Sylvie and émile return with Gavin’s parents. They move about the shop, now old friends, discussing Italian food, museums, and public toilets.
Gavin saunters over to me. In a soft voice that only I can hear, he murmurs, “Nice to meet you . . . Rosemary.” He makes my name sound strange, mimicking the way I spoke.
My mouth falls open and I whirl to face him, one hand raised and clutching a little glass bottle, like I’m about to smash it onto his orange head.
We stare. His eyes are alight with amusement, but soon his face changes. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut as he ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. When his dark eyes find mine again, his expression is guarded.
“Look, that was . . . No, I didn’t mean . . .” he says.
He doesn’t get to finish, because the glass bottle I’m holding slips from my sweaty fingers and splinters into a million pieces on the floor, scattering pale orange and pink sand across the worn wood.
Glass crunches as I crouch down among the shards, trying to ignore the babble of voices around me. I was supposed to have lost my voice! Why didn’t I remember that? My eyes burn.
I blink, hard. Gavin is still here, hovering above me. I refuse to be weak. I will not let this get to me.
Someone hands me a dustpan and I automatically start piling the larger fragments of glass into it, then brush the sand into a pile. I’m rewarded by a sharp sting on my palm. I gasp and look down at the blood that wells from the slash in my hand. Colored sand sticks to my blood and clammy skin, forming a sparkling spiral pattern, like the Milky Way. For a second or two, I forget where I am. The tiny fragments of sand catch the light and twinkle like a thousand miniature stars. I’m holding a glittering galaxy in the palm of my hand.
Sylvie helps me to my feet and says something I don’t catch as she leads me to the metal sink at the back of the shop.
The American family leaves after the woman says something like, “Oh, ah hope she’s all raht,” in her abominable southern accent.
My galaxy dissolves in a swirl of blood, sparkling sand, and water that gurgles down the drain.
Oh, I’m all right, lady, just a little humiliated. It happens every day. Every. Day.
And then I start to laugh.
I flirted for the first time, ever, and it ended in disaster. The hot guy was a total punk. It did look like he was trying to apologize, but it doesn’t matter.
He never should have done what he did in the first place.
I wince as Sylvie smears some clear ointment that smells like wintergreen gum onto my palm, but I keep smiling.
The guy left. I am still here. In my new life.
“?a va,” I whisper, as émile peers over my shoulder to check out the damage. I remember my laryngitis this time. I remember to avoid English.
It’s okay. I’m okay.
But only if I don’t forget my plan. Only if I play my part well.
Three
When I wake up from my nap, I don’t know where I am for a second. Blinking, grimacing at the taste in my mouth that makes me think I recently ate something long dead and putrid, I sit up and search for the source of the weird sound that woke me up. It’s like the soft hum of an engine far away. Maybe it’s a plane.
Or a cat.
He’s staring at me from the foot of the bed and making the sound, which I realize is purring.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He stares.
“I like it when you do that,” I add, wincing only a little at the way the words come out.
He blinks. He yawns.
At least he doesn’t make fun of me.
I look over at the wall, to where Ansel’s painted storm swirls. The lightning I saw earlier is gone, so the light behind it is off. I’ve got to ask about that! What’s back there?
Swinging my legs over the bed, I check my phone. I have just enough time to engage in a little art therapy before dinner. Once my stick-figure of the ginger boy with coffee eyes and a mocking grin is complete, I toss him into the metal trash can and set him on fire with the match I found on the windowsill.
It’s a mini funeral pyre. Satisfying. The paper shrivels as orange flames eat Gavin from toes to torso to head. Acrid smoke hits my nose. He is ashes.
Au revoir, Pumpkin Head. You are gone.
“Good enough?” I ask the cat. I toss my cell to the bed and watch it slide off onto the floor. Fat Cat hops down from his spot on the quilt and stares at the screen with vague interest for a second, before he curls up and closes his eyes yet again. His fur is like a sooty winter sky. I like him, despite his complete lack of social skills.
I reach out a tentative hand and stroke his impossibly soft fur. He purrs again. I sit cross-legged on the floor next to my new friend. A funny, foreign-sounding police siren passes by outside. Fat Cat stands, stretches and stalks away, and I feel like I’ve been dismissed. I don’t mind. I get up too, and open the blinds so I can stare out at my new world.
By now the summer storm has ended, and the late afternoon sun casts a lemony glow on the city around me. Between pastel squares across the street is a narrow space where I glimpse a blur of blue water beyond rooftops and the shadows of palm trees. Quaint. Picturesque.