“Never.”
I can barely read Sylvie’s face in the moonlight as I say this, but I can tell she’s shocked. I give her a moment to let that sink in. If she weren’t here I’d be shouting with joy right about now.
I don’t hate my mother. It’s just that our relationship is . . . I don’t know. I have no words to describe it. Complicated? That doesn’t even begin to describe it. I mean, there’s that whole thing with Mom locking me in my room at night. Jada doesn’t even know about it. Her wheelchair doesn’t fit in the narrow hall that leads to my bedroom, so she’s never seen the lock outside my door. I’ve never told her about it, and I won’t tell Sylvie about it now, because it’s just weird. Like the kind of oddball thing that causes people to call social services. And I’ve never wanted that.
Anyway, I know my mother loves me. She’s only trying to protect me. I don’t want her to get into any trouble. But I don’t want to stay in her world anymore, either.
Lie Number Five: I am going home in September.
Truth: I don’t plan to go home. Ever.
I just want to get away.
And I think it’s going to work.
Eleven
The view from the window in front of me is a brick wall, only inches from the glass. I’m fully under-impressed by the apartment Gavin’s parents rented for the summer. Along with the dismal view, the place is all shiny metal and sharp edges, like something from a sci-fi movie where everything in the future is made out of chrome. I hate it, and everything in me wishes I were back in Sylvie and émile’s happy blue kitchen where there are no English-speaking guys.
I can’t pretend that I’m fascinated by what’s on the other side of the glass, so I turn around and watch émile try to teach Gavin to speak French.
“Say it again,” émile says. “Je m’appelle.”
Gavin says, “Jim apple.” At least that’s what it sounds like when it comes from his southern-fried mouth.
In only two seconds, Gavin has revealed how horrid his French is. He can’t even say “my name is” without sounding like an idiot. I try not to smile but I can’t help it. I throw a glance over at his mother, Mrs. French teacher. Two little frown lines are carved between her dark eyebrows. They deepen every time her son murders the French language.
Gavin notices my expression. His face goes blotchy and his eyes seem kind of hurt. I wish I’d hidden my smile. I brush the thought away like it’s an annoying fly. Why should I care about hurting his feelings?
“Real southern barbecue,” Phil calls from the kitchen to the rest of us, all squeezed together as we are in the tiny front room. “Hope y’all are hungry.”
The meal goes well. Meaning, Gavin doesn’t talk to me. As we eat, though, his dark eyes keep turning in my direction. If our eyes meet, he drops his gaze. The shredded pork with spicy sauce is insanely good, but I can’t help wondering when Gavin will pounce. I expect him to do, well, something.
We finish the meal and return to the ugly front room, where the adults have wine and Gavin and I are given lemonade. Valerie turns to me.
“How is your throat, Rosemary?” she asks.
I shrug. I knew I couldn’t keep this laryngitis thing up forever. I was planning to start talking more to Sylvie and émile. Like, tomorrow.
Sylvie says something about taking me to a doctor, a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me. A little jolt of alarm jabs my stomach. I sip my drink and mentally plan my sudden “recovery.” I’ll wake up in the morning with a voice. It’s way past time. émile has started to look at me funny every time I whisper.
Valerie grins and speaks to me in English. Her southern accent is all drawling vowels that drip honey. “Oh, I do hope you get your voice back soon. I know Gavin here would love to get to know you better. I could tell he was dying to talk to you.” Her eyes sparkle.
I’d rather shove pins into my eyeballs.
I avoid everyone’s gaze and take another sip of my lemonade.
“It’s so nice that Gavin has someone his age to hang out with,” Valerie adds. She pauses and sips her wine. “Maybe we all can get together more this summer.”
She beams at me and I sort of smirk in her direction. As if. Then Sylvie suggests that we continue to speak French since both Gavin and I are trying to learn.
I adore the woman.
Gavin stares at me for a second or two. His eyes look serious. He leans forward.
“Help me out, okay?” he says in a soft voice. “I don’t understand what they’re saying. Will you translate for me?” He pats the sofa next to him and émile obligingly slides over to make room for me. “You don’t need to talk loud,” Gavin adds.