“Uh, hi,” I whisper, swallowing hard.
“Are there public restrooms nearby?” the woman asks me in English. Redhead rolls his eyes and smiles more widely at me.
The next few seconds feel like a thousand years. I try to find a way to communicate “bathroom” without saying the actual word. I do this a lot. As usual, I can’t think fast enough. The silence starts to feel funny. They’re all looking at me. I swear I hear a clock ticking, even though there isn’t one in the shop. Finally, finally, I figure it out. I point down the street in the general direction of a public bathroom a couple of blocks away. Luckily, I’d seen the sign as the cab drove me here.
“Um, no. That way,” I say, feeling a rush of relief when the words don’t sound strange.
“A bathroom? Rosemary, tell them to come with me!” Sylvie says in slow French that I can understand.
“Oh, je parle fran?ais, Madame,” the Mom interjects, spewing perfect, slippery French words that slide right off her tongue.
What? Why didn’t you just do that in the first place, you hag?
There was no need, no need at all for me to go through that torture.
“Perfect!” Sylvie says, beaming. “Let’s go.” She drops her paintbrush, actually drops it right onto the floor, and motions for them to follow her, babbling something about dirty public toilets. Grinning, émile rises from his red chair and follows the group up the stairs to their cheerful apartment complete with sanitized bathroom.
The boy stays. I start to sweat. I’m alone. With a guy. I look away and pretend to keep working. I was going to flirt with him? Who was I kidding? Then I sneak another look. I can’t help it. He throws a half-grin my direction and then starts to wander around the shop. His smile is mischievous, but kind of sweet at the same time. Something inside me immediately wants to see that look on his face again. To be the one who put it there. Butterflies do a little happy dance in my stomach and my heart rate accelerates. Why shouldn’t I flirt? My best friend Jada does it without saying a word. I don’t have to talk, remember?
Glancing around, I see a feather duster and grab it. I begin to flick invisible dirt from shelves as I slowly move in the boy’s direction.
I twitch feathers over the surface of a display case and move to dust a box full of polished rocks. I’m getting closer. I take a deep breath and glance at him. He’s looking at me. I smile. He smiles back.
I’m flirting!
And then, after I fake-clean a shelf of paperback books, I’m as close to him as I can be without jumping into his arms. I panic. Now what?
He’s looking at me. Come on, Rosemary! Okay, I’ll talk, but stick to speaking French.
“Nice is pretty, isn’t it?” I blurt in slurred, barely recognizable French. The boy looks up in surprise, still holding a figurine he’d picked up.
“What?” he answers in English.
Blood floods my face so fast that my skin prickles. What’s with the blushing? I’ve done it more times than I can count in the last five minutes! I shrug, try to smile, and repeat myself more slowly.
“Sorry, I don’t speak French,” he answers, setting the figurine down and holding out his hand. “I’m Gavin. What’s your name?”
I take his hand. It feels warm and dry. I hope he can’t feel how sweaty my own hand is. I look into his eyes, and realize with a start how unusual they are up close. They’re a dark, coffee brown, but the lashes are so pale they’re nearly colorless. His strange eyes seem to look right through me.
“And you are . . .?” the boy prompts, with another flash of his grin.
Oh, yeah. My name.
I can’t say my own name easily, so I made up a new one. And at this moment, looking into black coffee eyes that are strangely naked with no visible fringe of lashes, I cannot remember what my new name was supposed to be. My mind is a hollow space. Footsteps are already pounding down the staircase. I have to say a name, and quick.
“Didn’t you hear me?” the boy asks. Does he sound annoyed? I don’t think so, but I can’t tell. He’s still holding my hand. He edges closer. I can smell bubblegum on his breath.
I breathe in, then out. And I blurt my name. My real name.
“Rosemary,” I say, practically shouting. And then I want to die. Remember that whole “no guys” thing? I’m also the only fifteen-year-old I know who can’t say her own name correctly. I hate talking to strangers for a good reason.
“What?” Gavin asks, stepping back. I can’t read his expression. The corners of his mouth are turned up a tiny bit. Is he mocking me? He looks at me. I look back. I cave. I torpedo myself away until I’m standing beside a shelf of glass bottles filled with multi-colored sand at the back of the shop. I pick one up and pretend to be working again. I can practically hear the sizzle as my face fries.