Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (4 page)

“Changed him a lot.” He resumes eating. “I woke up in hospital three days later. Mom holding my hand.”

“Good for her.”

“Was transferred to Paris. Many months in Necker.”

“What’s that?”

“Big kids’ hospital in the fifteenth.” He means arrondissement, and points to the back wall of the cafeteria, like it’s on the other side. “Lots of operations, still do therapy. Learned to walk, talk, eat all over again.”

“Wow. That’s incredible.” Talk about perseverance.

“Not really. Just wanted to be a normal kid. Next goal, make the soccer team.”

“How’s that going?” she asks carefully.

“Not so well.” But he smiles slyly. Or maybe all his smiles look sly. “What about you, Summer?”

She pauses and touches her throat. “Last year I went to a boarding school where my nickname was ‘Back.’” She owes him something for all that he disclosed about himself. “Short for ‘Razorback.’”

One scarred eyebrow lifts higher than the other. “A wild hog?”

“It’s the mascot for the University of Arkansas. Where I was born. The state.”

He nods and bites his garlic bread. “Mom’s from Missouri.”

“No kidding. The Show Me State. But there are a couple of reasons.” She flips up her hair and stretches the collar of her T-shirt down in back to show him her scar. It’s small and insignificant compared to his, a ragged pomegranate-colored patch at the base of her neck.

He leans forward to study it. “Nice.”

She laughs. “I could show you the one on my butt from the skin graft.”

He guffaws. “
Would
liven things up in here. How did you get it?”

“I pulled a pan of boiling spaghetti sauce on top of me.” She can’t believe they showed each other their scars. And that they’re laughing at them.

“On your back?”

“Yeah, I ducked or something. I was five.” She doesn’t mention that her dad was supposed to be giving her dinner but had passed out drunk.

“That sucks.” He pauses. “Said there were other reasons? For the nickname.”

“They also called me Razorback because I was, um, fat.”

He looks surprised. “You’re not now.”

She studies the fork on her plate. “And kind of an asshole.”

He presses his lips to keep from smiling. “Not you,” he says, his eyes crinkling with the effort.

“It’s okay. You can laugh.”

He does. She does, too.

EIGHT

It’s almost time for classes. Summer and Moony stroll outside from the cafeteria to the upper school. Even though the wind is icy, the sun breaks through the clouds and floods the grassy suburban sports fields with golden light.

When she noticed Moony before, he was always walking by himself and now she understands why. He’s slow and it’s unnatural to keep pace beside him. She doesn’t mind.

“So your mom teaches third grade here, huh?”

“Yep. Your parents?”

“I’m staying with my mom,” she says. “She lives here most of the year.”

“Dad?”

“He died when I was twelve.” She looks away so he won’t ask more.

Moony turns toward her. “Sorry.”

“What about your dad?” she asks.

“Divorced post accident.”

“That sucks.”

“Reembraced Islam, lives in Kuwait with new wife and kid.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “But he can marry a second wife and still be married to your mom, right?”

“Over Mom’s dead body.”

“Ha!”

They enter the long upper school building and stop at Moony’s white locker. He twirls his padlock with his good left hand. A pale, wiry guy jogging by calls, “Hey, Moony. Three thirty, right?”

“Bro. Yeah.”

Two girls strolling the other direction giggle. “Hi, Moony,” they sing.

“Anna. Rose. S’up?”

“What do you have now?” asks Summer, bouncing on her toes, trying to win back his attention. He pays it fully and she already misses it.

He turns back to her. “Theory of Knowledge. You?”

“French Two. I’m flunking it. She goes so flipping fast.”

“I tutor French. Satisfaction guaranteed.” He winks.

He’s flirting with her! “That’s good news,” she says, pulling out her cell phone. “Number?”

He recites it.

“Last name?”

“Al Shukr.”

A petite girl with big brown eyes and highlighted hair squeezes in next to Moony. “
Salut,
” she says as she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him on both cheeks. Her hips are impossibly thin and her haute couture blouse could be hocked for a pair of concert tickets. “Hi, I’m Jackie,” she says, looking at Summer defiantly.

“This is Summer,” says Moony.

Summer forces a weak smile at the thought that she could sit on this girl and smush her.

The three-minute warning bell rings.

Jackie puts her long glossy fingernails on Moony’s deformed arm, and tosses her hair. “I’ll call you later,” she says.

“Good,” he responds.

Summer scowls at Jackie’s back as she minces off. So Moony and Mini-Barbie are together? Disappointment sinks through her. She doesn’t do well in competitions, but maybe she’d like to be in this one.

Moony’s thick, boyish hair falls over his dark brows, emitting waves of limey shampoo scent, as he rifles through his locker. He’s hot. If it weren’t for getting smashed up he would be godlike. She wants to hold hands with
him
.

No, that’s silly. She doesn’t even know him, and he is disabled, she reminds herself.

So is she.

She’s pinching herself painfully and stops. Maybe she
does
want to be in this competition. Raw, aching fear stabs her at the realization. Fear of the inevitable. Fear of failure.

“Well, see you,” she says, hugging her backpack.

Moony asks, “Come to tryouts tomorrow afternoon?”

“Oh. That.”

“
Really
need techies and crew.”

“When’s the show?”

“April.”

“I won’t be here.”

“You won’t?” He frowns.

“Um, I mean at PAIS. Not the world in general.” She clears her throat. His left eyebrow rises. “I finish at the end of this semester.”

“In a month?”

“Technically, I’ll have enough credits to graduate.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Help ’til then.”

She lets out a sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

Moony struggles to pull a huge book from his locker, but it slams to the floor. She lunges to retrieve it, then hands it to him, smiling. His jaw is tight and his eyes flash furiously.

“What?” Her stomach drops. “You’re welcome!”

“Don’t. Need. Help.”

“Do I look like a flipping elf?” she asks loudly. “Jesus, next time I’ll punt it down the hall for you. You just asked me for help with the stupid play!”

“Fine, Back.”

“Watch it, gimp.”

His eyes go wide and he covers his open mouth. Then a laugh explodes from deep within him.

Summer joins in. They laugh so hard, kids rushing to class give them worried looks and a wide berth.

NINE

That evening, Summer unlocks the front door to the apartment and grins. She’s thinking of Moony’s handsome face and hearing his deep laugh when she said she’d punt his book. Even though he only has one good hand to hold, and he’s a tad touchy, she’d like to hang with him more.

Mom stands in the gilt and marble foyer. Shoot. Summer was really hoping they’d avoid each other. She swallows.

“Hi, darling. I’m just heading out.” She’s wearing an ice-blue dress and low-heeled black pumps.

Like the one on the tracks.

Summer crosses her arms as the dog barks at her. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?” After Dad died, Mom moved here and Summer went to boarding school in the US. She hasn’t lived with Mom since she was thirteen, and spends most school breaks with Aunt Liz.

But here they are. Mom’s dyed blond hair is bigger than normal, swallowing her bony face.

“Oh, hush, Camus,” says Mom.

The little dog circles Summer, barking like mad. With one or two exceptions, they’ve pretty much ignored each other since Summer arrived, but he must be taking a stand as the contested object of their affection is finally between them.

“So antisocial,” says Mom. “Chihuahuas are one-person dogs. I guess that one person is me, isn’t it, sweetie? Come here, Mu-mu. You are such a good guard dog.” She picks him up and kisses him on the snout.

“Ewww. Mom, please.” Camus resembles a long-haired rat, with a
My Little Pony
tail. Summer offers him the back of her hand to sniff. He barks once to prove he’s no pushover, then sniffs.

“I’m family. Your sister,” she says. “No guarding necessary.” They both know he’s the precious child and she’s a burdensome houseguest. He trots off with his nose in the air. “Um. How was Dublin?” Summer asks, recrossing her arms.

“That was two weeks ago. Last week I went to check on things in Cameroon and the C
ô
te d’Ivoire. And they were fine. I think I have a little tummy bug, though.” Mom checks her phone.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” Summer focuses on her own empty stomach. Busybodies Without Borders. Mom works on a village-girls-staying-in-school project in Africa. Which is cool, of course, and Summer’s proud of her.

“What did you do? What’s it like—the Ivory Coast?” She wonders how she ended up with so much—why American and French kids
all
have so much—compared to the kids in those villages, who barely have enough to survive and are dying to get an education to better themselves. Someone should tell them that it’s all highly overrated.

“Hot.” Mom slips her phone into her shiny black bag and focuses on Summer. “How’s school going?”

“Um, great.” She wiggles her nose ring. Madame Laforge and the iceberg of finishing high school and getting accepted at some university crystallizes into thousands of singular, six-pointed flakes, and blows away.

“Good.” Mom stares at Summer’s piercing and frowns. Summer woke up after an epic party with no memory of how it got there. She likes it now especially since Mom doesn’t. It’s dramatic.

Drama. Hmmm. She could go to Moony’s auditions tomorrow.

“Sweetheart, Winston’s coming to town this weekend.”

Summer snaps to. “Winston? Why?”

“For one thing, to make sure you’re on track. He’ll be here Friday.”

He’s the family’s lawyer, the executor of her grandpa’s will, and Mom’s ex-boyfriend, just to keep things interesting. Summer hasn’t seen him since her grandpa’s funeral. And before that, her dad’s. This can’t be good. “Why can’t he just ask you, or even me? Give him my cell phone number.”

“I guess he has to see for himself. For legal reasons. There have also been some recent developments. A lawsuit challenging the will.”

“By who?”

“Whom. Your father’s great-aunt and her son. What’s-his-name.” Mom pulls her coat from the armoire.

“Dennis.” Summer chews on a ragged nail. One of many people who would be pumped if she flames out.

Mom’s studying Summer’s jeans and T-shirt, as Summer peels off her own coat and tosses it on the marble-slabbed hall table. Mom changes the subject as she always does when Dad comes up. “We should go shopping. Pick out some cute things to show off your new figure. Those jeans are not flattering.” Mom thrusts her arms into her fat fur coat.

“Okay.” Summer lets the jeans comment float away. Having a chubby daughter drove skinny Mom up the wall. Even though she’s glad to be thinner, the long-sought victory is hollow. It hasn’t changed how she feels one ounce. Plus if she gets new clothes she’ll probably just expand out of them again.

On the other hand, better fitting clothes should be part of her holding-hands strategy. Although Moony doesn’t seem to care.

She will. She’ll go to Moony’s auditions. She doesn’t have to sing or dance, just help. She takes a deep breath.

Mom says, “I’ve got to run. Ouaiba has some stir-fry in the kitchen for you for later.”

“Long as it’s not chicken,” Summer quips, expecting a smile.

But Mom’s gaze is steely. “It’s prawn. And what is wrong with chicken?”

Summer swallows the anger that erupts in her. But she hits a lob. “I can’t help but think of the millions who have already sacrificed their lives so that you can live here in Paris.”

Mom doesn’t blink and lobs it back. “If you aren’t careful dear, all those feathered lives will have been in vain. Well, taxi’s waiting. Kiss, kiss.” Mom touches the tips of her fingers to her lips and firmly pulls the ten-foot door closed behind her.

TEN

In the dark, Summer walks up to Place Victor-Hugo and the nearest
tabac
for cigarettes. They’ll help with all the studying she has to do over the holiday weekend.

She passes red awnings and plate glass–windowed,
tr
è
s cher
restaurants packed with people oblivious to the fact that the day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

She wonders what Moony and his mom will do for the holiday. Today at auditions she did sign up to help with props, against her better judgment, mainly because Moony said they might hunt for some together this weekend.

At the end of their street, a woman in short shorts, a fake fur vest, and shiny black thigh-boots stands with attitude on the corner. Another woman similarly dressed is across the street. Hookers! She’s never seen a real live prostitute before. That she knows of, anyway. Mom’s building is not far from the Bois de Boulogne and according to Ouaiba, all sorts of sexual activity goes on there. But this is too posh a neighborhood for them to hang in very long before the
police nationale
chase them off.

Why they are so scorned when it’s clearly not a first-choice profession for the vast majority of women? They’re forced into it, usually at really young ages by circumstances and abuse. They aren’t strong enough, don’t have the resources, the education, the contacts, to avoid it or get out of it. And yet they’re reviled. Even in the Bible. It has never made sense.

No one has their backs.

As she passes the woman, Summer takes out her earbuds and says, “
Bonjour,
” in a sort of sisterhood hello. Just like Fantine in
Les Mis
é
rables,
or Nancy in
Oliver Twist
. She could give her some money, but then vetoes the idea. She feels sorry for the woman and doesn’t want her to know that.