The French Impressionist Page 2
The boy stays. I start to sweat. I’m alone. With a guy. I look away and pretend to keep working. I was going to flirt with him? Who was I kidding? Then I sneak another look. I can’t help it. He throws a half-grin my direction and then starts to wander around the shop. His smile is mischievous, but kind of sweet at the same time. Something inside me immediately wants to see that look on his face again. To be the one who put it there. Butterflies do a little happy dance in my stomach and my heart rate accelerates. Why shouldn’t I flirt? My best friend Jada does it without saying a word. I don’t have to talk, remember?
Glancing around, I see a feather duster and grab it. I begin to flick invisible dirt from shelves as I slowly move in the boy’s direction.
I twitch feathers over the surface of a display case and move to dust a box full of polished rocks. I’m getting closer. I take a deep breath and glance at him. He’s looking at me. I smile. He smiles back.
I’m flirting!
And then, after I fake-clean a shelf of paperback books, I’m as close to him as I can be without jumping into his arms. I panic. Now what?
He’s looking at me. Come on, Rosemary! Okay, I’ll talk, but stick to speaking French.
“Nice is pretty, isn’t it?” I blurt in slurred, barely recognizable French. The boy looks up in surprise, still holding a figurine he’d picked up.
“What?” he answers in English.
Blood floods my face so fast that my skin prickles. What’s with the blushing? I’ve done it more times than I can count in the last five minutes! I shrug, try to smile, and repeat myself more slowly.
“Sorry, I don’t speak French,” he answers, setting the figurine down and holding out his hand. “I’m Gavin. What’s your name?”
I take his hand. It feels warm and dry. I hope he can’t feel how sweaty my own hand is. I look into his eyes, and realize with a start how unusual they are up close. They’re a dark, coffee brown, but the lashes are so pale they’re nearly colorless. His strange eyes seem to look right through me.
“And you are . . .?” the boy prompts, with another flash of his grin.
Oh, yeah. My name.
I can’t say my own name easily, so I made up a new one. And at this moment, looking into black coffee eyes that are strangely naked with no visible fringe of lashes, I cannot remember what my new name was supposed to be. My mind is a hollow space. Footsteps are already pounding down the staircase. I have to say a name, and quick.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the boy asks. Does he sound annoyed? I don’t think so, but I can’t tell. He’s still holding my hand. He edges closer. I can smell bubblegum on his breath.
I breathe in, then out. And I blurt my name. My real name.
“Rosemary,” I say, practically shouting. And then I want to die. Remember that whole “no guys” thing? I’m also the only fifteen-year-old I know who can’t say her own name correctly. I hate talking to strangers for a good reason.
“What?” Gavin asks, stepping back. I can’t read his expression. The corners of his mouth are turned up a tiny bit. Is he mocking me? He looks at me. I look back. I cave. I torpedo myself away until I’m standing beside a shelf of glass bottles filled with multi-colored sand at the back of the shop. I pick one up and pretend to be working again. I can practically hear the sizzle as my face fries.
Sylvie and Émile return with Gavin’s parents. They move about the shop, now old friends, discussing Italian food, museums, and public toilets.
Gavin saunters over to me. In a soft voice that only I can hear, he murmurs, “Nice to meet you . . . Rosemary.” He makes my name sound strange, mimicking the way I spoke.
My mouth falls open and I whirl to face him, one hand raised and clutching a little glass bottle, like I’m about to smash it onto his orange head.
We stare. His eyes are alight with amusement, but soon his face changes. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut as he ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. When his dark eyes find mine again, his expression is guarded.
“Look, that was . . . No, I didn’t mean . . .” he says.
He doesn’t get to finish, because the glass bottle I’m holding slips from my sweaty fingers and splinters into a million pieces on the floor, scattering pale orange and pink sand across the worn wood.
Glass crunches as I crouch down among the shards, trying to ignore the babble of voices around me. I was supposed to have lost my voice! Why didn’t I remember that? My eyes burn.
I blink, hard. Gavin is still here, hovering above me. I refuse to be weak. I will not let this get to me.
Someone hands me a dustpan and I automatically start piling the larger fragments of glass into it, then brush the sand into a pile. I’m rewarded by a sharp sting on my palm. I gasp and look down at the blood that wells from the slash in my hand. Colored sand sticks to my blood and clammy skin, forming a sparkling spiral pattern, like the Milky Way. For a second or two, I forget where I am. The tiny fragments of sand catch the light and twinkle like a thousand miniature stars. I’m holding a glittering galaxy in the palm of my hand.
Sylvie helps me to my feet and says something I don’t catch as she leads me to the metal sink at the back of the shop.
The American family leaves after the woman says something like, “Oh, ah hope she’s all raht,” in her abominable southern accent.
My galaxy dissolves in a swirl of blood, sparkling sand, and water that gurgles down the drain.
Oh, I’m all right, lady, just a little humiliated. It happens every day. Every. Day.
And then I start to laugh.
I flirted for the first time, ever, and it ended in disaster. The hot guy was a total punk. It did look like he was trying to apologize, but it doesn’t matter.
He never should have done what he did in the first place.
I wince as Sylvie smears some clear ointment that smells like wintergreen gum onto my palm, but I keep smiling.
The guy left. I am still here. In my new life.
“Ça va,” I whisper, as Émile peers over my shoulder to check out the damage. I remember my laryngitis this time. I remember to avoid English.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
But only if I don’t forget my plan. Only if I play my part well.
Three
When I wake up from my nap, I don’t know where I am for a second. Blinking, grimacing at the taste in my mouth that makes me think I recently ate something long dead and putrid, I sit up and search for the source of the weird sound that woke me up. It’s like the soft hum of an engine far away. Maybe it’s a plane.
Or a cat.
He’s staring at me from the foot of the bed and making the sound, which I realize is purring.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He stares.
“I like it when you do that,” I add, wincing only a little at the way the words come out.
He blinks. He yawns.
At least he doesn’t make fun of me.
I look over at the wall, to where Ansel’s painted storm swirls. The lightning I saw earlier is gone, so the light behind it is off. I’ve got to ask about that! What’s back there?
Swinging my legs over the bed, I check my phone. I have just enough time to engage in a little art therapy before dinner. Once my stick-figure of the ginger boy with coffee eyes and a mocking grin is complete, I toss him into the metal trash can and set him on fire with the match I found on the windowsill.
It’s a mini funeral pyre. Satisfying. The paper shrivels as orange flames eat Gavin from toes to torso to head. Acrid smoke hits my nose. He is ashes.
Au revoir, Pumpkin Head. You are gone.
“Good enough?” I ask the cat. I toss my cell to the bed and watch it slide off onto the floor. Fat Cat hops down from his spot on the quilt and stares at the screen with vague interest for a second, before he curls up and closes his eyes yet again. His fur is like
a sooty winter sky. I like him, despite his complete lack of social skills.
I reach out a tentative hand and stroke his impossibly soft fur. He purrs again. I sit cross-legged on the floor next to my new friend. A funny, foreign-sounding police siren passes by outside. Fat Cat stands, stretches and stalks away, and I feel like I’ve been dismissed. I don’t mind. I get up too, and open the blinds so I can stare out at my new world.
By now the summer storm has ended, and the late afternoon sun casts a lemony glow on the city around me. Between pastel squares across the street is a narrow space where I glimpse a blur of blue water beyond rooftops and the shadows of palm trees. Quaint. Picturesque.
Freedom.
I lean my head on the cool glass. I have a chance for a new life, a real one, as long as I remember that I can’t talk. Flirting for the first time was a disaster. But Gavin was just so . . . pretty. Yeah, that’s it. I grin to myself. So he was a jerk. But he was a pretty jerk. I’ll give him that.
I already feel better. Guess I had to learn the hard way. I can’t forget the name I picked for meeting new guys. It’s May. One syllable. No long combination of sounds that are supposed to line up just right. Nothing to get tangled. No “R”s to screw up.
May. I like it.
And I can’t wait to try it out on someone. But for now, I really need to use the bathroom, so I hope Mom—
It hits me so hard I stop breathing. She’s not here. She’s far, far away. And I can leave this room any time I want.
My door opens with a soft squeak. The hall is empty and smells like dust and a musky perfume. There are framed black and white photos all along the walls, shots of the lost Ansel. I hear soft sounds from the kitchen. Sylvie, laughing. Émile talking, pots clinking, water running. My heart pounds in my ears and my palms start to sweat, because I’m not used to being alone like this.
The same thing happened on the plane for a while, until I finally took Benadryl and fell asleep.
Down the hall, I stumble into the bathroom. Yeah, the one Sylvie decided she had to share with strangers. I splash water on my face and the cold shocks me out of panic mode and I start breathing again.
When I look up from the towel, I see red. The wallpaper, the shower curtain, and the rug are covered in roosters. Blood red is the predominate color scheme. Isn’t that a kitchen thing? I brush my teeth and attack my tangles with such vicious energy I lose half my long hair in the process. When I pick up a painted wooden rooster that for some reason has long, human-like legs attached with wire, someone knocks at the door and I jump, dropping the thing on my bare toes.
Out of habit, I bite my lip to lock the word I was thinking inside my head, until I remember a nanosecond later that I am free to let it out. So I do. Under my breath. And it comes out all wrong.
Sylvie calls something in her chirpy voice and moves off down the hall.
I sit on the edge of the tub and rub my sore toes, repeating the curse word until it comes out right. I only feel mildly better when it finally does.
I’ve heard of support groups for people who drink or do drugs. They always introduce themselves by first sharing their weakness. It’s like, “Hi. My name is James, and I’m an alcoholic.” Or, “My name is Alina, and I’m a drug addict.”
My name is Rosemary, and I have a communication disorder. It has a name, too, but I can’t even say it.
So there you have it.
Lie Number Two: I am normal.
Truth: I am not.
Sylvie’s cat is waiting for me. I have to step over him to get back into the bedroom. He doesn’t move.
My phone beeps like R2D2. It’s a text from Zander. I take a deep breath.
Play your part. You’re not totally free. Not yet.
So I read the message with bleary eyes:
Doing ok, R?
Yup.
I yawn so wide I think my jaw is about to break.
My hand twinges as I type. That cut was deep. When I look down at my bandaged palm, I remember the tiny galaxy I saw there. If I were a real artist, I would draw or paint and try to recapture the feeling I had when I looked at the blood and sand on my skin and saw the Milky Way. But I’m not.
Zander texts back.
Haven’t heard from U since that text from the plane. Tell Mom all OK.
She’s a bit worried.
Crap. Now I’m wide awake. Zan’s the king of understatement. What he means is that Mom is about to have a Class A, Super-Sized, Medication-Necessary break down. I was supposed to call her when I arrived at the “Red Rock Youth Art Camp.” The one she thinks I’m attending in Arizona.
But I was busy. After the flight to Paris, I got my luggage and then had the most terrifying trip of my life. Clutching step-by-step instructions I’d carefully typed to help me get from airport to train station to cab to Sylvie’s shop, I ran away from my life. I knew I’d get lost. I knew I’d screw up. But I didn’t.
“Help me out, Fat Cat,” I say, looking over at my new roommate. The grey ball of fuzz who has now spread his considerable feline form across the single chair in the room opens one eye, blinks at me for a second, and closes that eye again. This cat is no help whatsoever. I flop back onto the bed and stare at my phone.
Lie Number Three: Zander is my friend.
Truth: Zander is Mom’s boyfriend. He’s not my friend.
I stretch stiff legs and yawn again. Yeah, Zander did a lot to convince Mom to let me go to “art camp.” He helped me get a passport and apply for a summer program in Paris. He took me to the Apple store to find out about international phone usage and how to deal with that. All the while telling Mom how great Arizona would be for me.
So, he lied to Mom. And I lied to him. And I’m still lying to him.
I have to. Because he has no clue about my mother. He doesn’t see what she’s really like.
So, after I think for a second, I send an email. Just a “sorry I forgot to call, Sedona is beautiful, thanks for letting me go to camp, blah blah blah,” message to make Mom happy.
Then I email Zander, “Paris is amazing, this will really help my art, I owe you, blah blah blah.”
I hit send.
Lie Number Four: I am in Arizona, according to my mother. I am in Paris, according to Zander.
Truth: I am in Nice, that palm-treed, stuccoed, touristy town in the south of France. No one knows this but me. Well, and one other person. It’s complicated.
Émile taps on the door as he calls my name.
“Entrez,” I answer, with slurred, fuzzy syllables that are way too loud. I keep forgetting that I told everyone I lost my voice. Idiot.
Émile enters and sits down in the wooden chair by the door. He smiles, and I grin in response. It’s so easy to like him.
“Ça va, Rosie? Your hand is okay?” he asks.
He called me Rosie. I like it.
I nod yes. I already feel comfortable with this ghostly man with his intense, dark blue eyes. I want to ask him about the strange glowing crack in the wall but I still can’t find the right words. Then Émile says something that blows the thought out of my brain.
“The Americans,” he says in escargot-paced French, giving me time to catch the words, “the ones we met in the shop? They are going to dine with us tonight. Sylvie has made new friends. Let’s go.”
Well, I was okay.
Four
Smells of the dinner that Émile has been cooking float through the open door. Émile is also an artist. Like his wife and son, he studied in Paris, but he doesn’t work with paints and brushes. He works with pots, pans, and razor-sharp knives. I read about it on Sylvie’s blog.
“Hungry?” Émile doesn’t wait for an answer, but rises and wipes his hands on the smudged apron tied around his waist. “Seafood. I hope you’ll like it.” He smiles and gestures for me to go through the door first.
Gee. Thanks.
The kitchen smells like garlic, lemons, and fish. Seafood is fruits de mer, in French. Fruits of the sea. I find that vaguely disturbing. Also, I hate fish.
They’re here. The Mom. The Dad. The Guy Who Insulted Me. When we get to the table, Émile gestures to Gavin, indicating that he take the chair right next to me. And Gavin does, with this weird, almost bland expression. Is he embarrassed? I hope so.
We sit. It’s awkward, trying to ignore the person next to me. I smell his aftershave, kind of smoky; hear him swallow when he takes a drink. I catch bright flashes of flame-colored hair in the corner of my eye every so often when he moves his head.
No one really eats much at first, because Sylvie and Émile have decided to play a kind of “get to know you” guessing game, in my honor. It’s not too bad once we start. Émile, conscious of my infantile French skills and fake laryngitis, asks me questions, and all I have to do is nod or shake my head. Soon, everyone knows that I love Impressionism (ha!), Harry Potter, my favorite color is lavender, I’ve never been to France before, and that I’m from a tiny town called Twin Falls, Idaho, which means nothing to anyone in the room. Why would it? It’s the armpit of the universe.
Then it’s everyone else’s turn. I finally start to eat, and catch names and details. The mom is Valerie, a French teacher, which explains her ease with the language. The dad is Phil, a biology teacher. Mercifully, when Sylvie or Émile talk too fast, Valerie translates for Phil and Gavin, so I can understand most of the conversation. Gavin’s a wannabe surfer, avid gamer, and sci-fi fan who wants to design video games.
I find myself wishing I could make some kind of comment only he would hear about people who end up living in mom and dad’s basement. Unfortunately, sarcastic comments are impossible for me. Of course, I’m great at making the most perfectly-timed, cutting remarks. In my head.