The French Impressionist Read online

  The French Impressionist

  Rebecca Bischoff

  Amberjack Publishing

  New York, New York

  Amberjack Publishing

  228 Park Avenue S #89611

  New York, NY 10003-1502

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Bischoff

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Bischoff, Rebecca, author.

  Title: The French impressionist / by Rebecca Bischoff.

  Description: New York [New York] : Amberjack Publishing, 2016.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-944995-02-7 (pbk.) | 978-1-944995-03-4 (ebook) | PCN 2016939201

  Subjects: LCSH Communicative disorders in adolescence--Fiction. | Runaways--Fiction. | Child abuse-- Fiction. | Mothers and daughters-- Fiction. | Nice (France)--Fiction. | BISAC YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Social Themes / Runaways | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Social Themes / Disabilities & Special Needs | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Social Themes / Physical & Emotional Abuse.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.B5238 Fre 2016 | DDC [Fic]--dc23

  Cover Design: Ashley Ruggirello of CardboardMonet.com

  Roboto font used according to the terms of Apache License, Version 2.0.

  Printed in the United States of America

  One

  I’m here because I lied. A lot.

  I know it was wrong, but I don’t care. I got away.

  My world is no longer black and white. It’s alive with color. Blues and greens have melted together into a perfect painting of sea and sky. I smell the sharp sweetness of citrus. It must be coming from the trees that line the street and quiver in the soft Mediterranean breeze. I breathe in the scents of hot sun on sand, salty ocean, and a puff of sugary, vanilla air exhaled from a nearby bakery. A tram whirs by and clangs its bell. A couple passes, so close that the woman’s skirt brushes my bare legs with a whisper of touch. She murmurs in the unfamiliar cadences of a foreign language, leaving behind a cloud of gentle laughter. I start to laugh too. I take in my freedom like a drowning person gulps air. No matter how many more half-truths or total lies I have to tell, I’ll do it.

  I won’t go back home.

  Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I turn around. The sign above the shop door proclaims Sylvie’s Dream, in English. Something inside me feels like it’s warming, shifting, dissolving. My entire body wants to sag with relief, even though my pulse is now racing. I made it. I’m actually here!

  The shop is on Rue Massena, part of Nice’s old town. This part of the city feels old. When I look up from the street, the pink and gold buildings lean into one another and crowd around me like they’re curious to find out who’s invading their space. The paint on the walls is faded and peeling, and laundry hangs from lines that stretch between windows. Towels, jeans, and underwear wave in the breeze.

  It’s so different from anything I’ve ever known. I already love it. Now all I need to do is go in. At the thought, my heart flutters inside me like a bird flapping its wings, trying to escape from its cage.

  Before I can lose my nerve, I step up to the door. They’re both here. Even before I got out of the cab, I could see them through the speckled shop window. The woman is Sylvie. The man, Émile. They are the new family I chose.

  Physically, they’re as opposite as any two people can be. Sylvie is tall and thin, all dark hair and eyes, with skin a warm, melted chocolate brown. Émile is much shorter, no more than a few inches taller than I am. Nearly everything about him is light-colored. He has papery skin and white hair that make his indigo eyes jump out at you. When he stands beside Sylvie, he looks like a ghost.

  I already know them. I already love them. But will they love me? Okay, back up a little. That comes later. For right here and now, what will they say? They didn’t expect me until next Friday, but here I am, thanks to a timing glitch. I misread the dates of the real summer program here in Nice when I was creating my fake art camp to fool my mother. I’m not supposed to be here yet, but I had no choice.

  Go, I tell myself, suddenly feeling the need to swallow, hard. It’s time.

  My entire body starts to tremble as I push through the strands of tiny brown seashells that form a tinkling curtain in the shop’s doorway. The handle of my case catches onto something and I stumble, but recover quickly and plant a smile on my face.

  “Um,” I say, fumbling in my pocket for my carefully crafted note, but then Sylvie sees me and her face lights up like the summer sun.

  “Rosemary, oui? C’est toi! It’s you,” she exclaims, before spewing a thousand more French-sounding syllables that I don’t understand, as her brown arms encircle me and squeeze. She smells like lemons and coconut, and in my head I see long stretches of pale sand against a turquoise ocean. A vision of freedom. My freedom.

  Sylvie releases me and before I can process anything, Émile is before me, his face level with mine. His eyes crinkle as he grins. He takes my hand and squeezes softly.

  “Bienvenue,” he murmurs. “Welcome.”

  “Merci,” I whisper, and am horrified at how the word sounds as it leaves my lips, but no one seems to notice. Émile and Sylvie grin expectantly at me, so I finally take out my note.

  Sylvie peers over her husband’s shoulder to read as I set my case down and gaze around me, trying to pretend that I’m not terrified, that I’m not desperate for this to work.

  Sylvie’s artwork splashes color across the walls, like a paint factory explosion. There’s a battered cooler in the corner with a hand-written sign offering bottles of water, Orangina, ice cream, and candy bars. Stuff is piled everywhere. Books, necklaces, pottery, a rack of brightly colored skirts. It’s a place that holds the promise of hidden treasures for anyone who wants to look. Messy, but cozy. The tiny space extends soft arms that pull you into a warm hug, a lot like its owners. It’s perfect.

  They look up from the note.

  “Eh, bien, you are early, but it’s no matter,” Sylvie says in slow, careful French. “I am sorry that you’ve lost your voice. We’re so happy that you’re here! Émile will take you to your room.”

  Émile takes my suitcase and gestures for me to follow him and I do, finally remembering to breathe. I suck in oxygen while we climb the narrow, wooden steps that lead up from the back of the shop. My new father says nothing. I’m sure it’s out of pity for the fake illness that caused me to lose my voice. I hope.

  We move into a cool, dark hallway and Émile opens a door for me. I step inside and gasp. I’ve seen a photo of the room, of course, on Sylvie’s blog, but pictures never compare to reality. This room is warm and alive with color.

  Émile smiles. “I hope you like your bedroom. It was our son’s.” With that, he places my suitcase onto the floor and turns to leave, before glancing back.

  “You would like to rest?” he asks me, his eyebrows raised. His French is slow, too, even slower than Sylvie’s. They are so kind. So patient. I want to say something, but can’t make any words come out. Not a single sound. To cover my embarrassment, I kneel to tie my shoe, praying he hasn’t noticed that it wasn�
�t untied in the first place.

  “Stay here as long as you like,” Émile says with a shrug. “Or you may join us in the shop, if you prefer,” he adds. “When you wish.” And with that, he is gone.

  It worked. It worked!

  I look around. My room, my beautiful new room, has forests and oceans and mountains painted all over the walls. It has stars and planets on the ceiling. A mustard-colored rug spattered with paint sits on the floor. On the bed is a vivid quilt that’s a kaleidoscope of colors. The room has a window that looks out over red-tiled roofs and palm trees. It even has a cat! Amber eyes glow up at me from the puff of grey fluff resting on the rug.

  I was never allowed to have a pet. I stare at the pile of grey fur for a second, not sure what to do. Will it chase me from its territory? But the puffball simply closes its yellowy eyes and goes to sleep.

  I turn back, close the blue-painted door, and stare at the knob. There’s no lock. On this side or on the other side.

  It’s perfect.

  A couple of tears spill down my face, but I swipe them away. My new life just started, and I’m going to live it. I’m going to head back down to the shop and get to know my new family.

  But when I grasp the doorknob, I stop. I don’t want to leave just yet. I turn to check out the room one more time, straining a little to see the murals as the light from the window changes from bright to dim. Outside, clouds cover the sun and a summer storm spatters rain onto the glass. I don’t bother to turn on the light, though. I know this room well already. I walk along the walls, tracing the paintings with a gentle finger. The photo of this room on Sylvie’s blog was what started it all. It’s part of the reason that I’m here and why I chose Sylvie and Émile to be my new family.

  The mural at the head of the bed is my favorite. A trail curves through a forest, then up the side of a steep canyon, where it angles back and forth in sharp switchbacks. Every so often, along the trail is a boy who carries a backpack and walking stick. The boy, lanky and brown like Sylvie, gradually grows taller. It’s their son, Ansel, now gone. He painted himself somewhere on the trail each year for his birthday. The figure at the very top of the cliff is Ansel at eighteen, heading to Paris. He’s smiling and pumping a fist into the air.

  I kiss my fingers and touch them to the painted boy’s tiny head. “Thank you, Ansel,” I whisper. I couldn’t be here if he weren’t gone. “I promise I’ll take care of the room for you.”

  A gleam of light glows on the wall a few feet away. I jerk my hand back in surprise. Painted on the other side of Ansel’s cliff is a wide expanse of stormy sky over a dark ocean. Streaks of bright lightning cross the gloomy haze, but one line of lightning extends downward in a straight line, cutting through sky and cloud until it plunges into the ocean. I move closer until my nose is practically against the paint and stare. The straight line, of course, isn’t painted lightning. It’s a crack in the wall, one so deep that light from the next room shines through it. Then, before I can even begin to wonder, the crack disappears.

  What just happened?

  Two

  Lie Number One: I traveled to the sunny coast of France to study art.

  Truth: I don’t even know how to hold a paintbrush.

  I came here to escape. But they can’t know that. At least, not yet.

  Émile sits and reads. Cross-legged in a puffy, cherry-colored chair in the corner, he kind of reminds me of a white Persian cat curled up on its cushion. He glances up as I re-enter the shop, smiles and nods, then goes back to his reading. Sylvie dabs at a canvas in front of her. She, too, looks over and winks with warm, sparkling eyes. She says something I don’t understand, but I nod, and she seems content with whatever my gesture meant and turns back to her work.

  I’ve just arrived from another country. I still have a stale, peanut aftertaste on my tongue, along with the flavor of that odd stuff from a tin that was like a meat-jello salad served on the flight. We met in person mere minutes ago, and this is all my hosts do when I come downstairs after unpacking? Nod and smile and leave me alone?

  I did the right thing. This is beyond perfect.

  I love my new parents.

  Grinning like a total goofball, I shuffle around shelves and check out their stuff. On Sylvie’s blog, the photo of her shop blew me away. It was so cool. So French. In person, it’s like I stepped into a travel brochure, where you’d read words like quaint or picturesque in the captions. I pick up a book with a pyramid on its cover, which was shoved next to a book in German that has a photo of a bunch of Huskies tied to a sled. Maybe I’ll read. I am worn out by my journey, driving on fumes, fuel tank empty, but I don’t want to miss this, my new life. I want to stay here and hang with my new family.

  “Égypte,” Émile says, pointing and jabbering at my book. I sit on a low bench by the wall and open it, trying to paint a knowing expression on my face, like I know what the heck he’s saying. Looking down, I see that the words are in a different language I don’t recognize, but luckily the pages consist mainly of large, vivid photographs of mummies. Dried up people. I can relate. I know what it’s like to feel like a husk of a person. Shriveled and already dead.

  When Émile says something else to me, I have to admit defeat, which I do by shrugging apologetically. I’d love to ask him a thousand questions, beginning with: Did you know there’s a giant crack in the bedroom wall, and I saw light glowing from behind it? I can’t find the words. I’m too tired to shuffle through French vocabulary files I’ve painstakingly shoved for so long into my foggy brain. I’ve been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours, after all. So when Émile returns the shrug and goes back to his book, I close mine. It’s making me sleepy to sit and stare at pictures anyway. I’ll make myself useful and grab a broom.

  The seashell curtain over the front door tinkles and sways as a hand reaches to sweep it aside. Customers. Glancing up, I flick my long, dark braid back over my shoulder.

  A middle-aged couple shuffles inside. The man and woman blink as their eyes adjust to the dimness. My brain does a quick calculation. Pasty, Northern European skin that fries under too much coastal sun. Shorts, sneakers, fanny packs. Touristes, I say in my head. It feels fantastic to think that word. I’m not one of those. I live here.

  A sudden shivery feeling shoots its way up my spine. A teenage boy with hair the color of a pumpkin ambles into the shop at the heels of the older couple. My mouth dries up. I’ve never seen a guy my age this close before. Seriously. That’s an honest statement. No boys allowed in my former life.

  I wander closer to the boy while I sweep away imaginary dirt. I’m the only fifteen-year-old I know who has never been alone with a guy. Ever. Not even a friend. No mall, no parties, no dates. And here I am, free for the first time to actually check somebody out. I can’t help staring. The boy has freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, like flecks of cinnamon sprinkled onto cream.

  The old-ish tourists shuffle over to Sylvie, who has popped up from her perch in front of her canvas. I keep sweeping away, moving myself ever so slowly, and inching closer to the fascinating owner of the freckles and red hair. He glances up from a rack of used books and grins. I grin back and feel my face flush. From behind me in the shop, the man speaks to Sylvie in English, Texan twang flying out of his mouth.

  So they’re Americans, like me. That doesn’t matter. I’ve been rehearsing this for a long time. I’ll give an apologetic shrug and say, “No English,” with a hint of an accent. Then I’ll add a sweet, seductive smile. I’ll be the mysterious French girl whose face will linger in the boy’s mind after he leaves. I breathe in, lick my lips, stand up straight and get ready to flirt for the first time in my life.

  “Ah, Americains!” Sylvie calls. She continues to chatter, motioning for me to come. I don’t have to understand her exact words. I know what she wants. Without realizing it, I let go of the broom and it falls to the floor with a clatter. I pick it up, face burning scar
let, and lean it against the wall, trying to ignore the fact that the boy is chuckling. My plan is shredded. In two seconds flat, the seductive French girl has morphed into a tongue-tied terror. I get how neurotic this sounds, but I can’t help it. When I have to speak to strangers, something inside me shrivels.

  But there’s nothing I can do to avoid this, so I shuffle forward a few feet until I’m closer to Sylvie and the American couple. The boy grins and pops his gum and he moves closer as well. I follow him with my eyes. His mouth is gorgeous. He has full, curving lips.

  “Uh, hi,” I whisper, swallowing hard.

  “Are there public restrooms nearby?” the woman asks me in English. Redhead rolls his eyes and smiles more widely at me.

  The next few seconds feel like a thousand years. I try to find a way to communicate “bathroom” without saying the actual word. I do this a lot. As usual, I can’t think fast enough. The silence starts to feel funny. They’re all looking at me. I swear I hear a clock ticking, even though there isn’t one in the shop. Finally, finally, I figure it out. I point down the street in the general direction of a public bathroom a couple of blocks away. Luckily, I’d seen the sign as the cab drove me here.

  “Um, no. That way,” I say, feeling a rush of relief when the words don’t sound strange.

  “A bathroom? Rosemary, tell them to come with me!” Sylvie says in slow French that I can understand.

  “Oh, je parle français, Madame,” the Mom interjects, spewing perfect, slippery French words that slide right off her tongue.

  What? Why didn’t you just do that in the first place, you hag?

  There was no need, no need at all for me to go through that torture.

  “Perfect!” Sylvie says, beaming. “Let’s go.” She drops her paintbrush, actually drops it right onto the floor, and motions for them to follow her, babbling something about dirty public toilets. Grinning, Émile rises from his red chair and follows the group up the stairs to their cheerful apartment complete with sanitized bathroom.