Henri, like always, does a crazy early bedtime. He pays us every Friday. Now that I’ve learned firsthand about pickpockets, I don’t carry much money on me. I’m also enjoying spending time on my own.
Tonight I’m wandering along the promenade. I’m taking in the whole scene. The couples sharing food and drinks. Friends calling out to each other. Tourists stopping to read the signs. Then I see her. The girl who stole my wallet!
Selina is wearing the same blue dress. She’s clutching the same leather purse. How many wallets does she have in there? Mine is probably long gone. Still—
“Arrête-toi!” I shout. Stop!
She looks back over her shoulder. Her face changes when she sees me. Next thing I know, she’s racing across the walkway. I can’t let her get away!
I start chasing her. I’m pumping my arms hard and running as fast as I can. When she veers over into the old town, I do the same.
I’m taking fast, tight breaths while I dodge cyclists and tourists in the market area. I bump into a couple as I shoot past the opera house café. I weave around all the bodies between me and her.
And now Selina is heading toward the trains. But when some people with cameras step in front of her, she has to slow down.
Yes! Just a few more steps and I’ll catch her! I reach out and manage to get hold of her purse.
Selina starts shouting. “Policier!”
“Go ahead and scream for the police!” I say. “You can show them what’s in your purse!”
All around us, people are staring. Selina is tugging on her purse. But I’ve got a good grip on it. And I’m not letting go.
Two police constables burst through the crowd. They’re wearing camo shirts and pants. Handguns are strapped to their waists.
“What’s going on here?” one of the officer asks.
“She stole my wallet.” I gasp out the words. “Last week on the promenade.”
Selina is shaking her head. She looks smaller and younger than the last time I saw her.
“I don’t know what he is talking about,” Selina says. “This man started chasing me when I was going to meet my parents.”
“Where are your parents?” the officer asks.
“At the courtyard. They are having a glass of wine with my auntie.”
“How old are you?” the other officer asks.
“Twelve.”
Twelve? That can’t be!
My mind flashes back to how I was planning to ask her out for gelato. Or to hang out at the beach. I thought she was sixteen or seventeen.
But she’s twelve? That’s the age my sister was when she died.
My whole body turns cold. My hand falls away from her purse.
“Did you steal this man’s wallet?” the first officer asks her.
“No.” Selina opens her purse wide. “I have just a few coins. I don’t even have a wallet of my own,” she says. “Papa says there are too many pickpockets in town.”
The officer nods. “That is true,” he says. When he looks at me, his eyes have hardened.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks. “You were accosting a young person on the street. I need to see your ID.”
“I don’t have any ID,” I say. “My wallet was stolen, remember?”
“Watch your tone. What is your name?” he asks.
“Jean-Luc Dupont. I got here nine days ago from Canada.”
“Are you staying in Nice?”
“Oui. With my uncle,” I say. “I’m working for him at Chez Rosa.”
“I know that socca shop,” the other officer says. “So if I go there next week, I will see you working there?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The officer hesitates. “If you agree, young lady, we will perhaps let the young Canadian off with a warning this time.”
All eyes turn to Selina. She shrinks beneath everyone’s gaze. This is definitely not the vibe she was giving off last week!
“Oui.” Selina nods. “But now I must go meet my parents. They will be worried about me.”
“Of course,” the officer says. “Go straight to your parents.”
Selina closes her purse and hurries off.
The officer turns back to me. “I want no further disturbances from you.”
“D’accord,” I agree with them. I can’t risk getting into more trouble with no one here to back me up.
The officers turn and walk away. I look around, but Selina has disappeared into the crowd. A thought keeps running through my head. Twelve years old. She’s just twelve years old.
That thought makes my stomach churn. It doesn’t help that everyone is still staring at me. I need to get out of here.
I’m turning away when I notice a slip of paper on the ground. It must have fallen from Selina’s purse when she left. I pick it up and have a look. It’s a receipt from a place called Le Petit Monstre. The Little Monster. Maybe that’s a kids’ bookstore or something. I stuff it into my pocket and start walking back to Henri’s apartment.
When I get there, Henri is poring over some papers in front of him.
“Bonsoir, Jean-Luc.” Henri is pulling his little round glasses on and off. “This Exposition,” he says. “So much to plan for.”
“I’m sure you’ve thought of everything,” I say.
“I hope so.” He stands up. “But enough for tonight. I can’t think about this anymore.”
I nod. “I think I’m going to go to bed early too.” I decide not to tell him about my run-in with the police.
Henri is still rattling around on the other side of the curtain. But silence quickly falls over the apartment.
I’m emptying out my pockets when I see the receipt Selina dropped. Le Petit Monstre. I wonder if it can help me track her down. Child or not, she did steal my wallet. I type the words into my phone.
But—hang on. It’s a bar. And from what I see on their website, no twelve-year-old would be allowed to hang out there.
That can only mean one thing. Selina is a pickpocket and a liar.
As much as I want to set the record straight, I realize that things are going pretty well for me now. I think I need to put Selina out of my mind for good. She’s already caused me more than enough trouble.
Chapter Seven
I’m finally figuring out Old Nice. The market, the opera house, the museum and the courthouse are great landmarks. They help me get back on track whenever I get lost. Of course, the best landmarks are the sea and the promenade that runs along the coast.
I’m also figuring out the socca. Henri has been hammering the method into me. About how to let the batter rest so the socca will have the right creamy texture. And about warming up the pans before cooking it. Henri doesn’t trust Marcel to get the socca right. He threatens to fire Marcel at least once a week for being late. I don’t think he really means it. I’ve heard him say more than once that the only reason he keeps Marcel around is for his mechanical skills. But I can tell he actually cares about him.
Today, like most days, the sun is beating down on Marcel and me as we take the socca to the market. Everywhere I look, there are people pushing carts or carrying cloth bags and baskets for their shopping.
As we get closer to Clara, some of the vendors wave to us. I know most of them by name now.
Manon, whose sun-warmed dates and apricots are crazy sweet.
Bruno with the loud voice, who calls out the price of his baked chickpeas every few minutes.
And Louis, who is carefully arranging his display of massive tomatoes. The sign says Cœur de bœuf. Beef heart. The first time I read that, I thought he was selling real cows’ hearts. We had to dissect those in Bio last year, and I nearly puked. Thank god this is just a type of tomato.
After Louis’s table, it’s Clara’s. The small canopy at the far end protects her from the sun. It does nothing for the heat though. Clara’s face is shiny red. She has completely sold out of socca.
Marcel swings the scooter over. I grab the empty trays from Clara. Marcel reaches i
nto the large drum for the fresh trays of socca.
We deliver three more batches to Clara. Dripping with sweat, Marcel and I drop off the scooter at Chez Rosa. It’s Friday, so Henri pays us and then waves us away.
“So what should we do tonight?” Marcel asks.
“Let’s stop here,” I say, pointing at the gelato place. It is still so hot outside.
“Gelato,” Marcel says. “That’s all I ever see you buy. What are you saving your money for?”
I’d rather not explain. I’ve been thinking about how I owe my parents more money than I can possibly make this summer. So I’m trying not to spend more than I have to. I don’t hear from Maman and Papa very much. That probably means they’re still pissed off at me. Considering all the stuff that got trashed or stolen at my party, that’s fair.
Marcel still looks like he’s waiting for an answer. I just shrug while we walk out onto the promenade.
Marcel points toward the beach. His friends Lola and Fabio are at the volleyball courts. “Let’s go down there,” he says.
“Hey, Marcel! Jean-Luc!” they call out as we join them on the smooth pebbles.
I’ve finished my gelato when Lola turns to me. “What do you think of Nice?” she asks.
“I’m getting used to it,” I say. “It’s way different from Canada.”
“Because of how cold it gets there?” Fabio asks.
“Not just that,” I say. “Lots of other things too. Like, here people take the time to sit and have a coffee or a glass of wine with their friends. Like, for no real reason.”
“You need a reason?” Lola gives me a sideways look.
“I guess not,” I say. “But in Canada, people mostly buy a drink and then they leave. They don’t usually stay at the coffee shop and drink it there.”
“So you just walk away?” Fabio asks. “And then you drink it?”
“Exactly,” I say. “I’ve hardly ever finished a coffee at the coffee shop.”
Fabio and Lola are shaking their heads.
“But that’s why you buy a drink in the first place,” Lola says. “To watch the people around you. Or to talk to your friends.”
The conversation reminds me all over again that Tate and Owen still haven’t messaged me. Not once since I’ve been here.
“So, Marcel,” Fabio says. “Are you ever going to ask Yasmine out?”
“I think he will just keep torturing himself for another six months,” Lola teases.
Marcel blushes. “I’m building up to it,” he says. “Soon.”
“I’ll believe it when it happens,” Fabio says, laughing.
We all leave the beach together. Fabio and Lola soon veer off the promenade. Marcel heads to the shop where Yasmine works.
I wander back through town on my own. I remember that the antique market is on tonight. Marcel had said it was worth checking out. Why not?
I follow the crowds, and when I get there, I can’t believe the crazy mix of stuff for sale on dozens of long tables. Sheets of piano music. Brass door knockers in the shape of a hand. An old clarinet in a velvet-lined case. Heavy fur coats on yellow plastic hangers.
I stop when a necklace catches my eye. The copper pendant is in the shape of a star. It’s hanging on a strand made of metal and sand-colored glass beads. It looks familiar to me.
It takes me a moment, but then I remember why. My mom used to have a necklace like this. She bought it at a street fair in San Francisco. The first time Tate and Owen came to our place, Maman was wearing it. She took off the necklace and set it down on the counter while she was making dinner. Later, she noticed it was gone.
I still remember how Maman’s voice shook when she mentioned it to me.
“Is there any way your friends might have picked up the necklace?” she asked.
“They wouldn’t have just ‘picked it up,’ ” I said. “You think they stole it, don’t you?”
Maman had hesitated. But now, standing in front of that table, I realize something. Owen and Tate did take the necklace. They used to laugh about stealing cigarettes from the corner store. They also stole a pair of expensive running shoes when a kid left his locker open at school.
My chest tightens when I remember what I did next. I yelled at my mom. Said she needed to leave my friends alone. I defended Owen and Tate, even though part of me had suspected even then that they had stolen it. Maman had finally run upstairs in tears.
And now my eyes are glued to the necklace in front of me. I need to talk to the vendor. I see a card on the table. His name is Gabri.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur.”
Gabri’s long gray ponytail flips over his shoulder as he turns. “Oui?” he asks.
“Le collier.” I point to the necklace. “How much does it cost?”
Gabri hands me the necklace so I can look more closely at it. “Twenty-five euros,” he says.
I was not expecting it to be so much. I don’t have that on me. Maybe there’s still a chance though. All around me, people are haggling with the vendors over prices. I need to do that too. I can’t look too interested in the necklace or he’ll charge me top price. I won’t be able to afford it at all.
I shove the necklace back into his hand. “Too much,” I say. “I’ll find another one that isn’t so expensive.”
“But this necklace is very authentic,” Gabri says. “You will not find anything of this quality for less than twenty-five euros.”
I shake my head. I turn as though I’m going to leave.
“Perhaps,” Gabri says, “I could sell it for twenty euros.”
“Still too much,” I say, taking a big risk.
“But such a quality piece,” Gabri says.
I look around. The crowds are thinning.
“The market will soon close,” I say. “I’ll give you fifteen euros. Or you can pack up for the evening without selling it at all. Zero euros.”
Gabri throws up his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Fifteen euros!”
He slips the necklace into an envelope. “I hope your girlfriend likes it. Be sure to tell her you robbed an old man to buy it for her. Shameful.” He shakes his head.
But I notice the hint of a smile on his face. I tuck the small package into my pocket. A warmth spreads through me when I think about giving it to Maman.
I’m still not ready to go back to the apartment. Instead, I walk up the hill toward the castle at the edge of town. I’m veering through the park when I come to a cemetery. Rows of elaborate tombstones stretch out in front of me.
I swallow hard. I didn’t know there was a cemetery here. It brings back some terrible memories.
I’m turning away when I see someone standing near a crumbling monument.
Selina!
This time I won’t let her get away. I have some questions I need answered.
Chapter Eight
Selina gasps when she sees me.
“I just want to talk,” I say.
I don’t know if she believes me. But at least she’s not yelling for the cops this time.
“I know you stole my wallet,” I say. “And I know you lied.”
Plus, I kind of liked you the first time I met you.
Those words are running through my head too. But I know not to say them out loud.
“Lied?” Her voice shakes.
“You told the cops you were twelve. But no twelve-year-old would be hanging out at Le Petit Monstre.”
Selina startles when I say the name of the bar.
“What do you know about that place?” Her voice shakes. Before I can answer, she adds, “I can’t talk long. I have to meet someone.”
“Your boyfriend?” I ask.
“Definitely not!” She flinches. She reaches up to push back her hair. The sleeve of her dress slides up. Her arm is covered in bruises and weird circular marks.
“Holy shit!” Before I can stop myself, I’ve reached for her wrist. “Who did this to you?”
She lets out a sob and pulls her arm away.
“What are those
round marks?” I ask. “Not the bruises. The other ones.”
Selina is tugging her sleeve down. She doesn’t answer me. Then I realize what they are.
“Cigarette burns,” I say.
A tear rolls down Selina’s cheek. She nods. “Le Patron did it to me.”
“Le Patron? You mean your boss?”
“Sort of. That’s what everyone calls him.”
My stomach clenches. “Where the hell do you work?”
Selina shakes her head. “I can’t say,” she says. “I don’t have much time!”
“Tell me quickly,” I say.
She takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t live at home anymore,” she says. “So I left to go live with my auntie. I was staying at a hostel while I figured out how to get to her place. One day a man started talking to me. He said he would give me a ride partway.”
The knots in my stomach are growing tighter.
“But he brought me here. And now,” Selina sobs, “he forces me to steal. Three hundred euros every day.”
“So you pick people’s pockets?”
“Yes. I must turn the money over to him. Or else—” Her voice catches in her throat.
“Or else he beats you,” I say. “Or burns you.”
“Yes.” Her voice shakes. “Other things too.”
I grit my teeth. I don’t want to know what those other things might be.
“If you see me around town,” she says, “do not talk to me. Le Patron will be watching.” Her eyes are darting from side to side. “And I’m sorry about your wallet,” she continues. “I didn’t want to steal it. I had no choice.”
She stands on her tiptoes and peers over the monument. “He’s coming!” she says. “I have to go turn over my money to him.”
As she brushes past me, I call out the question that’s been nagging at me. “How old are you? Really?”
Selina pauses just long enough to answer. “Sixteen,” she says. Then she dashes away.
Sixteen. Just like I thought. Still, my pulse races when I think about the nightmare Selina is living.
I need to keep walking. To burn off some steam.
As I circle the port, my mind is spinning. I can’t stop thinking about Tate and Owen, who steal for fun. And about Selina, who is forced to steal—or else. Everything feels completely mixed up.
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