émile sits and reads. Cross-legged in a puffy, cherry-colored chair in the corner, he kind of reminds me of a white Persian cat curled up on its cushion. He glances up as I re-enter the shop, smiles and nods, then goes back to his reading. Sylvie dabs at a canvas in front of her. She, too, looks over and winks with warm, sparkling eyes. She says something I don’t understand, but I nod, and she seems content with whatever my gesture meant and turns back to her work.
I’ve just arrived from another country. I still have a stale, peanut aftertaste on my tongue, along with the flavor of that odd stuff from a tin that was like a meat-jello salad served on the flight. We met in person mere minutes ago, and this is all my hosts do when I come downstairs after unpacking? Nod and smile and leave me alone?
I did the right thing. This is beyond perfect.
I love my new parents.
Grinning like a total goofball, I shuffle around shelves and check out their stuff. On Sylvie’s blog, the photo of her shop blew me away. It was so cool. So French. In person, it’s like I stepped into a travel brochure, where you’d read words like quaint or picturesque in the captions. I pick up a book with a pyramid on its cover, which was shoved next to a book in German that has a photo of a bunch of Huskies tied to a sled. Maybe I’ll read. I am worn out by my journey, driving on fumes, fuel tank empty, but I don’t want to miss this, my new life. I want to stay here and hang with my new family.
“égypte,” émile says, pointing and jabbering at my book. I sit on a low bench by the wall and open it, trying to paint a knowing expression on my face, like I know what the heck he’s saying. Looking down, I see that the words are in a different language I don’t recognize, but luckily the pages consist mainly of large, vivid photographs of mummies. Dried up people. I can relate. I know what it’s like to feel like a husk of a person. Shriveled and already dead.
When émile says something else to me, I have to admit defeat, which I do by shrugging apologetically. I’d love to ask him a thousand questions, beginning with: Did you know there’s a giant crack in the bedroom wall, and I saw light glowing from behind it? I can’t find the words. I’m too tired to shuffle through French vocabulary files I’ve painstakingly shoved for so long into my foggy brain. I’ve been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours, after all. So when émile returns the shrug and goes back to his book, I close mine. It’s making me sleepy to sit and stare at pictures anyway. I’ll make myself useful and grab a broom.
The seashell curtain over the front door tinkles and sways as a hand reaches to sweep it aside. Customers. Glancing up, I flick my long, dark braid back over my shoulder.
A middle-aged couple shuffles inside. The man and woman blink as their eyes adjust to the dimness. My brain does a quick calculation. Pasty, Northern European skin that fries under too much coastal sun. Shorts, sneakers, fanny packs. Touristes, I say in my head. It feels fantastic to think that word. I’m not one of those. I live here.
A sudden shivery feeling shoots its way up my spine. A teenage boy with hair the color of a pumpkin ambles into the shop at the heels of the older couple. My mouth dries up. I’ve never seen a guy my age this close before. Seriously. That’s an honest statement. No boys allowed in my former life.
I wander closer to the boy while I sweep away imaginary dirt. I’m the only fifteen-year-old I know who has never been alone with a guy. Ever. Not even a friend. No mall, no parties, no dates. And here I am, free for the first time to actually check somebody out. I can’t help staring. The boy has freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, like flecks of cinnamon sprinkled onto cream.
The old-ish tourists shuffle over to Sylvie, who has popped up from her perch in front of her canvas. I keep sweeping away, moving myself ever so slowly, and inching closer to the fascinating owner of the freckles and red hair. He glances up from a rack of used books and grins. I grin back and feel my face flush. From behind me in the shop, the man speaks to Sylvie in English, Texan twang flying out of his mouth.
So they’re Americans, like me. That doesn’t matter. I’ve been rehearsing this for a long time. I’ll give an apologetic shrug and say, “No English,” with a hint of an accent. Then I’ll add a sweet, seductive smile. I’ll be the mysterious French girl whose face will linger in the boy’s mind after he leaves. I breathe in, lick my lips, stand up straight and get ready to flirt for the first time in my life.
“Ah, Americains!” Sylvie calls. She continues to chatter, motioning for me to come. I don’t have to understand her exact words. I know what she wants. Without realizing it, I let go of the broom and it falls to the floor with a clatter. I pick it up, face burning scarlet, and lean it against the wall, trying to ignore the fact that the boy is chuckling. My plan is shredded. In two seconds flat, the seductive French girl has morphed into a tongue-tied terror. I get how neurotic this sounds, but I can’t help it. When I have to speak to strangers, something inside me shrivels.
But there’s nothing I can do to avoid this, so I shuffle forward a few feet until I’m closer to Sylvie and the American couple. The boy grins and pops his gum and he moves closer as well. I follow him with my eyes. His mouth is gorgeous. He has full, curving lips.