Before I can say anything else, the muffled notes of the “Imperial March” play from my back pocket.
Sylvie laughs at this. She finds it funny that I use this song as my Mom’s ringtone. Then, she waits, looking expectantly at me. She even makes a little gesture, prompting me to pick up. Trapped, I answer, remembering to whisper.
“Where are you?” Mom shouts. Her voice is cracked and her breathing ragged. “I called the camp again, but some man answered and he had no idea what I was talking about! He said there’s no such thing as the Red Rock Youth Art Camp! Then, some woman got onto the phone and said that there was an art camp and that you couldn’t come to the phone. Something is going on, Rosemary! Where are you?” she shouts.
“Mom, I—” the words catch in my throat. I look at Sylvie, who now looks back at me with worry etched onto her face. I know she can hear Mom’s screaming. The entire building can probably hear it from my phone.
“I’m outside in the desert, painting,” I splutter.
“DON’T LIE!” Mom screams. “That woman said you were asleep!”
A gentle hand rests on my shoulder, and Sylvie sweeps the phone from my fingers. Icy drops of fear trickle into my stomach. I try to grab the phone back, but Sylvie has already moved out of reach.
“You are, eh, Darla, no?” she begins in her halting, strongly accented English. “Do not worry, Rosemary is well. She is . . . happy here.”
Sylvie winces and holds the phone away from her ear. I can hear everything that Mom shouts. Now she wants to know who Sylvie is, and who that guy was, and why he said there was no art camp, and what is going on? I hold my hand out for my phone; feeling like my heart is twisting inside me, feeling my freedom slipping away.
“I am Sylvie, yes? You know my name, of course,” Sylvie says when Mom finally pauses to take a breath. “We are so glad you let Rosie come to us this summer, we love her!”
I try to snatch the phone away. Sylvie darts out of reach, holding her other hand up in a warning gesture, telling me to wait. I bite my lip and draw blood. I feel like I’m waiting for a bomb to drop.
“Yes, she paints,” Sylvie says. “She learns to paint very well,” she adds, looking at me with a twinkle in her eye. I have to look away. I turn my back and pull random leaves from a lemon tree and shred them, dropping the torn bits over the side of the building. So close. I was so close.
“No, no, émile,” Sylvie says, as though she’s correcting something Mom said. “Men do not know everything, you know?” Sylvie laughs softly at something Mom says. I no longer hear my mother’s frantic, screaming voice. I remain where I am, back turned, but my hands fall still as I listen.
“Ah, you were worried about your daughter, I understand. I will tell her she must call you more. She must tell you what she is doing.”
I’m still kind of freaked. I’m scared that I’m about to be discovered, but something has changed. I don’t exactly know what’s being said, since I can no longer hear Mom’s long distance screeching, but Sylvie is still calm, speaking softly.
“Of course. Here she is,” Sylvie finally says, handing me the phone. Her face is smooth, unmarred by worry or concern.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says, her voice rough. “It’s only that you’re too young to be this far away from me! Your art teacher sounds nice, and she said you really were out painting. I guess I panicked, honey. You have to be careful, baby! What if you got lost? No one would be able to understand you,” she says, her voice bubbling with tears.
After I move a few more feet away from Sylvie so she won’t hear how strange I sound when I talk, I mumble a few lame answers and fake promises and get Mom to hang up.
I stare at my now silent phone. She hung up? She still thinks I’m in Arizona? I look at Sylvie, who gazes back at me with a softness in her eyes that gives me hope. How much English does she actually understand? Apparently, not much.
Drawing in a shaky breath, I feel strangely elated. As dangerous as it was, the phone call showed Sylvie some of what I was trying to say, better than I ever could have with my own weak, ineffectual words. I look into Sylvie’s dark eyes.
“I believe that I am beginning to understand. As you said, things are, shall we say, difficult with your mother, no?” she says with a tiny smile.
We stay up on the roof, talking long after the sun goes down. Well, Sylvie talks. I still whisper.
I tell her things I’ve never told anyone, though I don’t spill everything. I don’t mention my nightmares about the weird shadowy images or ordinary things that terrify me. Or that I’m locked in at night. I don’t tell her that Zander helped me come up with a fake art camp so I could come here. But I tell her about my mother. How Mom chooses what I wear. How she schedules every second for me. How I’ve only ever had one friend, chosen for me by my mother. How I’ve never been completely alone.
“Never?” Sylvie breathes out.