Pickpocket

by Karen Spafford-Fitz

  “I have to tell him everything,” Henri says, throwing up his hands. “He keeps my old Vespa running—most of the time. Otherwise I would fire him.”

  Marcel rushes back inside moments later. The empty trays clatter as he drops them onto the counter.

  I pull on the mitts. Marcel and I carry trays of hot socca outside. We load them into the drum on top of the trailer.

  Marcel is about to drive away when Henri stops him. “Take my nephew with you,” he says. “Show Jean-Luc the market.”

  Marcel motions for me to get on the scooter behind him, and we take off. The street is getting busier all the time. Marcel sounds the horn when people don’t move out of the way. He slows down when we come to an area with rows of tables near a tall stone wall. The tables are loaded down with fruits and vegetables, pastries and breads, honey, flowers and homemade soaps and lotions.

  “Clara,” Marcel says, turning off the engine. “More for you to sell.”

  An older woman with bright orange hair smiles.

  “Very busy today,” she says. “More tourists arriving every minute.” Then she notices me. “Your helper is…”

  “Jean-Luc, I think.” Marcel shakes his head. “You know Henri. Working too hard to even introduce us.”

  “Hey, I’m Jean-Luc,” I say. “I’m working for Henri this summer.”

  “And you just arrived from Canada, yes?” Clara asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Last night.”

  Marcel opens the drum. He lifts out the trays of hot socca and lines them up on Clara’s table.

  Right away people appear—holding out money. Clara cuts the flatbread into strips and piles them onto pieces of waxed paper for the customers.

  “This is socca?” I ask.

  “Oui,” Clara says. “You have never tried it?”

  “No,” I say.

  Clara cuts a piece of socca for me. She watches while I take a bite. I’ve eaten lots of pancakes, as well as the thinner ones called crêpes. But socca is different from anything I’ve ever eaten. I stuff it into my mouth, savoring its creamy inside and crispy edges.

  “You like it?” Clara asks, even though I’m sure she already knows the answer.

  “Oui!” I say. “Oh my god, it’s so good!”

  Clara laughs. When there’s a break in the crowd, she cuts me some more.

  “We’d better get back.” Marcel grabs the empty socca trays. “Henri will be waiting.”

  Marcel puts the lid back on the drum and fastens it. Soon we’re weaving through the crowds on our way back to the shop.

  Marcel and I do two more trips between Henri’s shop and the market. When we pull up to the shop for the third time, Henri gives a nod.

  Marcel pumps his fist into the air. “Another workday done!” he says.

  Then he seems to notice the frown that has appeared on Henri’s face.

  “I just want to show Jean-Luc around town,” Marcel says. “To make him feel at home.”

  “Fine,” Henri says. “And tomorrow you will start on time. You know we cannot rush making the socca.”

  “Oui.” Marcel nods. “Tomorrow will be a fresh, early day. We will make perfect socca.”

  Henri hands me a key. “The extra key to the apartment,” he says. “You two can leave now. I will lock up.”

  As Marcel and I walk through town, he points out the main courtyards and popular gelato shops. The bustling cafés and patios where people are having drinks with their friends. The famous old churches. The castle on the hill.

  “Have you worked for my uncle for long?” I ask.

  “A year,” Marcel says. “He’s a good boss. But he forgets what it’s like to be young. And to want to enjoy being with friends instead of always working.”

  I nod. Marcel could be talking about my parents.

  Soon we’re back by the market. The square is still busy. But the vendors have mostly shut down.

  Marcel and I pass through the gates at the edge of Old Nice.

  “The Mediterranean.” Marcel points ahead as we cross the road. “The beach is down below. This part of the walkway is called the Promenade des Anglais—the Englishmen’s Walk. People come from all over the world to walk here and enjoy our coast with its sparkling, blue water. And that blue, blue sky.”

  Marcel is right about the seawater and the sky. I take in all that blueness and then look around. People are sunbathing, swimming and splashing at the shore. Others are farther out on paddleboards and kayaks.

  Marcel points to the port. “Cruise ships take people up and down the coast. Monaco and Italy are very close.”

  “Cool,” I say. “Maybe I’ll check them out. But I don’t think I’ll ever figure out Old Nice. All those little streets are confusing.”

  “I will show you.” Marcel checks the time. “This way,” he says as he turns.

  We soon come to a small dress shop. Marcel peers in the front window.

  “Merde!” he says. “I’m late again.”

  “Late for what?” I ask.

  “To see Yasmine,” Marcel says. “She works here.”

  “Oh. Is Yasmine your girlfriend?”

  “No.” Marcel’s face turns a faint red. “But soon, I hope.”

  He takes off his sunglasses and squints into the distance. “There she is! Up ahead!”

  He starts to run down the street. Then he calls back to me, “See you tomorrow, Jean-Luc!”

  With that he disappears into the crowd. I can’t believe Marcel just ditched me! Where the hell am I anyway?

  I’m cursing Marcel under my breath. I don’t want to just stand here like a loser. So even though I have no idea how to get back to Henri’s apartment, I start walking.

  Chapter Four

  These winding little streets make no sense to me. Their names keep changing, even though I haven’t turned any corners. Gallo Street turns into Rossetti Street. Droite Street turns into Gilly Street. I have to dodge around people and motorcycles. I also realize I’m starving.

  I spot a gelato shop up ahead. I only have fifteen euros in my wallet. That was all Maman had when she shoved me on the plane. She said she’d transfer another hundred bucks to me. But it might take a few days before it shows up in my bank account. This is all the money I have until then.

  My stomach gives another rumble. I veer over and join the lineup.

  “Deux boules,” I tell the man behind the gelato counter. Two scoops.

  I’m walking and eating my gelato when I see the gates that lead out of the old city. At least I know where those take me.

  I cross the road to the walkway along the sea. I’m checking out the girls on the beach below—especially the ones sunbathing with no tops on—and I’m about to go down for a closer look. Then I remember all the hours my sister and I used to spend along the waterfront back home.

  Back home. Now I’m not thinking just about my sister. I’m wondering again why Owen and Tate haven’t messaged me. Everyone at this beach is there with friends. They’re laughing and talking and pulling snacks out of baskets and cloth bags. Going there by myself seems like a bad idea.

  I’m turning away from the view when someone bumps into me. I jump, then I step back. I hadn’t seen anyone there at all.

  My first glance tells me this girl is about my age. And she’s really pretty. Totally hot, actually.

  My next glance tells me she’s as surprised as I am. I’m a little awkward when it comes to talking to girls. I never know what to say. But this girl is looking at me with sparkling, dark eyes and a killer smile. It’s time to speak up.

  “Désolé,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Me either,” she says. “I was looking down at the beach.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  Look at her face, Jean-Luc, not her boobs!

  “Um, do you come here very often?” I ask. Then I nearly groan out loud. What a bad pickup line!

  “Sometimes,” she says.

  Okay, at least she answered me. Maybe I didn’t comp
letely blow my chances with her.

  “Are you going this way?” I ask.

  For god’s sake, Jean-Luc. Try that again!

  “I mean, are you walking in my direction?” I ask.

  “For a little while” she says. “I’m going to meet my family.”

  “Cool,” I say. “My name is Jean-Luc, by the way.”

  “Selina,” she says.

  The last part of her name grabs my attention. I gasp.

  “Something is wrong?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s just…your name is a lot like my little sister’s.”

  “Really?” Selina asks.

  “Her name was Lena,” I say. “She died a few years—”

  What the hell has come over me? Why would I tell a total stranger something so heavy and so personal?

  Selina looks back over her shoulder. I’m sure she’d rather talk to anyone but me. God, I’m such a loser! I need to save this situation if I can.

  “Too bad I didn’t bump into you earlier,” I say. “I could have bought you a gelato.” As I say that, I lift up the cup.

  “Maybe next time.” She smiles.

  I like how she said that. Like she wants there to be a next time.

  I can feel my mood shifting. If I can make something happen with Selina, maybe this summer will turn out okay after all.

  We walk for a bit without talking. Then Selina announces, “I’m turning here.”

  “Oh. Well, see you later maybe,” I say.

  “I hope so,” she says. “Have a good evening, Jean-Luc.”

  As she walks away, her blue dress sweeps around her butt and her legs. My eyes travel to her hand, clutching her leather bag.

  Next time I’ll be holding that hand! And from there, who knows?

  I watch until she’s out of sight. Then I turn back the way I came. I find Henri’s street right away. Selina must be my good-luck charm!

  I climb the cool, clammy steps up to Henri’s apartment. I’m digging through my pockets for my key when I realize something. My wallet is missing!

  I check all my pockets, but it’s not there.

  I think back to when I last had it. I took it out to pay the guy at the gelato place. But then I tucked it away in my back pocket. Didn’t I?

  I can’t believe I lost my wallet on my second day here. I’m still checking my pockets as I make my way to my little curtained-off bedroom.

  Then it hits me. I didn’t lose my wallet. Someone stole it! Some jerk must have picked my pocket while I was out walking. I’ve heard thieves usually do that when the person is distracted. And I was totally distracted by the girls on the beach. By one in particular.

  Selina!

  Shit! I bet she stole my wallet. Just when I thought this summer was coming together. Those dreams I had about buying her gelato—and doing other stuff with her too—are all crumbling.

  Then I remember something else. The picture in my wallet. The selfie I took of Lena and me hanging out along the waterfront. I took it just before Lena was diagnosed with leukemia. Back when we thought all the nosebleeds she was getting were no big deal.

  I looked at that picture a lot after Lena died. And now it’s gone. My heart is pounding so fast I can hardly hear Henri snoring in his bedroom. But sleep isn’t going to happen for me. All I can think about is my missing wallet and that missing picture. And about a cute, smiling pickpocket who chatted me up just long enough to trick me.

  Just when I think my life can’t suck any worse, it burns me. Over and over again.

  Chapter Five

  Someone is shaking me awake. What the hell?

  I’m about to tell Papa to knock it off. Then I remember where I am.

  “The socca.” Henri’s face is stern. “We start early today. Both of us.”

  Henri turns and steps back through the curtain. I want to tell him where he can shove his socca. I bite back the words, though, as I pull on some clothes.

  Henri is washing dishes. I think he’s already had breakfast. He pours something from a small white teapot into a cup. The smell of chocolate fills the air.

  “Merci.” I thank him as he hands me the hot chocolate.

  Henri picks up some pastries from a plate. He tucks them into a thin paper sack.

  “For you to eat later,” he says. “While the socca rests.”

  While the socca rests? What the hell does that mean?

  I follow Henri to the street. Only a few people are out this early. Up ahead a dog lifts its leg and takes a leak against the old building. Henri shoos it away, then unlocks the door of Chez Rosa.

  The oven is already filled with pieces of wood. Henri shifts them around before he lights the fire. He fans it until the wood starts to burn.

  Henri grabs a huge mixing bowl and opens a cupboard. A massive bag sits inside. He motions for me to slide it onto the counter.

  “It’s flour?” I ask.

  “Oui,” he says. “But not the wheat flour you use. This is chickpea flour.”

  “You can make flour out of chickpeas?” I ask.

  Henri looks like he’s about to answer me when Marcel skids into the shop.

  “Late again!” Henri glares at him.

  “Sorry,” Marcel says, “but—”

  “No excuses,” Henri says. “I can’t have this. Especially with the Exposition coming up.”

  “But Henri,” Marcel says with a shrug, “that doesn’t happen for weeks.”

  Henri’s jaw tightens. “We must have our routines in place.”

  It seems like this Exposition is a big deal to Henri. Then I remember Maman mentioning that Henri has a big catering event coming up. Maybe that’s what they’re talking about.

  “Go tend the fire, Marcel,” Henri says.

  While the shop heats up even more, I think about Marcel ditching me yesterday for his crush. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have been wandering along the promenade by myself. I’d probably still have my wallet.

  “Pay attention, Jean-Luc,” Henri says.

  Shit! He’s watching more closely than I thought.

  “Add equal amounts of chickpea flour and water.” He measures, then pours them into a large mixing bowl.

  “Here. You stir.” Henri hands me a wooden spoon.

  When I have the flour and the water all mixed, Henri reaches for more ingredients.

  “Next,” he says, “olive oil and salt.”

  I keep stirring while he pours them in.

  “Now we prepare the pans.” Henri pours some olive oil into the first two. Then he hands me the jug of oil. He motions for me to oil the other pans.

  Once I’ve done that, I turn to him. “What now?” I ask.

  “Now the socca needs to rest,” Henri says. “The water must absorb all the flour. So the texture of the socca will be creamy and rich.”

  Henri glances at the oven. “And the fire must be burning lower,” he says. “While we wait, you two can eat. Outside.” He shoos me toward the door.

  I take the pastries Henri gave me earlier. As we pass through the shop, Marcel grabs two metal chairs. He carries them out front.

  We sit down and Marcel gives me a sideways look. “Sorry I left you yesterday,” he says.

  I don’t say anything right away. I’m not sure how pissed off to be with Marcel. I let him sweat while I pull out the pastries.

  I finally turn to talk to him. “Did you ask her out?”

  “Not yet.” Marcel takes the second pastry from the bag. “But next time I will. What did you do after I left?”

  I decide to stick it to him. “I got robbed,” I say. “By a girl on the promenade.”

  “A pickpocket?” Marcel says.

  “Oui. Now my wallet is gone. Stolen.” I’m burning all over again just thinking about it. “That was my only cash,” I say. “It wouldn’t have happened except I got lost. I was an easy target.”

  I hadn’t wanted to admit how helpless I was. But Marcel at least looks ashamed.

  “Too bad,” he says.
/>   Henri calls us back into the shop. I watch him as he pours socca batter into the oiled pans and pops them into the oven.

  “Marcel,” Henri says, “go get the Vespa ready for market.”

  The store is soon filled with a delicious aroma. As soon as Henri pulls the hot trays out of the oven, we start loading them into the drum on the trailer. Just like the day before, I hop on behind Marcel.

  When we get to the market, Clara waves us forward. Customers start lining up right away.

  “I’m sorry about your stolen wallet,” Marcel says once we’ve unloaded the socca. “Why don’t you ask Henri for an advance on your pay?”

  I highly doubt my mom’s grumpy old uncle will go for that. I just shake my head and climb onto the scooter behind him.

  When we get back to the shop, we do it all over again. We help Henri mix the batter. We add more wood to the fire. Then we deliver the next batch to Clara. We keep doing this until the market shuts down in late afternoon.

  Henri is sending Marcel and me away. But first I have to ask him something. I have decided to take Marcel’s advice after all.

  “Henri, could you please give me some of my paycheck a little early?” I’m tripping over the words. I feel like I’m about eight years old.

  Henri hesitates. I wonder how much Maman and Papa told him about the house party at our place.

  “I wouldn’t ask you,” I say, “but I lost my wallet yesterday.”

  Marcel is biting his lip. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m going to rat him out for ditching me.

  Henri reaches into his wallet. He hands me a ten-euro note. “Be more careful with your wallet. There are lots of pickpockets in Old Nice. They look for tourists like you.”

  “I could have used that advice yesterday,” I say, tucking the money away. “But thank you. Merci.”

  Chapter Six

  It’s hard to stay mad at Marcel. He’s super easygoing. I’m also starting to think he might be the only friend I have. I’ve been in Nice for over a week now, and I still haven’t heard from the guys back home.

  Marcel is actually an okay friend. After work we hang out at the beach. We drink a little beer and wine. We watch his friends play beach volleyball. He still ditches me whenever he decides to go see Yasmine. He insists every time that he’s actually going to ask her out on a date. But every day he chickens out.