“We’ll be watching you, girlie.”
A heartbeat later, Thomas straightens and turns around. “I’m admiring the girl’s work,” he says in a loud voice, stepping back from me. “Fascinating. Well, shall we go, Mum?”
Mrs. Thackeray gets up, groaning as she moves. Then, she shuffles closer.
“My goodness, child,” she gasps. “What on earth are you doing?”
Sylvie puts her hand to her mouth when she sees my painting. Thomas checks his watch like he’s bored and looks out the window. I can’t read Mrs. Thackeray’s expression, but she stares at me for the longest time. No one speaks. The smell of wet paint hangs in the air, along with Mrs. Thackeray’s flowery perfume. It’s too sweet, exactly like something an old lady would wear. I feel light-headed. I can’t deal with what just happened. Thomas warning me, Sylvie’s reaction to my painting.
“Sylvie,” I whisper. I didn’t think she would be that upset.
She doesn’t answer.
I have to flee the scene. I can’t help it.
“I’m going for a walk,” I mumble as I head out of the room.
At the doorway, I risk a quick glance back over my shoulder.
Mrs. Thackeray remains where she is, staring after me, while Thomas continues to gaze out the window.
Sylvie is still staring at my painting. A single tear trails down her cheek.
Thirteen
Thomas is watching me. I made Sylvie cry.
These two facts float around in my head. I try to make sense of them as I stare out at the water.
Sylvie feels sorry for me. That was the cause of her tears. Getting her sympathy was part of my plan, but . . . I sigh and dig my toes into the warm, rocky sand of the beach.
I didn’t want to cause her pain. I didn’t want to make her cry. I just wanted her to care enough to let me stay.
As for Thomas, well, I stuck my nose somewhere it didn’t belong and now I have to answer for it. What do I do? If Thomas and his mother accuse me of breaking into the apartment, they’ll ruin my plan.
A hot wind carries the smell of sunscreen. I watch tourists oil themselves and turn over so they broil evenly. I sit and sweat, waiting for Jada to answer my email. I need her help. Finally, she answers.
You gonna take swimming class with me after school? Your Mom says ok.
Jada’s message is not what I expect. Nothing about the apartment, Gavin, and the letters I took. Nothing about Thomas’s warning.
So what? I want to answer. That doesn’t mean I’ll take the class, simply because Mom said I could. How does Jada know I want to do it?
I’ll let you know.
I feel like throwing my phone, but settle for tossing a small stone that I grab from the ground. The beaches of Nice are covered with round, smooth galets, as Sylvie calls them. She gathers them, polishes them and makes intricate mosaics. Sylvie can make anything beautiful, even using plain, gray rocks. Why is it that everything I make is so ugly?
I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’m like this because I’m upset with Jada. She didn’t respond to my pleas for help and she asked Mom about the class before she asked me.
It’s hot. I scratch sweaty, itchy skin and finally admit the truth. I’m not mad at Jada. I’m mad at myself. My best friend still doesn’t know the whole truth. When do I tell her? And how?
Closing my eyes, I raise my face to the sun. I don’t want to lose my only friend, but I had to make a choice: accept a life sentence in Mom Prison, and keep Jada in my world. Choose freedom and a new life, but ditch the best friend. Well maybe I’ll still have her, but she won’t be here, live and in person. She’ll be thousands of miles away. It sucks.
The sun is burning my eyelids. Shading my eyes, I throw another galet into the gurgling ocean. My phone plays Rob Zombie, Jada’s ringtone.
“Girlfriend! It’s me!” she says.
“Jada!” Relief and guilt start a fist fight inside my chest.
“You take swimming with me?”
What do I say? I don’t have the right words. I can’t think. I wait too long to answer.
“Rosemary? You there?” Jada asks.
“Yes,” I say, still not sure what to tell her, or how. Maybe it’s time, but the right words don’t come. I’m too scared.
“Sweet! Be fun!” she says.
She thinks I’m saying yes to swimming class. I don’t correct her.
“I sent your Mom some photos I said were from you,” Jada says, while I’m still trying to think of what to say to her.
“Photos? Of what?” I blurt.
Jada grunts with the effort it takes to put her words together. “Cactus and rocks and a cool statue.”
“Oh.”
I am a horrible human being. My best friend is lying to my mother. Jada is helping me keep this massive charade going where I pretend to be somewhere I’m not, and she doesn’t even know I’m lying to her, too. I pick at my t-shirt and pull the fabric away from my sticky armpits. Why is it so hot out here? I’m dying!
“It looks like that Cars movie,” Jada says. She’s laughing so much I can hardly catch the synthesized words coming from her laptop.