She looked pained. “The timing wasn’t right then.”
“I know,” I said. But the truth was, I didn’t know. Not really. I knew that I’d been happy in Tokyo and that I loved my mom and that it would have sucked leaving her behind. But I’d never forgotten the feeling of thinking I could go to Paris and stay there and then having it swept away.
“Besides,” Mom said, “no other arrangement made sense. The two of you living with him half the time and with me the other half of the time? That would have been a disaster. Especially when he had that apartment.”
“I liked his apartment.”
Mom squeezed my knee. “When you were over there, I could barely sleep at night. He was so young, he barely had his life together. But it’s different now. He’s got a good job and a family and a house.”
“You have a good job and a family and a house.”
Mom adjusted the clip in her hair and took a steadying breath. “If you want to move to Paris this year, you can.”
I let go of the blanket. “Mom. Is this a joke?”
“The Paris American School doesn’t start for another three weeks,” she said. “Your dad said he could register you. You’d live in his house, and there’s a bus nearby that would take you straight to the school.”
I tried to process what I was hearing. To my surprise, a thousand objections sprung to mind.
“I don’t speak French,” I sputtered.
“You’d learn fast enough. And you’d be at the American school.”
“The babies don’t speak English,” I said. “Am I just supposed to live in their house and gesture at them all year? Or talk to them about pieces of fruit?”
“Pieces of fruit?”
“Some of the only French words I remember are the ones for pieces of fruit. I don’t know why.”
Mom laughed.
“Mom,” I said firmly. “Did you seriously decide to send me to Paris at six o’clock in the morning? Over the phone?”
“No one’s sending you anywhere,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “All your stuff will go to New Jersey, and the plane tickets are already booked. We’ll go back together, and if you decide you want to be in Paris, we’ll pack you a couple of suitcases.”
“Suitcases?”
“You’ve got some stuff over there,” Mom said. “And a room.”
That was true. Sylvie had decorated it with pink lacy lamp shades and floral curtains that Alison said made her feel like a young Miss Havisham (whatever that meant).
“You don’t have to decide anything now,” Mom said. “It’s up to you, and whatever you decide is okay.” She touched the back of my hand. “I have to go. We can talk more about this later.”
She stood up and put her satchel over her shoulder. I went to my room. Dorothea Brooke was asleep on my pillow, shedding gray fur all over it. I lay down beside her and turned on the fan on my bedside table. It whirred to life, sending my pile of postcards and pictures flying to the floor.
I closed my eyes and thought about Paris, trying to pull up an image of it with as many details filled in as I could.
It had always been a fairy-tale city to me. A city of rain-drenched boulevards and bakeries full of almond croissants and parks with hidden nooks where I could curl up and stare at the centuries-old buildings looming above. It was my anchor, the place that stayed constant even when the rest of my life was racked with seismic shifts.
Mom said Dad wanted me there. In Paris.
And I’d get to go to the American School. Maybe the type of friends I’d have there were the type I wanted. The T-Cad type, with Mika’s biting sarcasm and better fashion sense. And I’d have a stepmom and a little brother and sister. That could be cool. I could be the big sister. The big sister who knew a lot about fruit.
But, I don’t know—I hadn’t thought (seriously thought) about living in Paris for years. The possibility seemed sudden and strange and impossible. I mean, my siblings were toddlers who spoke French. And screamed. Could I seriously keep up my GPA living with French-speaking toddlers who screamed? Would Dad invite me on family outings? Would people think Sylvie was my mom?
I’d miss my mom. She loved me. She cooked cheese-and-onion pierogi on Thanksgiving because it was my favorite, and she always remembered to make my dental appointments.
What if Dad doesn’t know how to make dental appointments?!
I sat up and held my hands in front of the fan, the breeze moving between my fingers.
I guess Paris still trumped New Jersey.
It trumped Edenside High and the same kids who’d ignored me in middle school and weekend parties I’d never be invited to. Paris could be somewhere I fit—somewhere I belonged. That’s how I’d always thought of it, anyway, ever since I was a little kid.
Alison sits on my bed with me, her hand fiercely clutching the sleeve of my pajamas. “I’m gonna Skype Dad. Give me Mom’s tablet. I’m Skyping him right now.”
“Don’t,” I whisper and sob at the same time. Alison pulls the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her hand and wipes at my face.
Between my curtains, I see the curled and beckoning finger of an oak tree. And even though it’s one in the morning, I hear a group of people walking down the street, their laughter cracking through the night.
It’s June. A few months from now, we’ll be leaving New Jersey for Tokyo. But I wasn’t supposed to go there. I was supposed to go to Paris.
“He’s such an ass,” Alison hisses. “He said you could live there.”
I rub my face into the fabric on my shoulder. “It’s because of the babies. Mom said they’d drive me nuts.”
“She’s looking out for you.” Alison scoffs.
I pick up the small Eiffel Tower key chain perched on my windowsill and grip it till it bites into my palm. “But Paris is home,” I whisper. “I really thought it was supposed to be home.”
Alison tips her chin up. “Mom is our home.”