Pickpocket

by Karen Spafford-Fitz

  Copyright © Karen Spafford-Fitz 2021

  Published in Canada and the United States in 2021 by Orca Book Publishers. orcabook.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Pickpocket / Karen Spafford-Fitz.

  Names: Spafford-Fitz, Karen, 1963– author.

  Series: Orca soundings.

  Description: Series statement: Orca soundings

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 202002738973 | Canadiana (ebook) 202002738981 | ISBN 9781459827981 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459827998 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459828001 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8637.P33 P53 2021 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020939248

  Summary: In this high-interest accessible novel for teen readers, seventeen-year-old Jean-Luc is sent away to live with his uncle in a small town on the coast of France.

  Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the making of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Design by Ella Collier

  Cover photography by Getty Images/Glowimages,

  Getty Images/dangrytsku (front) and

  Shutterstock.com/Krasovski Dmitri (back)

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  24 23 22 21 • 1 2 3 4

  Orca Book Publishers is proud of the hard work our authors do and of the important stories they create. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or did not check it out from a library provider, then the author has not received royalties for this book. The ebook you are reading is licensed for single use only and may not be copied, printed, resold or given away. If you are interested in using this book in a classroom setting, we have digital subscriptions with multi user, simultaneous access to our books, or classroom licenses available for purchase. For more information, please contact digital@orcabook.com.

  ivaluecanadianstories.ca

  To Ken, Anna and Shannon—my dearest travelers in Old Nice and in life.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  I don’t know if it’s morning yet. And I don’t know if I’m waking up or coming to. All I know is whatever I’m lying in smells disgusting!

  Then it hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m lying in puke. It has dried into a gross, smelly crust on the side of my face and in my hair. I think it’s just my puke, but I can’t be sure.

  I feel a stab of pain in my head as I shift on the carpet. I try to open my eyes. Nope—not happening.

  “Catch you later!”

  “See ya, Jean-Luc!”

  I know those voices. My friends Owen and Tate.

  A door slams, and the stabbing in my head intensifies. I pass out again. Next thing I know, someone is shaking my shoulder.

  “Jean-Luc!” It’s my dad.

  I groan and slowly open one eye. I see beer cans, cigarette butts, crushed chips and other crap on the floor all around me.

  I remember now. I told Owen and Tate my parents were going to be away.

  “Let’s have a little year-end party,” Owen had said.

  “Yeah,” Tate had said. “An eleventh-grade blowout.”

  Before long, kids were streaming through the door. The music was pumping. The house was filled with beer kegs and tons of people. As for right now—

  “Lève-toi!” Papa shakes me again. “Get up!”

  I look up to see two people coming downstairs. The guy, Jonah—or maybe it’s Jonas—is with a girl. I wish he’d zipped up his jeans before he left the bedroom. It’s pretty obvious what they were just doing.

  “Great party,” he says. “See you around, Jean-Luc.”

  My dad drops a couple f-bombs. He usually swears in French. I guess he wanted to make sure Jonah/ Jonas understood him too.

  My mom is standing perfectly still—her overnight bag in her hand.

  Papa turns to her. “Go grab the mop and bucket, Marie. And lots of cleaner.”

  Moments later my mom shoves the mop and bucket in front of me. Then a big bottle of pine cleaner.

  “Start cleaning up this mess.” Tears are forming in her eyes.

  I reach for the bucket. Then I’m gagging and spitting out whatever was left in my stomach.

  “Very impressive,” Papa says. “Where are your fine friends now? I’m sure Tate and Otis had a part in trashing our home.”

  “Tate and Owen,” I say.

  “Whatever,” Papa growls. “They’d be here helping you clean up if they were real friends.”

  I can’t let him get away with that. “You don’t know shit about my friends,” I say.

  Papa’s face turns red. “They’re not the great friends you think they are.” He shakes his head. “You used to have nice, respectful friends.”

  He’s talking about Anisha and Colin—my old friends. I needed to switch it up after my sister, Lena, died. But I can’t go there.

  “Use the garden hose to wash out that bucket,” Papa says. “Then start cleaning up all this merde.” All this shit.

  Outside, the backyard spins and the sun stings my eyes. I hose out the bucket. The water is freezing cold. Even so, I lean over and hose off my head too. Every drop of water feels like a razor cutting into my skin.

  I pull out my phone to see if Tate and Owen have texted me. Nothing.

  I take a closer look around the backyard. It’s a mess out here too. I kick the beer cans into a pile. I straighten the table and chairs. I leave the squished flowers and cigarette butts for later.

  I don’t want to talk to Maman and Papa again, but I need to go back inside. Papa is in the kitchen.

  “Do we have any Tylenol?” I ask.

  “Check the shelf,” he says. “The one with the door ripped off.”

  Oh man, he’s right. I step over the cupboard door on the floor and reach for the bottle of pills. I swallow a couple with water. The whole time, my feet are sticking to the floor. I can’t believe how much beer got spilled here last night. I also can’t believe how much beer got drank.

  Papa storms back out to the living room. He’s talking to my mom now.

  “La maison est un désastre!”

  He’s right. The house is definitely a disaster.

  “Don’t say that like it’s my fault!” Maman says. “You know I don’t like those friends of his any more than you do.”

  I clench the glass even tighter.

  “I’m tempted to ring up Anisha and Colin,” Papa says. “The way they ditched Jean-Luc after Lena took sick—”

  Took sick. To hear him talk, you would think she’d had a sore throat, not leukemia. And now Papa wants to call Anisha and Colin? That’s not going to happen!

  “If anyone’s to blame,” Maman says,
“it’s you. You hardly spend any time here. You’ve made zero effort with your family lately.”

  I can’t hear what Papa says next. But Maman storms upstairs. Minutes later I hear a scream from their bedroom.

  Papa races up the stairs. When he comes back down, his face is grim. “Volé,” he says.

  “Stolen?” I ask. “What was stolen?”

  “Your mother’s jewelry. Gone.”

  Oh no. Most of my mother’s jewelry belonged to my grandmother. I often see my mom looking at it with a wistful expression on her face.

  “Jean-Luc”—Papa stabs his finger toward me—“you will pay for everything that got broken or stolen.” He heads back upstairs.

  I pick up a few more plastic cups and food wrappers. I feel like I might be sick again. I need to sleep off this massive hangover.

  I can hear my parents still arguing upstairs. It never used to be like this. But ever since Lena died, they can’t agree on anything.

  Screw this, I decide.

  I flop down onto the couch. When I wake up, Maman and Papa are both standing over me.

  “This can’t go on,” Maman says. “We can’t deal with you constantly getting into trouble.”

  Papa nods. I can hardly believe it. It looks like my parents have finally agreed on something.

  “So we have some news for you,” Maman continues. “You’re going to go work for your great-uncle Henri.”

  What? Who is Henri? I’m trying to make sense of this. “But I don’t even know him!” is all I manage to say.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Maman replied. “He has agreed to hire you to work at his shop for the summer. He has a large catering contract coming up.”

  “And you need the money,” Papa says. “You will need to work all summer to earn enough to pay us back for all the damage.”

  “For the whole summer?” I’m still trying to clear my head. “Wait a minute. Is this the old guy who lives in France? Are you kidding? You’re sending me to France?”

  “Yes. To Nice—in the south, near the Mediterranean Sea,” Maman says. I remember her talking about “Neese” and how she wishes she could go back. “It’s beautiful there. This is a great opportunity. I think you’re getting off lightly.”

  “I just bought your plane ticket online,” Papa adds.

  “You did what?” This is all happening too fast.

  “You leave tomorrow morning.” Maman rolls a suitcase toward me. “Start packing.”

  Chapter Two

  The hangover lasts longer than the flight to Paris. I’m still sleeping it off during the second flight to Nice.

  When the plane lands again, I check my phone. Still nothing from Tate and Owen. Just some messages from Maman.

  When you leave the airport, hop on the bus to Old Nice. Then phone Henri.

  Maman also texts me her uncle’s phone number. I phone him as the bus pulls out.

  “Allô?” The voice is old and gravelly.

  “Hello. Er, allô. C’est moi—Jean-Luc.” It’s me.

  I can’t remember the last time I actually talked on the phone. The old man talks in a low voice, but I catch the name of my stop.

  After about half an hour, I get off the bus and look around. My head clears for a moment. For the first time it starts to sink in that I am somewhere far from home.

  “Jean-Luc?”

  I turn. A man with white hair is standing there with a bike.

  “Oui. Henri?” I ask.

  He nods. “Bonsoir.” Good evening.

  It’s definitely evening. The light is fading here. I’d lost track of time entirely. My brain is still fuzzy and sore.

  Henri motions at me. I follow him as he pushes his bike past a row of shops, then down a number of stone steps.

  “Now we are in Old Nice,” Henri says, sweeping his arm forward.

  The word old seems exactly right. The damp, narrow streets look more like alleys. The whole place feels like a medieval village. All around us, people are bursting out of pubs and restaurants. Delicious food aromas waft through the air.

  It’s a slow walk. The streets are crowded, and I keep having to squeeze over to let motorcycles and scooters get past.

  Suddenly Henri stops and points. “Et voilà. This is my shop,” he says.

  The sign above the door says Chez Rosa. Rosa’s Place. Maman told me Rosa was Henri’s wife. I never met her. She died a few years ago—not long after Lena died.

  “This is where we make the socca,” Henri says.

  “Socca?” I ask.

  Henri nods. “Tomorrow I will tell you all about it.”

  More people and motorcycles stream past us as we keep walking. After only a minute or two, Henri stops again. The heavy wooden door in front of us looks hundreds of years old.

  “My apartment is upstairs.”

  We step inside the main area, and a faint light clicks on. The temperature has dropped a lot from what it was outside. I shiver in my light jacket, then follow Henri up a staircase. The stone steps are worn down in the middle. Every now and then I see a religious statue or a cross embedded in the walls.

  Soon my legs are burning. But Henri is doing these steps like they’re nothing, even though he’s carrying his bike on his shoulder. He must be about seventy, and he’s showing me up!

  Finally Henri stops. He takes out an ancient key and opens a dark wooden door.

  I roll my suitcase inside and look around. Henri’s apartment is about the size of our living room back home. A couch and chair take up most of the main living space. The kitchen is just a small counter, a tiny sink and a set of burners to cook on. The fridge is smaller than my parents’ bar fridge in the basement. I don’t even see an oven. But at least he has a microwave. A table with two chairs is wedged up beside the counter.

  I take another step inside. Now I can see that there’s another room. Henri’s bedroom maybe? And one more door just after it. I really hope it’s a bathroom. And where am I supposed to sleep?

  Henri steps forward and pulls a curtain back. A tiny cot is against the far wall. A small wooden table sits beside it.

  That answers my question. This is my bedroom.

  I wheel my suitcase up against the cot. I drop my backpack on top.

  “You are hungry?” Henri asks.

  “Oui,” I say. I didn’t eat much during the flights.

  Henri pulls a baguette from a cupboard. He takes some cold cuts and cheese from the fridge.

  He motions for me to sit down at the table. I start stuffing my face. I’m down to the last few pieces of meat when it hits me. Maybe Henri hasn’t eaten dinner yet.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Is this for you too?”

  Henri shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to be a talker. That works for me.

  When Henri had opened the cupboard, I saw just two or three plates and bowls. There’s definitely no dishwasher. Once I’ve finished eating, I carry my dishes to the sink and wash them.

  Henri finally speaks. “It’s late,” he says.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Eight o’clock,” he says.

  That’s late? Seriously?

  “We start early to make the socca,” Henri says. “So now, bedtime. After you tell your maman that you have arrived.”

  With a wave, Henri disappears behind the far door. I hear a flush. Thank god. It actually is a bathroom.

  “Early start,” Henri says again when he comes out. Then he goes into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

  I lie on my cot with my eyes wide open. Sleep is the last thing on my mind. But I text my mom to say I’ve arrived safely at Henri’s. Still nothing from Tate and Owen. It’s early afternoon now back at home. They should be around. I wonder what they’re doing.

  Being halfway around the world from my friends totally sucks. I should have put up more of a fight when Maman and Papa said they were sending me here. I have a feeling this is going to be one long, boring summer.

  Chapter Three

  When I wake up, it
takes me a few minutes to remember where I am. In Nice, France. On Henri’s cot.

  I check my phone for messages. Still nothing from my friends. Then I notice the time. Eleven o’clock. Shit!

  I don’t think this is what Henri meant when he said we would start early. I pull on blue jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Henri?” I step out from behind my curtain.

  Just as I suspected, he’s not here. I tuck my phone and wallet into my pocket. Then I race out the apartment door. I only slow down on the stairs to pass an old woman walking up. I can see some tomatoes, a baguette and a paper package in her mesh bag.

  When I get outside, the street is filled with dogs, motorcycles and lots of people. Some are speaking French and English. I don’t recognize the other languages, except for some Arabic. My old friend Anisha used to speak it with her family.

  Henri is outside his shop. He’s craning his neck, looking down the street. Then he sees me.

  “Sorry I’m late, Henri,” I say. “I slept in. Jet lag, I think.”

  Henri nods. “That is okay for your first day,” he says. “But only for your first day.”

  Just then a guy roars up to Chez Rosa on a motorcycle. I take another look at it. It’s actually not a motorcycle. It’s smaller than that. It’s a Vespa—an Italian scooter. It looks about a hundred years old. It’s kind of cool. An open trailer is attached to it, with a large drum fastened inside.

  The driver pulls to a stop and lifts off his helmet. “It broke down!” he says.

  “Again, Marcel?” Henri asks.

  “Oui.” Marcel nods his head. “Right by the market. It took me twenty minutes to get it started again.”

  Henri throws his hands into the air. “Both of you, come load the socca.”

  I follow Henri into the shop. It feels like we just stepped into an oven.

  Sure enough, a stone oven fills the back area. Wood is burning beneath the huge grill. Henri tosses me a set of oven mitts.

  “For carrying the socca.” He points to the round metal dishes filled with some kind of flatbread.

  “Marcel.” Henri turns to him. “Where are the trays from the market?”

  Marcel turns and rushes from the shop.