So, he lied to Mom. And I lied to him. And I’m still lying to him.
I have to. Because he has no clue about my mother. He doesn’t see what she’s really like.
So, after I think for a second, I send an email. Just a “sorry I forgot to call, Sedona is beautiful, thanks for letting me go to camp, blah blah blah,” message to make Mom happy.
Then I email Zander, “Paris is amazing, this will really help my art, I owe you, blah blah blah.”
I hit send.
Lie Number Four: I am in Arizona, according to my mother. I am in Paris, according to Zander.
Truth: I am in Nice, that palm-treed, stuccoed, touristy town in the south of France. No one knows this but me. Well, and one other person. It’s complicated.
émile taps on the door as he calls my name.
“Entrez,” I answer, with slurred, fuzzy syllables that are way too loud. I keep forgetting that I told everyone I lost my voice. Idiot.
émile enters and sits down in the wooden chair by the door. He smiles, and I grin in response. It’s so easy to like him.
“?a va, Rosie? Your hand is okay?” he asks.
He called me Rosie. I like it.
I nod yes. I already feel comfortable with this ghostly man with his intense, dark blue eyes. I want to ask him about the strange glowing crack in the wall but I still can’t find the right words. Then émile says something that blows the thought out of my brain.
“The Americans,” he says in escargot-paced French, giving me time to catch the words, “the ones we met in the shop? They are going to dine with us tonight. Sylvie has made new friends. Let’s go.”
Well, I was okay.
Four
Smells of the dinner that émile has been cooking float through the open door. émile is also an artist. Like his wife and son, he studied in Paris, but he doesn’t work with paints and brushes. He works with pots, pans, and razor-sharp knives. I read about it on Sylvie’s blog.
“Hungry?” émile doesn’t wait for an answer, but rises and wipes his hands on the smudged apron tied around his waist. “Seafood. I hope you’ll like it.” He smiles and gestures for me to go through the door first.
Gee. Thanks.
I fake cough and wince like my throat hurts. At least I won’t forget my charade. We head down the hallway.
The kitchen smells like garlic, lemons, and fish. Seafood is fruits de mer, in French. Fruits of the sea. I find that vaguely disturbing. Also, I hate fish.
They’re here. The Mom. The Dad. The Guy Who Insulted Me. When we get to the table, émile gestures to Gavin, indicating that he take the chair right next to me. And Gavin does, with this weird, almost bland expression. Is he embarrassed? I hope so.
We sit. It’s awkward, trying to ignore the person next to me. I smell his aftershave, kind of smoky; hear him swallow when he takes a drink. I catch bright flashes of flame-colored hair in the corner of my eye every so often when he moves his head.
No one really eats much at first, because Sylvie and émile have decided to play a kind of “get to know you” guessing game, in my honor. It’s not too bad once we start. émile, conscious of my infantile French skills and fake laryngitis, asks me questions, and all I have to do is nod or shake my head. Soon, everyone knows that I love Impressionism (ha!), Harry Potter, my favorite color is lavender, I’ve never been to France before, and that I’m from a tiny town called Twin Falls, Idaho, which means nothing to anyone in the room. Why would it? It’s the armpit of the universe.
Then it’s everyone else’s turn. I finally start to eat, and catch names and details. The mom is Valerie, a French teacher, which explains her ease with the language. The dad is Phil, a biology teacher. Mercifully, when Sylvie or émile talk too fast, Valerie translates for Phil and Gavin, so I can understand most of the conversation. Gavin’s a wannabe surfer, avid gamer, and sci-fi fan who wants to design video games.
I find myself wishing I could make some kind of comment only he would hear about people who end up living in mom and dad’s basement. Unfortunately, sarcastic comments are impossible for me. Of course, I’m great at making the most perfectly-timed, cutting remarks. In my head.
“How is your hand?” Valerie asks me without warning. I glance up, startled. All eyes turn to me. Showtime. I feel like an invisible curtain was raised, and I’m alone in the spotlight.
I shrug and whisper, “Okay.” I smile apologetically, pat my neck, and mouth the words, “No voice.”
“Oh, la la, I’d forgotten!” Sylvie says. “I’ll make something for you.” She hops to her feet and bustles to the stove.