It’s thirty excruciating minutes of bad acting and cheesy lines before Marcel makes his move. He stretches out his arm, slides his soda into the cup holder, and leans forward.
I hold my breath, gripping the chair arm between us.
He dips his head to his hands.
I shrink into my chair. I don’t understand.
He starts to cry.
An Italian show tune breaks out, covering whatever sound he might be making, and all I have is what I can see: his long, slumped torso shuddering with the light from the screen illuminating his back.
I know what not to do. Instinctively, I know not to put my hand on his back. I don’t rub his shoulder, or commit the unpardonable sin of trying to hug him. I sit. I watch him bounce as sobs shake his frame.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes grind on. The musical Italian voices rain down, but I can’t look up to read the subtitles. I can’t look away from Marcel. The longer he cries, the more uncomfortable my own empathy makes me. I don’t want to identify with Marcel, but if one of my sisters killed herself, the pain might kill me, and right now, watching him cry, it doesn’t matter that he’s a drug-addled douche bag, or that he and Lucien acted like they hated each other. Maybe I should hug him.
Finally, his shoulders go slack. Relief. Almost.
He doesn’t sit back immediately, and I realize the worst of it: we have to suffer through the rest of the movie, say words to each other, maybe even make eye contact. The lights will go back on eventually. I wait for him to turn to me and in some way acknowledge what has just happened, but he doesn’t. He leans back in his chair and watches the rest of the movie.
And so do I.
“This is a dump,” he says, eying my building as he pulls up to the curb.
“Why, thank you.” I struggle with my seat belt and its foreign prongs.
“Need some help with that?”
“No.” I jab and yank for a few more seconds before the lock clicks open, releasing me.
I look at Marcel. Crying makes everyone ugly. Marcel’s face is swollen, sweaty, and red, but he’s not ugly, not quite. His eyes save him. They’re raw and glittering, like polished ice. I could almost reach out and cup his face in my hands. I should tell him how sorry I am.
He hands me the untouched bags of walnuts and apricots. “Take these.”
“Sure.” No need to be shy about free food. “Thanks.”
“We should do this again sometime.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking. “Yeah.”
It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m leaving. Emilio is coming for me. And Marcel will get home and realize that he’s just sobbed and sobbed beside a girl he finds ridiculous, his dead brother’s dress-up doll, and the shame will eat him up.
I reach for the door handle.
“Wait,” he says, thrusting his phone at me. “I need your number.”
I hesitate, take it, and type in my number. If he calls, he’s officially lost his mind. Not in a good way.
I’m back in my closet beneath my scratchy blanket when I realize I can’t ever ask him for the money Lucien owed me for the cemetery sitting, let alone beg him for more. He’ll remember this day and feel used, like his grief has been poached, though I’m not sure why I care. Losing my mind. Not in a good way.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SEVENTEEN
Seven minutes.
I texted Emilio today. Three times. I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s been five days since I’ve heard his voice, and all the bad things that could’ve happened started multiplying and skittering around in my mind like crazed insects, and suddenly I was back in Emilio’s closet staring through that crack, but this time it was my father holding the gun and Emilio cowering by the wall. I had to talk to him.
But now it’s worse. It’s much worse, because I texted him and he didn’t respond, so I texted again, and still nothing, so I texted again, and now I’m lying here staring at the clock, waiting for time to inch forward so I can leave for Soupe au Chocolat. The sun only just set, but Jacques closes early on Sunday, so I can be there all night if I want.
Six minutes.
For sanity’s sake, I remind myself of the things I know. Emilio said it was too dangerous to keep that phone on him, so it must be stashed away somewhere with all my unread texts piling up. He can probably only check it once a day. If that. And if he’s working insane hours for my father, maybe he can’t check it at all.
But reviewing the few things I know doesn’t make me feel better about the things I don’t know. Like, why give me a way to get ahold of him when I can’t really get ahold of him at all? And why did he have that cell phone on him anyway? Who just walks around with a secret cell phone in case they’re going to need one? The questions are like links in a chain—no answers, just another link and another link and another link, until the chain is too heavy and wrapped around me.
Five minutes.
Food-wise, these cinnamon walnuts are the best thing to happen to me in a long time. They’re crunchy and sweet but not cloyingly so, and salty too. My bed has taken on a cinnamon scent and gritty feel, but I don’t care.
I examine the contents of the bag. I’ve managed to ration them out for several days, but today is definitely the end. I eat the final walnut, then hold the bag up to my lips and pour the crumbled spice-roasted dregs into my mouth. More cinnamon in the bed. Whatever.
The food situation is approaching dire. I’ve identified several problems, the first being my lack of cooking skills. Rice is cheap, but I burn it. Every time. I’m good with peanut butter and jelly, but that’s getting old. Pasta is easy enough, but I despise having to horn my way into that greasy kitchen and use the scratched, carcinogen-leaching pots and cabbage-shellacked utensils. Everything I make in there ends up smelling like fish sauce and leaving an oily film in my mouth.
Four minutes.
That leaves eating out. I’ve discovered the great tragedy of purchased food: expensive = delicious, cheap = revolting. I realize that it’s my stupid rich-girl upbringing screwing me over, but I’d still rather buy one tray of high-grade sushi and starve for the rest of the week than eat fourteen 7-Eleven cheese dogs. It’s supposed to be a little warmer tomorrow, so maybe I’ll go sit in my old spot outside the Metro and make some pity change.
At least I have more chocolate bars beneath my bed. Jacques left me another box last time. I was so happy I almost cried.
I miss yesterday, when I still had the chocolate-dipped apricots. Those were harder to hoard, though—fewer of them to begin with. But apricots are a fruit. I may have even absorbed vitamins from them.
Three minutes.
Rent was due three days ago. Nanette’s been nice about a lot of things, but I know this will not be one of them. She doesn’t have the money to cover me. Nobody in this dump does; that’s why we’re all here. The question is how long crotchety Monsieur Cabot will take to remove me, and what I’m supposed to do if it’s before Emilio comes.
Emilio. Maybe he’s reading my texts right now. I pick up the phone, already knowing I haven’t missed a call.
Nothing. Same as last time I checked, four minutes ago.
I wish I’d made him tell me exactly how he was going to get money. Then I’d have something solid to lean my anxiety against. What if Papi or one of my sisters caught him stealing something? I picture Papi’s face, not the face I used to know, but the man I saw from the closet, and shudder. I don’t know.
And if he hurt Emilio, what I would do then? I don’t know that either.
My hand vibrates. Every nerve in my palm sizzles with the tremor, and I’m bringing the phone to my ear, sitting straight up, before that first ring can even end.
“Emilio,” I gasp.
An inch of silence. That’s all it takes for me to realize what I’ve done. Emilio is not the only person who has this number.
&nb
sp; “No.”
Panic courses through me, so hot and electric it’s crippling, and now I can’t speak at all. Marcel, Marcel, Marcel, Marcel. What does Marcel even know? I have to focus. He thinks I only just met Emilio at LaFleur’s show. But now he thinks . . .
“Jane?”
“Marcel. Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Sorry, I didn’t—I’m just—”
“Yeah,” he says.
I take a deep breath and hold it. This is not the end of the world. I only said Emilio. So what? If he asks, I could say Emilio asked me for my number at the LaFleur show, and I didn’t look at the caller display. Or I could say I have a cousin named Emilio. Lame, but he might buy it. I wish he’d say something.
“How are you?” he asks finally.
“Fine.”
“You sound out of breath.”
“Out of breath?” Lola’s knowing voice comes to my head: The best lies are the true ones. She should know. She was a veteran class cutter, curfew breaker, sick-faker—an all-around princess of lies. “The elevator is broken. I just climbed seven flights of stairs.” At least the first half of that is true.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting.”
“Do you want to come try the elevator out yourself?”
“No.”
“You saw my building. It shouldn’t be hard to believe it’s a little run-down on the inside.”
“I never said I didn’t believe you,” he says.
“Fine, then.”
He goes silent again, and I feel bad. That defensive freak-out was definitely uncalled for. “So, how are you?” I ask.
“Um . . .”
Wrong question. Now he’s thinking that I’m thinking about the crying, which I’m not. Or I wasn’t. Now I am.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Actually, I’m hungry. Do you want to eat?”
I glance at the empty cellophane bag beside the cot. Of course I want to eat. I want to eat something expensive and delicious with take-home potential. If it wasn’t Marcel I’d have already said yes, but it is Marcel, and I have no clue why we would go somewhere together again, or why he even called. I’ve already given up on asking him for the money Lucien owes me. Watching him sob his way through that movie made me realize I’m not quite heartless enough to make him feel used right now.
That doesn’t mean I want to be around him, though. Grieving Marcel is still Marcel, just with the attitude and sliminess somewhat repressed. He needs to find a better shoulder to cry on, one belonging to someone who doesn’t have to be heartless. And I really need to play Emilio’s mandolin tonight.
“I know this good Japanese restaurant,” he says. “Do you eat sushi?”
Damn him. “Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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EIGHTEEN
I wait out front in the dark. The entryway is temptingly warm, but I don’t want Marcel seeing the greasy walls, or the crooked plastic plant with only four leaves, or even the permanently wrenched-open elevator. I spend the time staring at Marcel’s number in my phone, promising myself to never mistake that number for Emilio’s again. I should program him in, but I can’t bring myself to put Marcel’s name into my phone when I’m not even allowed to put Emilio’s name in it.
Marcel pulls up, and I get in but not quick enough. I catch him giving the building a lingering, skeptical look. Or maybe the skeptical look is aimed at me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He pulls smoothly back into traffic, and the memory of Lucien’s jerkiness behind the wheel bubbles up unbidden. Accelerator-brake-accelerator-brake. Of all the stupid things to be sentimental about, spastic driving shouldn’t be one of them. I push it away.
I run my palms along the leather, taking in all the things I somehow missed last time. The car is warm and soft, not masculine like the outside, and smooth as skin. And it’s silent. I stare at the console. Surely this thing has a top-of-the-line sound system. I want him to turn on music, but I don’t want to ask, and I’m not going to just reach over and do it myself. Maybe he doesn’t even listen to music—but who doesn’t listen to music?
I glance at him. His lip ring is gone. I’m still a little unnerved by the short hair and clear eyes, so I stare out the window while I work on something to say. I’ve got nothing. The silence is a big fat reminder of the obvious: we don’t know anything about each other. This is weird.
“We might have a bit of a wait,” he says finally. “This place is always busy.”
“Okay.”
“We can wander around, though. There are some cool buildings in the area.”
“Sure.” So Marcel is a respecter of cool buildings. That’s something. Maybe he likes architecture.
The silence forces its way back between us.
“So, how was school this week?” I ask.
“I didn’t go. ‘Bereavement’ is a powerful word.” He changes gears, and the engine hums. “Nobody thought I’d be there anyway. I’ve had some truancy issues this year.”
“Truancy issues.”
“Meaning I don’t go when I don’t feel like it. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
I picture where I should be: Trinity Prep, nestled in the palms of Coconut Grove between the boutiques and the ocean. I can see the terra-cotta roofs roasting under the sun, the sprawling Spanish colonials connected by hibiscus-lined walkways. I should be sitting on the north side of the quad with Drea and Kim, tanning the six inches of thigh between pleated skirt and knee-highs. I should be making fun of Tony and Cameron. Flirting with Diego.
Another twinge of nostalgia pulses through me. I miss those girls and the endless flow of gossip. I miss those guys in their navy blazers and cocky smiles. I had nothing deep with any of them, but I had fun. Fun is something.
I rest my hands on the thighs of my leggings—my cheaper-than-jeans go-to. Who’d have thought I’d ever miss that plaid skirt?
“Let me guess—you have truancy issues of your own,” he says, pulling me back.
I bristle. “I’m nineteen. Why would I still be in high school?”
“I never said high school. Interesting that you immediately thought of high school, though. I assumed secondary education exists in whatever place you said you’re from. Was it Colorado?”
“California.”
“Right. California.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. He’s either trying to goad me into saying too much, or he really believes me and wants to know more. I don’t like either.
“So Californians don’t go to university,” he says. “That makes sense. It’s all Hollywood or Compton.”
“Funny. I just wanted to live in Montreal.”
“Why?”
A whole jumble of weak lies comes to my mind, but they’re all equally unbelievable. I can’t pick. “Seemed like an interesting place,” I offer.
“Yeah, but . . . okay. Whatever.”
The best lies are the true ones. The wisdom of Lola to the rescue again, and twice in one day, too. “And I wanted some space from my family.”
He says nothing, and my insensitivity rings loudly in my ears. Did I really say that to someone who just lost his only brother? I slide my hand under my leg to keep from slapping my forehead and making things even more uncomfortable.
“So you aren’t going to college,” he says.
“I’m going. Just not right now.”
He doesn’t believe me, but I don’t know if I believe me. College has always been a given, but the givens have been torn away. My lens is focused on now—running away from my family, basic survival, finding a way to be with Emilio. There’s nothing else. College is another sacrificed luxury.
“I’m thinking of going back,” he sa
ys, and it takes me a second to understand what he’s talking about.
“What, to school?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I only stopped going to annoy people. I used to sort of like school.”
“Quitting school to annoy people—that’s a little extreme.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly quit. I just stopped going.”
“Right.”
“And they really deserved to be annoyed.”
“Your parents, I’m assuming.”
“And Lucien.” He says the name so casually, for a moment Lucien isn’t dead. He’s in a room somewhere, staring at a canvas and nibbling on the end of his paintbrush with that pretentious smirk on his face.
The illusion dissipates. “Did it work?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, like he still can’t believe it’s short. “I think so. With Lucien, at least.”
“Wait, I thought you both went to boarding school in England.”
“I was only there for two years. I didn’t want to be there without Lucien, so I left when he graduated.”
I wait. He must hear the gap he’s left—he wanted to be with Lucien; he wanted to annoy Lucien—but he doesn’t fill it for me.
“So,” I say, “have you seen much of your friends since . . . all of this?”
“No.” His eyes are cold and fixed on the road ahead. “But they weren’t exactly my friends. Just people I was using to piss off Lucien.”
I must look appalled, because Marcel snorts and says, “Don’t feel too bad for them. They didn’t mind being used.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Friends are overrated. You’re in Montreal alone, I’m assuming.”
“I’m here alone.” I picture them again, the girls in shortened plaid and lip gloss, the boys with sand in their hair and bleached teeth. “I guess I miss my friends. I miss hanging out, not having to worry about anything.”
“And you’re worried now.”
I don’t answer him.
Marcel’s face is less puffy today, less pale, to the point of looking like blood might flow through his veins, as opposed to vodka. Maybe it’s just his profile, but the features are more pointed too.
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