Love Lessons

by Daphne James Huff

  “Fine. And you?”

  I think of the wad of balled up drafts in my trashcan. “Fine.” I smile.

  His lips quirk up, like he knows I’m lying. He leans back in his chair, arms still folded across his chest. I fix him with a steady gaze, remembering my reason for sitting here in the first place.

  “Madame Dupuis says you have to join the French Club.”

  His chairs slams down, and I jump a little.

  “The tutoring is bad enough,” he says. “Why do I need to do more?”

  A hot stab of disappointment shoots straight into my heart. I find myself blinking back tears, so I turn my head away. The tutoring is bad enough. I guess all his pretty words the other day were just that—words. I wonder if it was just a way for him to butter me up, to tell Madame Dupuis his level has improved enough he can stop.

  Well, he won’t get out of it that easily.

  “There’s Carnaval to prepare for, and the club could use some help,” I say, not looking at him.

  “What on earth is Carnaval?”

  “There is no way you’ve been through three years of French class without talking about it.” I stare, open-mouthed, all traces of tears gone in my surprise. “It’s a huge celebration around the world. It’s even celebrated in the States, for crying out loud.”

  He looks confused, a little line appearing between his eyebrows. “Do you mean Mardi Gras? Like in New Orleans?”

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. “Yes, technically it’s the same thing, though the season starts in January. It’s a bright spot in the dreary winter.”

  “Winter’s not so bad here.” He shrugs. “I don’t think we’re really missing out.”

  I open my eyes to see if he’s joking. He’s not. “Winter is terrible here,” I say.

  He just shrugs. “You get used to it.”

  “I noticed. You’re a crazy person to be running in shorts.”

  He frowns at me, and my cheeks burn. He doesn’t know we saw them in the gardens the other night.

  “You mentioned running the other week,” I say quickly.

  “You remember what I said last week?” His eyes have a spark of something, but I can’t tell if it’s mocking or amusement.

  “Everything,” I say, meeting his gaze. Not that I can believe any of it.

  “Then you won’t be surprised to know I think you’re perfectly capable of organizing a Mardi Gras party without anyone’s help.” He smiles, slow and glorious. “You’ll do fine on your own.”

  A flutter in my chest is stopped cold by the sound of Madame Dupuis starting class at the front. I turn my eyes to the front, wishing now I had picked my normal spot in the front, far from Rex. Sitting next to him for the next forty-five minutes is going to be impossible. He’s impossible.

  “I’m not asking for your help because I need it,” I whisper, as he turns to the blackboard. “I’m asking because I want it.”

  I hear him inhale sharply next to me.

  His voice is barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll have it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rex

  I don’t know why I said yes. Probably because I’d say yes to anything Zara asks, which is a problem. French Club on top of tutoring means even less time for writing. But it does mean more time with her.

  Not that that's why I agree. I can ask Madame Dupuis to stop the tutoring once Carnaval is over. Helping with it for two weeks will definitely get me some major points with her. And then my entire March will be free to write.

  It only takes about three seconds for me to convince Bronx and Reggie to join with me, despite the fact that neither of them is taking French. I didn’t even have to use my prepared argument that it’ll be a good extracurricular for Bronx’s transcripts.

  “We just love French culture,” says Bronx to Madame Dupuis when he shows up at the lunchtime meeting with me. She regards him with pursed lips, probably remembering the reason Bronx doesn’t take French: a freshman year incident that included a whiteboard and a vulgar cartoon of cancan dancers.

  “You’re here to help,” she says finally with a stern look, and I breathe a sigh of relief. But my chest tightens back up when she adds, “You make any kind of trouble, and it’s on Rex’s shoulders.”

  Super. Because the stress of keeping Reggie and Bronx in line is just what I need right now.

  “We’ll just help with Carnaval, I promise.” And it’s a promise I intend to keep. A few weeks of this should be enough to boost my grade even more and ensure there’s no other problems with the Navarre Prize. I submitted the new idea of sonnets to Mr. Marcade yesterday like I promised myself, but I’m still waiting for his approval. That didn’t stop me from writing a very bad first draft of a sonnet for Zara, however, which is now hidden in my closet, along with the short story my first look at her inspired. If I don’t get this under control soon, I’ll have to rename it the Zara folder.

  Madame Dupuis waves us off with a polished hand and a very French tutting noise that I’ve heard Zara make. As if summoned by my thoughts, she appears at the door along with Rosalie and Maria. I feel Bronx and Reggie stiffen beside me.

  “This doesn’t mean the ban is off,” I whisper to them both, none of us taking our eyes off the girls, as they walk over to a table laden with paint and cardboard and streamers. “We’re not talking to them. Or to any of the girls here.”

  “That’ll make helping pretty hard,” Reggie points out, with Bronx nodding sagely next to him.

  I bite my lip. This is kind of the perfect opportunity to talk to Zara, since it’s technically school related.

  “Nothing unrelated to school or this party,” I say, noticing all the curious eyes on the three of us. French Club is 90% girls, and by some miracle, none that any of us have already dated. Probably because most of them are Freshmen. “And stay away from the freshers.”

  “If they haven’t heard about Bronx by now, there’s not much we can do for them,” says Reggie with a shrug.

  We make our way over to one of the tables where a few people are painting a giant sign. It seems harmless enough, and conveniently at the table next to where Zara and her friends are doing something with streamers, so I grab a brush. Reggie joins me. From the corner of my eye, I see Bronx approach the girls with a look much too serious to be used on streamers.

  Rosalie bites back a smile, and Maria whispers something to her. They both giggle, while Zara is pointedly not looking up from whatever she’s doing. Bronx leans on the table.

  “Hey,” he says, and Rosalie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Any idea what time it is?”

  She makes an exaggerated motion with her hand to look at her watchless wrist.

  “The same time it was yesterday,” she says with a smirk.

  I try to hold back a laugh at Bronx’s expression. Not exactly the reaction he was looking for. After seeing girls fall all over themselves for years when faced with his smile and baby blues, it’s interesting to see someone do the same thing to him.

  Zara, meanwhile, ignores all of this, concentrated in her work, but I think I see the ghost of a smile on her lips.

  Unable to help myself, I leave Bronx to his stammering replies to Rosalie, some terrible joke about broken clocks being right twice a day, and turn my attention to Zara.

  “So this is Carnaval, huh?”

  A slight flush spreads across her cheeks, and she shrugs. “Not quite. But it’ll do.”

  “Are you helping Madame pick out the food?”

  Zara frowns. “Why would I do that?”

  “Your dad has all those restaurants. You talk about food during our tutoring. It’s something you know a lot about.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “All French people know a lot about food.”

  “The entire country? Every single French person knows the eight hundred different kinds of cheeses by name?”

  That week at tutoring, I had made her recite about a hundred before I believed she actually knew them all.

  She bites h
er lip and shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

  How is it possible she doesn’t see how special she is? I open my mouth to say something else, but movement at the door catches my eye.

  “What’s Don doing here?” whispers Reggie next to me.

  I look around and smirk when I spot Jackie. Then Don catches my eye and he raises an eyebrow. I quickly step away from Zara at her table and return to where Reggie is painting, a cold dread washes over me. This is all still technically following the rules, but I don’t think he’ll see it that way.

  “We’ve helped enough, I think,” I say, and drop my brush. Reggie doesn’t, however, and I look down. “Come on. We have real work to do.”

  Reggie’s eyes flicker over to Maria. He doesn’t notice Don coming up beside him and leaning down to grab a brush.

  It all happens so fast, all I see is a quick movement from Don, and the front of Reggie’s sweater is covered in paint.

  Reggie swears and jumps up.

  “That is enough,” Madame Dupuis calls from across the room in reaction to his language. But she doesn’t see what’s caused it.

  “Oops,” says Don, a nasty grin splitting his face in two. “Was that your only sweater? Hope you don’t have to sell anything important to buy a new one.”

  In any other circumstances, I’d have just rolled my eyes at this. Don’s favorite insult over the past three years has been calling Reggie a scholarship student. Usually I just chalk it up to Don’s jealousy that Reggie’s family is both richer and more important in Boston society than his, but today, it’s just one more thing to ruin my day. I’m stuck here, not writing, not able to talk to Zara, and he’s going to insult my friend?

  As I will explain later to Madame Dupuis, I don’t really know what happens. All I know is that somehow, my fist ends up on his face, and we both end up on top of the sign. Before I can stop them, Bronx and Reggie have joined in, and it’s all a blur of paint and cardboard and streamers.

  I’m not sure this is what Madame Dupuis meant by helping.

  Chapter Twenty

  Zara

  In the weeks before the party, the girls’ dorm is giddy with excitement. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal, but apparently there really is nothing better to do in February out here. Somehow the party has turned into the de facto Valentine’s celebration, which is not a welcome surprise.

  “That’s not really what Carnaval is about,” I complain at the next French Club meeting, after one girl suggests all the decorations—that we now have to redo thanks to Rex’s little outburst—be red and full of hearts.

  “But it’s the same weekend,” she responds. “No one will come otherwise. They’ll go out to restaurants or something else, just in pairs.”

  I glance at Rosalie, who’s looking down at her hands. Valentine’s Day last year was a hard one for her, coming just a week after her epic breakup. She doesn’t need the reminder of the holiday, and I am not feeling particularly romantic toward anyone right now, either. Rex and his friends were completely ridiculous at the meeting last week; so ridiculous Madame Dupuis has forbidden him from attending any more.

  She actually threatened to suspend them for fighting. The sheer panic on Rex’s face had made me stand up to defend him, explaining what I’d see Don do.

  Now, a week later, and not so much as a thank-you from him, I’m wondering if I’d made the right choice. He was so hot and cold, friendly one minute, saying flirty things the next, then ignoring me. His self-imposed no-girls policy was no excuse.

  Yet here I am, hoping he’ll be coming to Carnaval tonight.

  If this was Paris, I’d wear something silly but sexy, like a pirate, or a superhero. And I know from the excited banter in the girl’s dorm that everyone will be wearing something like that to the Carnaval. I’ve seen how Americans do Halloween, more sexy than scary, and this is apparently an excuse for more of the same.

  I already feel like I stick out, so I see no sense in hiding it.

  “Zara, these are beautiful,” sighs Maria, holding up one of the silk dresses my father has sent overnight.

  “I’m sorry we won’t get to wear them in Venice like we planned,” I say. They’re real Venetian costumes, but thanks to my exile to the States they’ll never actually be worn in Italy. “I’m thrilled my parents were able to send them over on short notice.”

  Rosalie nods in agreement as she carefully unpacks a green silk robe, the hood decorated with black lace. Maria has the pink one her in hands and throws it over her shoulders and twirls in front of the mirror. The masks lie in a box on the dresser, delicately painted in exquisite detail. They’ll cover our entire faces, and with the hoods, no one will know who we are. It will be a relief to be protected from the stares, at least for one night, even if these elaborate costumes are practically begging for people to look at us. With all the money that’s here, I reassure myself, it could be anyone behind the masks.

  “These aren’t very French,” Rosalie says. “But I doubt anyone will know the difference.”

  “Well I’m not about to paint my face like a monster like we’re in Basel or Dunkerque or something,” I say, pulling out the third robe, a deep blue that shimmers like moonlight. “No one here will know the difference.”

  Maria gets a funny look in her eyes as she looks over the three robes, mostly identical except for the colors. “I think with these on, no one will be able to tell the difference between the three of us, either.”

  I tilt my head, recognizing that expression.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “It might be the perfect moment to see what the boys really think of us.” She grins, her eyes alight with mischief. “They’ll be bolder with our faces hidden. It’s always like that at Carnaval.”

  I think back to previous years and the declarations brought forth in the midst of the excitement of the party. But I doubt tonight will be anything like that.

  “Why bother?” I bite my lip. “It won’t change anything.”

  “Don’t you want to know for sure?” asks Rosalie, and her hand briefly touches her pocket, where the note from Bronx must be hidden. She’s been carrying it around for days. “Maybe it will put a stop to their ridiculous ban, and it can all be out in the open.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you already have a note.” I try not to pout. Nothing Rex has said makes me think he truly likes me. But nothing has made me think he doesn’t. It’s been an infuriating dance, flirting without flirting, saying everything and nothing.

  I shake my head. “This is not how we should be acting,” I say, suddenly fierce. “We’re not the ones who made some silly vow. Why can’t we be the ones to tell them how we feel? Why can’t we have the power?”

  They consider this, nodding.

  “They’re so full of themselves, thinking all it takes is just a few words from them, and we’ll fall all over them.” I’m getting angry now, furious at myself really, for falling so hard for someone so ridiculous. For letting him distract me from my goal. “I think they need to be knocked down a peg or two.”

  Rosalie nods. “Or maybe we should be more coy. Not make it so easy on them.” There’s a hitch her in voice. She fell so hard, and so fast last time, I know she’s must be nervous about giving her heart away again. “A poem doesn’t mean anything unless he can say it to my face.”

  “Why don’t we play a little joke?” says Maria, her eyes sparking. “They’re all being so silly, pretending they don’t like us.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We’ll be disguised, and get them to admit their feelings, to the wrong girl.”

  I snicker. “We’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. This is straight out of one of his plays.” Somehow in between French Club and our other classes, we’ve managed to get a dozen pages of our King Lear project written. I've been reading his plays nonstop for weeks. Now my sister isn’t the only one who could recite the Bard from memory.

  Maria nods. “Effective, though, isn’t it? Shakespeare
knows his stuff, for a dead English guy.”

  Rosalie grins as well. “It’ll be a nice shock to their egos.”

  The boys are, if nothing else, very full of themselves. I hesitate for a minute, thinking through the ways it might hurt them. But can we really make that much of a difference to such big-headed boys? They’ll be over it in a few days, if not hours, and on to their next silly vow.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rex

  My dad does not particularly like using the phone, so it’s always a surprise when he calls. I suppose if I had some sort of standing time when we’d talk, I’d get anxious about it, dreading it in the days and hours before, worrying about what to say. This way is better. I don’t have time to prepare or worry.

  An hour before the Carnaval party, however, I am anxious enough already and his surprise call almost sends me over the edge.

  “Hey, Dad, can’t really talk right now,” I say, looking under my bed for the hat I ordered for tonight. I had no intention of going, I’ve been feeling stuck with my writing all week and I'm in no mood to bend the “no parties” rule until Reggie and Bronx pointed out that, in costume, no one would know it’s us. The Zorro costume I found covers most of my face and hair. No one will expect us to be there, not after we got kicked out of French Club. Maybe a little break is what I need to get the creative juices flowing again.

  They left convincing Madame Dupuis up to me, and she agreed to let us go if we promised we’d clean up all on our own after. Don, having made no such promises, is banned from the party. We overheard him making a big fuss about it not being worth his time during lunch this week. The chance to talk to Zara under the cover of masks and dim lighting without Don anywhere around is too tempting to resist. Now it’s in less than an hour and I can’t find my hat and my dad decides now is a good time for a father/son chat.