The shell curtain over the shop door sweeps aside and Sylvie and I both turn to look. Then I feel even worse. Two people are staring at me. The first is Gavin. His black coffee eyes find mine. Why is he still coming around?
The second person is an old woman with sparse, white hair that barely covers her scalp. She’s my upstairs neighbor, the old shuffle-step lady who warned me to mind my own business. A little caffeine-jolt of fear shoots through me. I grab a handful of paint tubes and scuttle back to my perch in front of the giant canvas so I can pretend to work.
“Good morning—”
“—What’s up?”
They speak at the same time. The woman turns to glare at Gavin like he’s an annoying bug she’d like to swat. At that moment I wish I could like her.
“Hello again, Gavin,” Sylvie says. “Good morning, Madame . . .?”
“Mrs. Thackeray. We’re neighbors,” the old woman says in English.
Sylvie introduces herself and starts to introduce me as well, but Mrs. Thackeray cuts her off.
“And you, young lady?” she asks, gesturing to me. “What is your name?”
I forgot my phone, but I can play this game. I pat my throat apologetically, shrug. Sylvie completes her introduction, says my name, something about how I lost my voice. Gavin chuckles softly. I’d like to stab him in the eyeball with my paintbrush.
Despite the fact that I’d prefer to duck behind the huge canvas in front of me and hide, I stare at the old woman to gauge her reaction. Her expression is weird. Something about it is calculating, but also partly condescending, like she finds herself in the presence of someone far inferior. Anger ignites inside me and burns my embarrassment away. I sit up straighter and refuse to drop my gaze. The old lady wears a squashed puff of plaid fabric posing as a hat on top of her wispy hair, and her cheeks are sunken, like she’s sucking them in on purpose. Crimson lipstick is gunked up at the corners of her wrinkly mouth. Without thinking, I make a tiny grimace. Mrs. Thackeray’s wrinkly face puckers even more, which I would not have thought possible. She finally turns away from me.
Keeping her back to me, she speaks with Sylvie in a low voice. When I catch something about selling paintings and drop my paintbrush, Mrs. Thackeray turns and glares at me. I know she doesn’t want me listening in. At this, I hop down from my stool and move closer, pretending to look for more paint. This ends the conversation and Mrs. Thackeray moves to the door. But she pauses with her gnarled hand on the shell curtain, and turns back.
“Rosemary,” she says, with a quavering old lady voice that still carries a tone of command.
I just look at her.
“Was that you outside my flat in the middle of the night?” she asks.
I shake my head “no,” as fast as I can. So that’s it. She knows it was me spying on her that night. Well, she can’t prove it. Remembering that I’m supposed to be engrossed in my work, I grab the first brush I find. It has no paint on it, but I dab at the canvas and stare at it intently, like I don’t want to be interrupted. My heart speeds up. Does she also think I’m the one who caused the noises inside the empty apartment that night the scary guy was looking for me?
“I must have been mistaken,” the old woman says. At that point I risk a glance at her and then I can’t look away. Her eyes are narrowed to slits and her head is tilted to the side. She’s a shriveled snake, waiting to strike. I can’t always tell what people are thinking from their expressions, but at this moment I easily read the suspicion in the woman’s eyes. She doesn’t believe me, and why should she? I am lying. I try to look back at her with wide open, innocent eyes, but I can’t help the sudden nervous swallow that convulses my throat. Mrs. Thackeray smiles.
“I see,” she says. She turns and moves in her elderly way, slow and bent, through the seashell curtain.
“I shall return soon, Sylvie, to show you my paintings. Good day.” She ignores Gavin, which shows she possesses at least some good qualities.
“Wow,” Gavin says with a chuckle. “Wonder who dug up that fossil?” He materializes in front of me, tossing a sand art bottle from one hand to the other. I can’t help the little lurch my heart gives when his face is right before mine. I hate him, but he’s so cute! I’m drawn to his full, curving lips, gorgeous smile, and dark, liquid eyes. I detest myself for still being attracted to him. Boys are so confusing. I try to grab the bottle from his grasp, but he holds it out of reach.
“So you’re sneaking out in the middle of the night? I bet you’re meeting your boyfriend to practice a little French kissing,” he says with a wicked smile.
I detest every freckle on his pasty face. Gavin continues to grin at me while he tosses the bottle back and forth in his hands.
I’m dying for something cutting and clever to say.
Jealous, much? Or how about, Wouldn’t you like to know?
No, the first one’s better. I so wish I could do sarcasm. I roll my eyes in frustration and turn my back.