“Have you seen this? It’s amazing!” Gavin grunts as he tugs on the swollen doors of the old wardrobe. “Help me, it’s coming loose.”
I do help, because it’s her closet. I’d thought it was locked, but it’s not. What could be inside?
We wrench the doors open and the smell of mothballs, stale fabric and the ghost of a sweet perfume drifts into our noses.
“More old clothes,” Gavin says with a grimace. “I’ve had enough of that, but I have to say, this wardrobe is a great old piece of furniture. Probably worth a lot.” He steps back and glances at me. “Don’t you think?”
I don’t answer, because the feel of the dress that I hold in my fingers is smooth and cool, like water. The pale aquamarine fabric must be silk. There’s a dress with a thousand glittery beads sewn onto it, and shoes with pointy toes and funny little heels. In my head Marguerite dances, twirling in her glittery, silky dresses and laughing at her boyfriend, teasing him. She spoke with weak words, but it didn’t matter.
I lift a carnation pink dress to my face and an even stronger whiff of the perfume I smelled on the bundle of letters drifts into my nose. And then something falls and lands with a soft “plop” at the bottom of the wardrobe. I reach down through a rainbow of fabric and find another bundle of letters tied with green ribbon.
Gavin isn’t looking. He’s moved away and is staring around at Marguerite’s bedroom like he’s looking at a museum display.
I stick the letters into my pocket and shove the wardrobe doors shut. I have to force them closed with my shoulder.
I don’t succeed until Gavin joins me and helps.
“We better go now,” he says. “They’ll miss us if we don’t hurry.”
I don’t argue this, and we move into the next room. Gavin pauses beside a tall, narrow bookcase, eyeing it with an approving glance. “This place is so cool. Maybe we can come back tomorrow.”
“No,” I blurt, glaring at him. Looking into this guy’s strange, dark eyes ringed with pale lashes, anger sparks inside me and flares to life. “No way.”
Gavin takes a step closer. I take a step back, nearly tripping over books and boxes on the floor.
“Why not? Is it because you don’t like me? Or,” he adds, lifting something in his hand. “Is it because you don’t want anyone else to know you’ve been taking things?”
He’s holding another bundle of letters. Marguerite’s letters.
He shouldn’t have them. They’re mine.
I try to grab them. He holds on. My fingers close over his hand, the hand that holds the letters. We’re standing too close.
“Why do you play these games with me?” he asks in a soft voice.
“What games?” I whisper.
His head leans in. I don’t stop him.
I can’t find my feet.
I can’t breathe.
I. Am. Kissing. A. Boy.
A tiny part of my brain wants to laugh in triumph. Jada dared me to kiss a boy on my trip to France. But then reality snaps back into place.
Why am I doing this? For one, two horrified seconds, I’m frozen, feeling Gavin’s lips, hearing him inhale, smelling the bubblegum on his breath, his flowery hair gel, feeling one hand move up my arm, the other still clasped in mine.
But I don’t like him! What am I doing?
In a single unconscious movement, I place both hands onto Gavin’s chest and shove, hard. He flies back and lands on his butt. Before he can react, I turn to go but stumble and grab the bookcase for support. It trembles and moves away from the wall. It falls in slow motion, each second an eternity, but finally cashes to the floor with a tremendous crash that reverberates through the apartment. Books scatter and explode and brittle pages fly, swirling like giant snowflakes in an indoor blizzard.
I freeze in horror, but Gavin hauls himself to his feet and grabs my arm. We hurtle ourselves through Marguerite’s apartment and squeeze back through the hidden door and into my bedroom.
And right when we push the bed back against the wall, émile opens my bedroom door.
“Dessert is ready,” he says, looking us over with a strange expression. “And Rosie, please leave your door open when you have, uh, friends with you in the room.”
Gavin’s dimpled face grins at me. émile leaves and I finally grab the letters from Gavin’s hand. I’m glad he didn’t drop them when he fell.
I shove both new bundles of letters under my pillow, staring at Gavin the whole time, daring him to say something.
He doesn’t. But his eyes crinkle in amusement.
When we return to the kitchen, I am positive that my face is a bright Alizarin crimson.
And the cheesecake tastes like bubblegum.
Nineteen
The new bundles contain letters from different boyfriends. Each bundle is tied by a ribbon of a different color.
Ma Chère Marguerite,