Fat Cat is on my bed, purring.
“Stupid cat,” I hiss at him, after I’ve grabbed him and hugged his solid body to me. He did save me. What would have happened if the man hadn’t heard the bells? Fat Cat starts to purr. I collapse onto the bed. My nose if full of old dust and moldy smells, my feet, hands, and knees are filthy, and there are new holes and cracks on my bedroom wall that I’ll somehow have to hide.
In the bathroom, I wash away the evidence of my nighttime adventure. I’ll figure out a way to hide the holes in my wall tomorrow. I dry my hands and see my face in the mirror. My dark eyes are smiling.
That was terrifying, but . . . it was also amazing! I’ve never done anything like it before. How could I have? I was always locked in my room.
For a minute, I sit on the edge of the tub, staring down at the ugly bathroom rug decorated with roosters, and think. I’m sure I know what’s going on. That British guy must be connected to the old lady who warned me to “mind my own affairs.” They go into the empty apartment, but only at night.
Why? Because they’re looking for something, and they don’t want anyone to know about it. Maybe they’re stealing that stuff. Those paintings might be valuable.
In my room, I snuggle back under the covers. I’m smug, self-satisfied, exhilarated. I know a secret. And I can get back into that apartment any time I want.
Maybe I can find what they’re looking for.
Eight
A soft knock at the door wakes me.
“Rosie?”
The bright sunlight piercing through the blinds stabs my eyeballs. Why am I so tired? Then I remember my adventure last night. I groan.
“Our painting lessons begin today!” Sylvie calls in her musical voice, as usual slowing her words for me. “We’ll go outside, to paint en plein air, like your Impressionists.”
My Impressionists? I think in a fog of blank confusion. I crack open the window and the morning air that flows in and rolls across my face smells like bread from the bakery down the street, layered with exhaust fumes and a mixture of wet leaves and the scent of the ocean. I gulp a few deeps breaths and wake up and it all comes back to me.
When I started to pretend I wanted to paint, I mentioned Impressionist artists. A lot. It was part of the act I created to convince my mother that I belonged at a summer art camp. I chose Impressionism because they didn’t go for exact detail or realism. Easy, right? And tons of artists who painted like that lived here in Nice, where I found this awesome summer art exchange program. So, like Sylvie said, they’re my Impressionists. I can’t forget. I stand up and moan. I just want to sleep.
“Vite!” Sylvie calls through the door. Hurry. Her light footsteps fade away.
After a quick shower I pull my hair into a wet braid that hangs heavy down my back, and get dressed. There are purple smudges under my tired eyes. I trudge down the hall. I don’t want to learn how to paint. Unfortunately, I have to. I’ve got to keep playing along with my charade, to make sure I can stay in my chosen home when summer ends.
Bring it on, Rosemary. This is it.
Sylvie is beaming and bouncing around the kitchen, gathering supplies and shoving them into a canvas backpack. Her hair is twined into a million tiny braids that flow down her back and she’s wearing a coral-pink skirt that floats as she moves, a black t-shirt and a sparkling silver and shell necklace. To me, Sylvie looks like a living work of art, full of color and life.
She hoists the backpack and winks at me. “We go now, okay?” Sylvie says with a smile. She adds something about breakfast. I think she’s saying she’ll buy it later. I nod.
We head down the narrow stairs that lead to the shop, greet émile, who waves us away, his nose in another cookbook, and move into the street that’s already starting to feel like home. Tiny shops, a bit like Sylvie’s, line our path, but one sells only stationary, another, furniture, and the next place is an internet café. We pass the bakery that sends so many delicious smells our way, a restaurant, and finally a church.
The scent of incense and candle wax wafts from its tall, open doors as we pass. The smell is warm and somehow mysterious. Through the doorway I catch a glimpse of deep blues, reds, and greens on a stained glass window, flickering candles, and rows of wooden pews. Then a woman emerges from the cool darkness of the church, clutching the hand of a little girl. The girl looks up at me with wide, dark eyes and pauses to stare. Without bothering to find out what’s causing the holdup, the child’s mother yanks the girl off her feet and drags her along behind. I stop where I am, watching them go, hearing the high pitched protest of the girl’s voice, the deeper, scolding tones of her mother floating in my ears.