Laughter bubbles up and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from making noise. That was it? That’s what I waited for with sweaty palms and shaking legs? I ease the apartment door closed and lock it, still giggling. Then I rummage around in the fridge. I thought I’d seen a Coke in there, and I was right. Mom never allows soda. Sugar and caffeine are poisoning America’s youth, along with preservatives like BHT. I grab the can and pop the lid. It tastes better than I could have imagined.
Mind my own business? I don’t think so. I want to know what that old lady is doing inside the empty apartment. And I can if I want to. I’m free.
I gulp more soda and grin.
Six
The tiny alleyway that twists in front of me is how I always imagined the streets of old Europe to be. It’s shoulder-wide and paved with uneven cobblestones. The walls on either side are crying. Dew trickles down them like tears trailing down worn cheeks. Every so often, I find tiny alcoves at eye level. They hold miniature statues of saints, with faded plaques bearing their names. There’s one a few feet away from me, a sorrowful Virgin Mary. A woman brushes past me, mumbling to herself. Dressed in heels and a short skirt, she comes to a stumbling stop, kisses her fingers and touches Mary’s face, and walks away without looking back.
There are no street signs here. I don’t want to get lost, but I can’t stop myself from moving. I’m in a strange city where nobody gives me a second look. I’m in a foreign country and nobody cares. I like it. Sylvie and émile didn’t bat an eye when I wrote them a note that read, “I want to go for a walk.” They shrugged and smiled.
Now my heart’s pounding and it won’t slow down. It’s like I’m high on the feeling of being by myself.
I pass a tiny courtyard hidden behind an iron gate. Inside, an old woman dumps towels into a rusty washing machine precariously perched against the wall. A narrow doorway in the side of the next building opens onto a steep, winding stair. The stairway smells liked cooked onions. At the top is a bright green door with a hand-written sign that proclaims: “Church of the Seven Wizards.” I try the door. It’s locked, of course, but then I see the key hanging on a nail high up in the corner. It fits in the lock and the door opens onto a dingy room that holds a few folding chairs placed around a card table. Bare shelves line one wall and cigarette butts litter the floor. The wizards aren’t home.
I find my way back to the shop. Before I go in, I pass a little girl with stringy blonde hair and a runny nose playing on her front steps. She offers me a cookie. I take it. I eat it. Mom would remind me about the germs. And the sugar. And the gluten.
Dear Rosemary,
I miss you so much! I feel lost without you. It’s Tuesday, and we’re supposed to go to Kiwi Loco and have our yogurt together like we always do. I couldn’t even stand to drive by the place! I worry that whoever feeds you at this camp won’t stick to your dietary guidelines. Please make sure they follow my directions exactly. Write back!
Mom
Dear Mom,
Art Camp is awesome! They feed us well. This week we get French cuisine. I’m avoiding sugar, soy, and dairy, I promise. The cook knows I’m doing gluten-free, too, so no worries! I’m learning how to throw clay to make pottery. Soon I start painting class. Here’s a picture of last night’s sunset. It’s gorgeous here.
Love ya,
Rosemary
There are millions of free online photos, if you know where to find them. My mother is completely helpless when it comes to technology, too. She can barely work her smartphone. Zan and I always have to help her. It’s a huge advantage for me. This was almost too easy.
“Welcome back,” émile greets me as I reenter the shop, finishing my cookie. I nod at him and wipe the crumbs off my fingers.
We won’t start painting lessons today. Sylvie is working on mosaics for an upcoming show. I can watch and learn if I want. I declined. I chose to spend my day here, in the shop. Mornings are always slow, I’m told. So far it’s true. No one but us is here right now, though I’d be okay with customers. Really. There’s only one person I don’t want to see. After last night, I’m sure he’s the very last human being I’ll ever see again. Score.
Sitting behind the cash register in the sleepy shop on a languid summer morning, I pull out my cell and look at the day planner app as émile yawns and leafs through a cook book. My life was always scheduled for me, and every moment of each carefully planned day is on my phone. The phone is supposed to beep at me when it’s time to move on to the next scheduled activity. I turned off the alarms when I got on the plane. When I look at my schedule now, I see I didn’t quite go far enough. Munching on an ice cream sandwich émile handed me from the cooler in the corner, I delete each item, one by one.
6:45 a.m. My door is unlocked. I shower and dress in the clothing laid out for me.
7:30 a.m. Breakfast. (Gluten-free cereal, soy milk. Fresh fruit. Special vitamin formulated for children with communication disorders).
8:05 a.m. Drive to school.
8:27 a.m. Arrive at school. Mom walks me to class; goes to her office down the hall.