I would be seriously doubting your whole chivalry act.”
“I did it because of chivalry, not despite it.”
“What does chivalry have to do with anything?” Chase asks.
“Obviously, you were not thinking reasonably then,” Oto says, also ignoring him.
“Like you were thinking reasonably when you locked Holly in Joseph’s room and then in that bathroom?”
“Oh, I was thinking very reasonably then.” I can practically hear the grin in Oto’s voice.
“What is between you and her anyway?” Christopher asks.
“What’s between you and Emily?” Oto counters.
“What’s between you and Emily?”
“Why do you guys even care?!” Chase cries, exasperated.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Christopher says, finally answering him.
Chase huffs. “Everyone says that.”
“And for good reason,” Christopher agrees. “You should probably go to sleep.”
“But-”
“We should all get to sleep,” Christopher adds.
The boys fall silent and I try to follow Christopher’s advice, but my body refuses. All night.
Well, at least I don't have to worry about night terrors tonight.
Chapter Eleven
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The townhouse door swings open and Madame Monique stands on the other side, her hair up in curlers.
She blinks blearily at us. “Back so soon? And at this unorthodox hour?”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Christopher answers, scanning the shadows. “But we had no where else to go.”
“No, no, it’s fine. Oh! Look at me chattering while you’re out in that night air. Come in- come in!”
She moves aside and we all trudge in except for Mary-Ann, who I’m carrying.
“Good thing no one has come by,” Madame Monique says. “Just go right on up to your rooms.”
I nod wearily. “Thank you.” Then I follow Grandmother to her room. There, I help a half-asleep Mary-Ann change into her nightgown.
Finally, I trudge up the stairs to my room. Ata is already in bed, so I change in the bathroom. And wash my face. And brush my hair. And my teeth. And floss. And try to feel human again.
At last, I climb into bed. I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.
~~~
When I can’t ignore the sunlight filtering through the blinds any longer, I open my eyes. Lazily, I roll over and check the time.
It’s noon.
I jerk up and scan the room. Ata’s already gone, of course.
Ugh, I better hurry up and get ready. There’s work to be done.
~~~
When I get to the kitchen, only Madame Monique and Grandmother are still there.
Grandmother looks up from her cup of coffee. “Good morning, Emily.”
“Yes,” Madame Monique agrees, “good morning. Your breakfast is at your place.”
Sure enough, there’s a plate heaped with French goodness on my plate. I don’t need to be told twice.
“Where are the others?” I ask as I cut a pastry whose name I’m sure I can’t pronounce into bite-size pieces.
“Your cousins are in Chase’ room playing,” Grandmother answers. “Christopher and Joseph went out to purchase supplies. Ata is in the parlor. I don’t know where her brother is.”
Probably getting into trouble. “Do you know when Christopher and Joseph are coming back?”
“They said they’d be back for lunch. Then those of you going to the party will go purchase disguises, er, costumes.” She glances warily to Madame Monique.
Madame Monique sighs. “I do love a good costume party. I hope you enjoy yourselves.”
I wasn’t planning to, but I say, “I’ll try.”
“No trying,” Madame Monique orders. “You do.”
I smile and nod. Any other girl going to a party with the love of her life (and his best friend) would be tickled pink. Countless girls would love to be in my place. But me? I’m just really, really nervous.
And, okay, maybe just a bit excited.
~~~
“You seem different.”
I glance up from my poor attempt at teaching myself needlework (I thought maybe I could be calm like Ata- but it just fills me with rage and frustration). Oto's leaning against the doorpost, just watching me.
Putting down Chase' second pair of pants that now have more of my blood on them than denim, I cock my head. “What do you mean?”
He studies me for a moment longer before shrugging and stepping inside. “I don't know. Happier? Yet sadder too. Like you know more from both sides of… of...” He frowns, seeming to search his mind for the right word.
“Spectrum?”
“Yes. That.” He cocks his own head at me. “I wish I could fall in love with you.”
I blink. “Pardon?”
“And you wish the same toward me. I can see that you do. Or that you have. Or that you will.” He shrugs. “But we've both already made our decisions, and we're stuck.”
Pursing my lips, I fold my hands together. “Okay, I'm really confused. What on earth are you saying?”
“It would have been easier. We'd have been happy. But I suppose I should let Chris beat me in one way.”
“He beat you in that shampoo race too.”
Oto pauses and considers this before shrugging. “Okay, two ways.”
I try to figure out what I feel about someone knowing my great secret. It's freeing and terrifying all at the same time. “And you- I assume there's a redhead who's stolen your heart?”
He shakes his head as he turns back toward the door. Without so much as glancing back, he answers. “No. She just made sure I had no heart left for anyone else to steal.”
~~~
“Grandmother, you’re in charge while we’re gone,” I say when my fellow party-goers return. And, boy, it’s just wrong to have to say that.
Grandmother nods. “I’ll make sure everyone stays inside.”
After all, there's a lot more chance of us being recognized in Paris than in Milan. “Thank you.” On a whim, I hug her. “I love you.”
She hugs me back. “I love you too. Stay safe.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pull away and turn to my two escorts. “Let’s go shopping.”
~~~
As we stroll down the streets of Paris, I try not to be overly stimulated by all the sights, sounds, and scents around me, which is hard enough. Even harder is trying to find the right stores with all these French signs.
I turn to Christopher. “I don’t know where to go.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find the stores we need.”
I nod. Try to relax. Try to pretend my parents haven't been kidnapped and I'm not on the run and I'm just a girl in the city of lights with the man she loves.
Stealing a side-long glance at Christopher, I sigh. Ugh, with thoughts like these I’m asking for a heartbreak.
I slow my pace to walk with Joseph. “So, do you have everything you need for our great heist? Technologically, I mean.”
Joseph grunts. “I’m ready right now. I don’t need disguises like you guys do. I’m not a fugitive like you.”
I sniff. “I’m not a fugitive.”
A police officer glances our way and I instinctively look away.
“Not a fugitive?” Joseph asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Okay, so maybe I’m a fugitive- but not in the traditional sense.”
“Of course,” Joseph agrees with stressed seriousness. “You're j
ust mentally addled missing persons who may or may not be kidnappers.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that I’m a fugitive you know. I've been framed.”
“Of course it's not your fault. It’s the Masters' fault- those pesky leaders of a secret society that you found on a remote Island.”
I blow a strand of hair out of my eye and then sigh. “First I’m a castaway and now I’m a fugitive. What next?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s rather odd that you seem to be a target for strange occurrences, though.”
“Just one of the many joys of being Emily Rogers.”
“But you got to admit- it’s better than locking yourself in your room to play video games all day.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, I never did that.”
Joseph stares at me. “Never? Well, did you watch TV?”
“Not really.”
“Okay then. What did you do- wait, let me guess: you read.” He rolls his eyes like that's something to be expected, or ashamed of, or possibly both.
I nod.
“Well, then this is definitely better than that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, which books do you like?”
I tick books off with my fingers. “Anything by Jane Austen, and some Bronte works. Oh, and I like Georgette Heyer too.”
Joseph raises his own eyebrow. “So, basically, to please you your adventures have to take place a couple centuries ago?”
“Nah. I just need a gentlemanly suitor.”
For some reason, Joseph starts laughing. Howling really.
Christopher hurries over. “What is it?”
I fold my arms and glare at Joseph. “Your friend has issues.”
Christopher nods like he was already aware of that.
Joseph wipes away a tear. “I’ll tell you later.”
Christopher raises an eyebrow. “All right, then. Anyway, I found us a costume store.”
“Lead the way,” I say, eager to get away from Joseph in case insanity is catching- I'm mentally addled enough already.
Christopher does lead the way, and takes us to a nearby costume shop.
The exterior is quaint and charmingly old-fashioned. However, once I step inside, it feels like I’m in a whole other store. The walls are painted urban black and the floor is carpeted in red. Various black mannequins model products that can be found on open, black shelves with miss-matched heights. A full-body, black-rimmed mirror stands off-center.
A woman with hair the same shade of red as the carpet and black talons hurries over on extremely high heels. “Bonjour.” A torrent of unfamiliar words follow it.
Christopher answers in fluent French.
My jaw drops and I gape at him. I mean, I knew he obviously had a good handle on the language, but this is more than that-
An adjusted mental list of things I love about Christopher:
(1) Not abandoning me on that cruise ship;
(2) Not letting me drown;
(3) Every twilight conversation we ever had;
(4) Always being there;
(5) Always knowing what to do;
(6) Always doing what’s right;
And just to be thorough:
(7) His great hair;
(8) His British accent;
(9) His fluency in the language of love!!!!!
The woman nods at whatever he said and studies us before rushing off, her heels somehow clicking against the carpet.
“What was that all about?” I whisper, leaning toward Christopher and enjoying his proximity way too much.
He just stands straight and tall- great, now I'm noticing how he stands. “I asked her about their wigs and specialty make-up.”
“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Joseph says. “I am not wearing make-up. No way; no how.”
Christopher shakes is head like he knows better.
A moment later, the woman clicks back with a pile of boxes. She opens one and pulls out a blonde wig that Barbie would be proud of. She hands it to me and gestures for me to try it on.
Hesitantly, I do. Then the woman starts tucking stray strands of my boring hair back under the wig with her talons and I see my life flash before my eyes, or at least the lives of my eyes. But I survive and the woman drags me over to a full-body mirror. I follow for fear of retribution.
And find myself staring at the strange blondie with my face. She has bangs. I’ve never had bangs before. Now I know why.
The lady seems to like it though, and nods proudly. Then she drags me back to the boys and asks Christopher something in French.
Christopher nods and answers her in French.
How I wish I studied French instead of Italian (in my defense, Italian guys always seemed more attractive).
The lady opens another box. She pulls out a black wig and hands it to Christopher.
Christopher puts it on rather lop-sided. The woman quickly fixes it.
I gasp inwardly when he turns around. Christopher looks so different without his blonde curls.
I don’t like it.
The lady drags Christopher to the mirror, and he seems just as shocked at his reflection as I was.
“Whoa,” Joseph says. “You look a little like me.”
Christopher touches his face, as if to make sure it’s still his. “Yeah. Not as pale-”
“Hey!”
The lady turns to Joseph and asks him something in French.
“Uh, no thank-you,” Joseph says slowly, backing away. “I’m good.”
The lady shrugs and turns to me. She holds up two containers of makeup. They have French names (don’t they all?), but they’re obviously foundation and blush.
I was never allowed to wear that kind of stuff because my parents like my freckles. I don’t. “Looks good.”
The lady hands me the make-up and then something else. Tortoiseshell glasses.
A mental list of things I do not miss:
(1) That creepy neighbor;
(2) My third grade class;
(3) Junior high;
(4) My reading glasses;
“No thanks,” I say quickly, trying to hand them back.
“You’ll need them,” Christopher answers. “Your eyes are too recognizable.”
“But…but…”
“Emily.”
I sigh and take them. And try not to feel too warm inside that he noticed my eyes. How pathetic can I be?
The lady smiles approvingly and then drags us both to the cash register. She rings us up and the next thing I know, I’m standing on a Paris street with Christopher and Joseph, and we’re all loaded down with bags.
I turn to Christopher. “What next?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I need to rent a tux.”
“A tux?” Joseph says. “Whoa, slow down. Nobody said anything about tuxes.”
“I just did,” Christopher answers. He begins walking.
I follow him, trying not to notice his gate too much, and Joseph follows me, muttering under his breath.
~~~
In another store, another saleslady- this one unnaturally blonde like I'm about to be- sizes me up.
“Too skinny,” she says in broken English. “You’ll need much flounces.”
Thanks.
“Oh!” she cries suddenly. “I know just the dress.”
I glance over to where Christopher and Joseph are talking about tuxedos with a salesman. He won’t be able to hear me. “Not too expensive?” I whisper.
The saleslady shakes her head. “It is on sale.”
I nod. “Good.”
She fetches me a dress and then points me towards a changing room.
I quickly change into the dress. It fits. Then I glance at the mirror.
Silken shoulder straps hold up a simple white top connected to the skirt by a silky belt. The skirt is layer upon layer of creamy white material that falls to my knees.
I look like a wedding cake.
With a sigh, I change back into my clothes and step outside the
changing room. My saleslady is waiting for me.
“It’ll do,” I say.
She gives me an offended look.
“I mean, it’s great!”
The saleslady nods and leads me back to where I left Christopher and Joseph. Both boys are waiting there, holding tuxes. Joseph does not look happy.
When Christopher notices me, he straightens- as if he wasn't his usual ram-rod straight. “Are you ready, ma sardine?”
I nod, my mind already puzzling out what he's called me this time- better not be what it sounds like- and Christopher takes our clothes to the cash register.
“So, Joseph,” I begin as Christopher rents our stuff, “are you happy with your purchases?”
If looks could kill…
Christopher rejoins us. “Do you want to carry a bag, Joseph? I know you don’t like being parted from your new tux.”
If looks could kill…
“Then again,” Christopher adds, “I’d prefer that you didn’t drop the bag off somewhere, so never mind.” Christopher opens the door for us before taking point.
If looks could kill, only Joseph would be returning to Madame Monique’s.
~~~
Over a delicious dinner of some unpronounceable goodness, Madame Monique asks, “Did you find what you needed?”
“Oh, yes,” Christopher answers, carefully cutting his food. “Thank you for the shop advice.”
“No problem. Though, I’d love to see you model your purchases.”
I choke on my water.
“Of course,” Christopher answers.
I cough but nobody seems to notice or care. I'm still sentenced to my cruel and unusual punishment.
After dinner and dessert (at least it was a good last meal), I go to my room and change into my dress. To model. Mary-Ann follows me. As I change, she goes through my other purchases.
“Hey! You’re copying me,” she accuses, holding up the blonde wig.
“I didn’t pick it out,” I answer as I tie my sash.
Mary-Ann holds up the glasses. “I thought you said that you never wanted to wear another pair of glasses again.”
I grit my teeth. “I know.” I run a brush through my hair.