As we walk, I try to keep Sylvie and émile talking about Ansel. Once, when I say how much I would like to have known him, a strange expression glimmers in émile’s eyes, but then it’s gone, and he tells me how much he thinks Ansel would like me. Sylvie beams at this and nods. She hugs me to her, whispering, “I would love to have a daughter like you.” I hug her back and inside I’m flying. It’s working!
We buy apricot sorbets and continue to stroll, each now silent, wrapped in our own thoughts. I’m dizzy with the hope that rises inside me. I taste my tart sorbet, listen to the musical shuffling and murmuring of people passing by, and breathe the smells of a city by the sea: vehicle exhaust, green growing things, and fishy ocean air. My short hair tickles the back of my neck, and I shake my head, loving the feel of weightlessness. A burden lifted.
Up ahead, neon pink, blue, green, and yellow lights glow high above, bright dots that float in the darkening air as we stroll toward the square. I point at them and am relieved when I don’t have to ask what they are, because émile, wonderful émile, understands my unspoken question.
“The statues on poles near the tram stop. I am certain you have seen them, yes?”
I nod. So the kneeling pole guys light up at night? Weird. A laugh bubbles up and I giggle out loud. The thought of the funny statues glowing in the dark like giant night-lights for grownups cracks me up. émile opens his mouth like he’s about to say more, but then he closes his lips and simply grins and pats my shoulder. I smile at people I don’t know. As we head away from the shore and onto the gently sloping hills of the city, passing through the narrow streets that wind between low stucco buildings, I already feel at home. It’s a sense of familiarity and of belonging. A sense of safety. Not the kind of safety behind locked doors, but the kind that’s open and free.
Then, a tall man pushes his way past us, ignoring émile’s startled exclamations, and I gasp and almost choke. The shoving man turns back for a brief moment, giving me enough time to see who it is. Thomas! Instinctively, I shrink behind émile and Sylvie, who both glare at the man’s fading form.
“Rude,” émile murmurs. He and Sylvie continue on their way, and I follow on shaky legs. My thoughts whirl as we head up the stairs to the apartment. The safety of my new home is a precarious, fragile one. When I went inside that empty apartment, I put everything, my new life, my new family, and my freedom, at risk. But now it’s too late to undo what I did. How do I move forward from here and make my position in this family secure, when Big Scary Guy and Evil Old Lady are right upstairs, watching my every move?
Back at home, I find myself confiding in Fat Cat. He listens, snorts on occasion, purrs, but mostly stares with that unnerving, unwavering gaze that cats have.
Stay out of their way, he seems to say as he peers into my face. That’s all you have to do.
But is that possible? I look up at Ansel’s painted ceiling, even though it’s dark and I can’t see anything. I’m too worried to sleep. Maybe Jada will finally help me. It’s morning for her. I’ll send her another message. I want her to see my new look anyway. With tired fingers I type,
Check this out.
I upload a photo of my new look, find Jada’s name on my list and hit send. When Jada answers, I’ll tell her again about Mrs. Thackeray and her son, and ask her what to do. My phone rings immediately.
“Hey,” I say, hearing the smile in my voice.
“Rosemary, your hair! Your beautiful hair,” Mom’s voice sobs in my ear.
Oh, crap. I chose the wrong name on my contacts list! There are only four names to choose from. How could I be so brain dead I picked the wrong one? Air leaves my lungs and I can’t fill them again.
“Hi, Mom,” I croak.
Her voice booms in my ear, loud, insistent, and furious. It’s 2:30 a.m. when she finally ends the call. I’m camped out on the floor with Fat Cat. He’s out, breathing evenly. I’m wide awake and wired, like I’ve downed a case of forbidden Coke.
Don’t forget!
I mean it. Send me something tomorrow.
It is tomorrow, Mom.
I consider typing that, but I don’t.
Got it.
The air inside my room is stale and warm, and smells like my dirty socks. I stretch out on the paint-splattered carpet. Faint light that comes through the blinds makes stripes on the wall. I count them about a million times, but I can’t stop shaking.
My plan was to trash this phone and get a new one, but only after I convinced my French parents to keep me. I’ve been so busy faking artistic talent and breaking and entering that I haven’t worked on this part as much as I should have. I felt great at dinner, like it was all coming together, but I haven’t yet told Sylvie and émile that I want to stay forever.
Sylvie said she’d love to have me for a daughter. But when summer ends and I ask to stay forever, what will she say at that moment?