We came to an altar built into the wall at a turn in the path, and the group stopped to read the words.
“This isn’t French,” Eric said. “I think it’s Latin.”
Eric and Dane had taken two years of Latin in our private school, so our little group waited—surrounded by bones—as they tried to read the inscription. Camille and Marine had wandered around the corner, out of view, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one eager for her to leave us. After the reprimand Thomas had received from her earlier, I was shocked to see him make a beeline for me, leaving a grumpy-looking Mathieu with Julien.
“Are you feeling better about this place?”
I studied his face, sure he was up to some kind of trick, but I only saw friendliness. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. “Won’t you get into trouble for talking to me?”
A sheepish look washed over his face. “Camille . . .”
“Yeah. Camille.”
Her gaze lasered in on me as she rounded the corner. “Did you call me, baby sister?”
Why had I forgotten that stone echoed? I hadn’t exactly been whispering.
“I was just mentioning to Thomas that I saw an amazing resemblance between you and this face right here.” I pointed to a random skull behind me. “Vacant stare, hollow cheeks. Empty head. It’s like the spitting image of you.” The southern drawl I’d picked up in Charleston grew thicker with my insult. Then, like the good Southern girl I’d become, I couldn’t help adding, “Bless your heart.”
Eric stared at me in surprise, but Dane laughed. “Good one, Soph.”
I ignored both of them and walked past her. As soon as I got out of this literal tomb, I wanted to get as far away from Camille and Dane as possible. Camille for obvious reasons and Dane because the guy I’d gotten to know over the last few days was not someone who interested me. The crash and burn of that dream was almost too much to bear when heaped onto the pile of everything else.
The group caught up to me. I caught a glimpse of Thomas, and he gave me a grin of approval. At least someone was on my side. The scowl Mathieu was giving him implied that he certainly wasn’t. And that disappointed me more than I wanted it to.
Julien moved in front of me and turned around, walking backward. “I dare you to touch one of the bones.”
His challenge shocked me. He’d rarely talked to me at all, so where had this come from? But then I caught Camille and Marine out of the corner of my eye, giggling.
I shook my head in disbelief. “No. Why would I touch the bones?”
“To prove you’re not scared.”
“What are we, preschoolers? They’re the bones of dead people. Why would I want to touch them?”
Marine laughed and said something in French to Camille. Sarah looked slightly horrified.
Julien shot a glance to his sister, then back at me. “Touch one, Sophie.” He reached his hand to the top of the dry-stacked heap, his hand hovering over a pile of what looked like arm bones.
Dane laughed. “Do it, Sophie.”
Eric’s hands fisted at his side. “Cut it out, Dane.”
Dane turned to my brother. “What? You yourself said she’s scared of everything. This is her chance to prove herself.”
I turned to stare at Eric in disbelief.
His eyes widened. “Sophie, I didn’t mean it like that. I—”
“Catch!” Julien shouted.
I shrieked in horror. An arm bone was flying in the air, coming straight for me.
CHAPTER Twelve
I BACKED UP, screaming, then bumped into the wall of bones behind me. The bone hit me in the chest, and I screamed again.
“Sophie!” Eric shouted and lunged for me.
A security guard rounded the corner and skidded to a halt, his gaze dropping to the bone at my feet. Then he started a scary tirade.
I watched him in horror, tears prickling my eyes. “What’s he saying?” I asked Eric, trying to keep my rising terror at bay.
“I don’t know. He’s talking too fast.” He sounded worried, and for some reason I felt better knowing he was just as scared as I was.
Camille moved toward the guard, pointing back at me.
“What’s she saying?”
His jaw set. “Nothing good.”
They continued the exchange before Camille spun around and addressed me with the fakest nice smile I’d ever seen. “I explained to the guard that you didn’t realize you couldn’t touch the bones. You picked up one and then dropped it at your feet and screamed. He’s agreed to let you go, but you have to leave right now.” Her smile widened. “He’ll escort you out.”
Eric was furious. “That’s not what hap—”
“This was an accident,” Camille stressed. “They have punishments for intentional misuse of the bones.”
Eric and Camille glared at each other for several seconds, a stepsibling stare-down. Eric backed down first, but he did so with a loud grunt.
“Fine,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go, Sophie.”
“Hey,” Dane said. “We’re not done yet, and you have to take me to see your dad. He’s giving me a tour of his church.”
Eric’s scowl darkened.
“You stay,” I said. “I’m not going to Sainte-Chapelle.” All I wanted was to go back home . . . but I had no home. There was no place I could go in this unfamiliar city that would feel like a refuge.
Eric’s face hardened. “You can’t go on your own.”
His statement only reminded me of what he’d said to Dane, about me being afraid of everything. And while there was undeniably some truth to what he’d said, his words still hurt. “You showed me how to take the train. I can find my way home.”
“Sophie.”
“I don’t want you to come, Eric.” I sounded hateful, but I was still pissed. “Give me the key.”
The guard spoke again, sounding angry.
“Mathieu can go with her,” Camille said, turning her attention toward him. “The paperwork Maman signed is on her desk in an envelope with your name on it. You can pick it up while you’re there.”
Mathieu’s startled gaze landed on me.
“Fine,” I said, reaching my hand out to my brother. “The key. Now.”
Marine snickered as Eric pulled the lanyard over his head and handed it to me. “Sophie, let me come—”
I turned my back and walked toward the guard.
“You better take care of my sister,” Eric sneered, presumably to Mathieu.
But Mathieu didn’t answer. He fell into step behind me as the guard walked in front of us, sending us occasional looks of disapproval. Perhaps he wanted me to look more contrite, but that wasn’t going to happen.
Once he led us to the surface—up a million and a half circular stairs—he lectured both of us in French, then turned around and left.
I pushed out a breath. For someone who rarely got into trouble, I seemed to be finding a lot of it in this city. “Do I want to know what he said?”
His brow lowered. “I hope you hadn’t planned on the catacombs again soon.”
“Not a chance.” I spun around, ready to cross the street to the train station, only to realize we were someplace other than where we went in. I sucked in a breath, trying not to panic.
I had a map.
On one of the days I’d stayed in the apartment, Eric had brought me a paper map with the streets and subway stations. “In case you decide to go somewhere around here while we’re gone. Then you can find your way back.” He’d put a star on the map to pinpoint the location of our apartment.
I dug it out of my bag and opened it up, groaning when I realized it wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped. I had to know where I was to figure out how to get back.
“I can find the nearest Metro stop,” Mathieu said, grimacing at the large map I had unfolded. The middle kept sagging, but I tried to flick it back open.
“You go ahead,” I said in a snotty tone. His attitude in the catacombs had
made it very clear what he thought of me. “I want to find my own way.”
He sucked in a breath and forced patience covered his face. “You have the key, and I have no desire to wait outside of Camille’s apartment building for the two hours it will take you to get back. If you’re even back by then. I’ll just stay with you.”
“Suit yourself.”
Confusion wavered in his eyes and he looked down at his jeans and T-shirt. “Why do I need a suit?”
If I hadn’t been so pissed, I would have laughed. “It’s an American thing. It means do whatever you want.”
“If I was doing whatever I wanted, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“That makes two of us.” He’d made it pretty clear he didn’t like me, so I was surprised that his words hurt so much. Maybe it was because I was still hanging on to the memory of our first two meetings. But that boy no longer existed for me. Camille had made sure of that.
“I just need to figure out where I am,” I muttered to myself. I’d noticed that most of the buildings on street corners were embedded with blue signs indicating the street name and the arrondissement number. The best way to figure this out would be to make my way to a corner.
Mathieu glanced around and took a few steps to the right. Was that supposed to be some kind of hint? I considered going the opposite direction, but why go out of the way just to prove a point? Besides, the direction he was heading in was obviously busier. The sign on the side of the building read Avenue du General Lecleric. I knew the entrance to the catacombs was on General Lecleric. Now, which way did I turn?
Mathieu leaned his shoulder against the building and released an exaggerated sigh.
I looked up the street on the map, then searched for the street—Rue Remy Dumoncel—feeling both shocked and victorious when I found it. Then I looked for the circled M. “Mouton Douvernet,” I said, proud of myself. It was on the 4 line, which was the line we’d taken to get to the entrance of the catacombs. I just had to take it to Saint-Michel station and get on the RER C.
I hated that station.
Mathieu grimaced at my pronunciation. “It’s Moo-tahn Do-vernay,” he said. “The T is silent.”
“That’s stupid,” I said, folding my map and stuffing it back into my bag. “Just about every freaking letter at the end of a word is silent here.”
“And yet millions of French-speaking people have no problem with it. English is full of nonsense words. Why does the word colonel contain no Rs?”
I ignored him and took off in the direction of the Metro station. He fell in step beside me. We walked in silence, and I would have walked past the station if Mathieu hadn’t stopped at a street corner, waiting for the light to change so he could cross to the other side of the street. I tried to make it look like I’d meant to walk a few steps past him before I spun around and stood next to him. A slight grin tugged on the corners of his lips, and my irritation grew.
Butthead.
Thankfully I had my own tickets, so I descended the stairs ahead of him, put my ticket in the machine, grabbed it on the other side, and pushed through the turnstiles. My smugness quickly evaporated. The train went two different ways. Was I going toward Porte de Clignancourt or Marie De Montrouge?
Mathieu started to say something, but I held up my hand. “Stop!” I was set on doing this myself.
His groan didn’t sway me. I studied the map on the wall and determined I needed to go to the Porte de Clignancourt platform. When Mathieu followed, I felt ridiculously proud of myself. Unless he was purposely following me the wrong way to gloat. I considered asking him if I’d been correct, but I decided to just commit to my decision. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my doubt.
The train was crowded when we got on, but I found a seat. Mathieu stood, holding the center pole. Once the train started, I was gratified to see it was going toward Saint-Michel. Now I just had to find the right platform for the RER C.
I went the wrong way once we got off the train, and sure enough, Mathieu didn’t say a word.
“Why didn’t you tell me I was walking in the wrong direction?” I asked as soon as I realized my mistake.
“You insisted you knew where to go.”
I was feeling confident again until we got off the train and emerged onto the street. The Seine was on one side, the hourly cruise ships docked below. A busy street ran parallel to the sidewalk where I stood. I racked my brain, trying to remember the specific instructions to get to the apartment building, wishing I’d written them down. I was terrible with directions at home. Here, I was ten times worse.
Mathieu groaned and muttered something in French before heading toward the intersection to cross the street away from the river. Deciding to call it a win that I’d made it this far, I followed. Once he realized I’d let him take over, he wasted no time in walking the several blocks toward the apartment building, turning down a different street than the one Eric had told me to use.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
He stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to face me. “I’ve known Camille since we were small children. I live six blocks from her. I know where I’m going.”
I supposed I deserved his snotty reply, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. “It was just a question.”
He shook his head, muttering in French as he turned around and continued walking. He stopped outside the front door of the apartment building and waited for me to pull the key out from under my shirt.
I opened both front doors, then led the way upstairs. When I had a little trouble with the lock on the apartment door, Mathieu said, “May I?” sounding irritated.
“Be my guest.” I stepped aside and made a wide sweep with my arm.
He pulled the handle and put his weight into turning the key before he pushed the door open.
Thank God. I wasn’t sure I could spend another minute with him.
I walked past him and tossed my bag onto the floor next to the keyboard, plopping down in the hard-surfaced kitchen chair I’d swapped days ago for the dining room one.
Mathieu’s look of surprise when he saw the keyboard confirmed he was acquainted with the apartment, which meant he knew where to find his mysterious envelope better than I did.
I ripped the headphone jack out of the side, relieved that I didn’t have to wear the headphones. I needed to hear the music, even if the electronic sounds weren’t the same.
I was pissed at Camille. Mathieu. Dane. My brother. But most of all my father. He was the reason I was here. He was the reason I had to play on this stupid keyboard.
I’d spent the last several days working on Warsaw Concerto. I still hadn’t figured out why Miss Lori had given it to me. It had been written by Richard Addinsell for a 1941 movie, Dangerous Moonlight. I liked it because there were parts I could pour my anger into. It wasn’t a terribly difficult piece, but it was tricky, especially with the plastic keyboard. I was only about halfway through with marking all the fingering.
I started to play, making multiple mistakes, but I forged on anyway, needing to exercise my demons rather than focus on technical proficiency. I’d screwed up an arpeggio section and pushed on to the trills, which in fairness I’d only marked the fingering on the night before. But my fingers kept slipping off the slick keys and my irritation grew until I smashed my palms into the keys.
It was only then that I realized Mathieu stood in the living room doorway, holding an envelope. His eyes locked with mine, and my face burned with embarrassment.
“You play,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, although that was quite bad.” It wasn’t a ploy for a compliment. I knew it wasn’t anywhere close to good. I was still working on muscle memory.
“How long have you been working on it?”
“Four days.”
His mouth dropped. “You’ve learned that much of it in four days?’
I blinked in surprise and shrugged. “I’ve been working on it here for the last several days—like hours and
hours—and a couple of days at home before I left. But this stupid keyboard.” I slammed my fingers onto the keys to play a string of arpeggios, then rested my hands in my lap. “My father promised to make sure I had a piano to play if I came here for the summer. This is what I got.”
“The Warsaw Concerto has its difficult parts.” It looked like it pained him to admit it.
My mouth dropped open. “You know it?”
“My mother teaches piano.”
“Oh.” That was surprising. “Do you play?”
“Not well.” A wry grin spread across his face. “Much to her disappointment.”
I looked at the sheet music, trying to focus on the numbers I’d written over the notes to tell me which fingers to play. I wasn’t sure how to handle a non-hostile Mathieu. I liked him a little too much for my own good. “I have a competition in the fall I am supposed to be preparing for. It’s for a scholarship. But now I’m at a disadvantage.” I was rambling, yet I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. “So the only thing I can really do is learn the fingering and hope the rest falls into place after I get home.”
He sucked in a breath and pushed it out as though he were about to perform some Herculean task. “I’m probably going to regret this, but I think I can help you.”
I tensed. Was this some kind of trick? “How?”
He grimaced. “I have a piano. A nice one. You can play it.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You can come tomorrow morning after my mother leaves. My younger brother will be gone until late morning at swim practice, but if you’re still there, he won’t care. You can play for a few hours and be back before Camille and your brother leave for whatever they have planned for the day.”
I gawked at him in disbelief. “What’s the catch?” The thought of hours alone in Mathieu’s apartment made my pulse race a little, and it wasn’t entirely because of his piano.
“No catch, other than you can’t tell Camille.”
One Paris Summer (Blink) Page 9